Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

(Cover by Daisy Gold)

Montrose.
God, I love it here.

      The dewy morning's frigid air bites at my cheeks as I walk across to the stalls, my wellies sinking into the muddy ground. Above the rustic-looking manor, the half-moon is almost sinking behind the roof. My eyes lift to the bedroom window, and I notice the oil lamp remains unlit. Ron is still asleep.

       It’s distinctly dark outside, so much so that you would think the land has remained in the domain of murky night. I like to rise early to feed the animals and nourish my spirit before sitting at my desk for hours, crafting manuscripts and updating journals until our helper, Sofia, calls me for breakfast.

      Have I always craved a quiet life in the countryside of Scotland? Yes. My library is a quarter of the way to being as thorough and impressive as the one I begrudgingly abandoned at Hogwarts. The mahogany desk at its centre is large and brimming with overstuffed tomes about science and magic, with a modest computer screen raised on a pile of more books.

       I have persuaded Ron to update our lives to accommodate the growing technical world. We are still connected to the wizarding world through a reliable floo network, and I can travel to Hogsmeade at will. I spend so much time alone (with Ron being pulled away to the Ministry due to his obligations as an Auror) that I hardly mind it anymore. It's easy; the days are filled with wildlife, writing and stillness. The Atlantic Ocean fringes our coastlines, blowing powerful winds that chatter animatedly. The cold and crepuscular days are some of my favourites.

      Walking in the woodlands, I often feel the long shadows pulling me in or caressing my cheek. It’s a gentle prompt, and I almost give in. I've always loved the darkness for reasons uncertain. I shared the sentiment with Ron, who teased that I should have been a Slytherin. The notion makes my stomach churn again for reasons unknown. I can appreciate the haunting Scottish landscape because I remind myself the death eaters are gone. And yet, I have come outside on the cusp of dawn because the dreams have commenced.

     The dark ones—pulling me into their murky depths, forcing me to leave my bed lest I sincerely drown.

      Half sinking into the mud, I finally reach the stables, hearing a faint commotion. I open the wooden doorway, the rusted hinges shrieking to life as a long curl sweeps over my eyes, momentarily obstructing the fuss that has quickly died with my arrival.

      It’s eerily obscure inside. 

      ‘Lumos,’ I declare. Immediately, the charmed lanterns come to life, not needing a wand. My gaze scours the stalls with tall horses poking their heads over and miniature mares that I have to step on my tiptoes to spot. Thankfully, I see nothing amiss.

      ‘What is it?’ I say aloud, not expecting a response. Their big eyes stare at me, seeming confused at my unclear distress. It’s as if I have walked in on a secret, and not a single soul is willing to entertain my prying.

      It’s common to receive visitations from the mischievous sprites, who braid the horse’s tails or hide my equipment. I have not needed to bring my wand for some time, and I appreciate the divide from my magic for such mundane living.

      'You've come to me unarmed?' 

      I shiver at the terrible laughter that ensues.

      'The heedless doe is looking pitifully vulnerable.'

      My heart beats faster. 

      'What did you think would happen, Granger?'

       'I am the starved wolf who does not care if you are sweet and begging on your knees.'

      On instinct, I pull at my sleeve, brushing the soft cream cotton on my wrists. It’s been almost five years since the Battle of Hogwarts. Everyone is breathing easefully in their lives. My husband sleeps with childlike ease as if we are breathing different air: his teeming with bliss while I thrash for my life.

      A loud Bang! startles me. I twist around to see the door swinging from the force of the gust, bursting open to reveal the growing dawn behind the hills in the distance.

      My eyes land on the nearest steed, a handsome chestnut.  ‘The wind is howling like a ferocious beast. I suppose you haven't had any sleep, either.’

      The majestic animal blinks in response, and I smile, reaching a hand towards it. He nuzzles my hair, breathing hot air into my scalp. We nestle like this for some time, and I imagine the dreadful dreams seeping out of me, losing themselves to the land and its animals, who have sustained me for so long, now that all the peril is gone.

       Once I have checked and refilled each stall with grain and hay, I return to the open air, basking in the animated birdsong before finishing the final chores. Glancing up, I see that our bedroom light is finally on. My husband is rising for the day. I scale the steps to the house with an air of satisfaction, discarding the dirtied wellies beside the front door.

        After dropping her teenage children at school, Sofia should be driving the rural roads towards us. We are so far from the local town: the streetlights grow fewer and fewer. It takes me about forty-five minutes to reach the nearest supermarket, and that’s when I feel safe enough to push on the peddle if the weather is generous enough to provide a dry and clear drive.

       ‘Mione?’ Ron calls down at me from the top of the stairs just as I liberate the last arm from my thick, white coat, hanging it beside the rainbow-like fabrics of my other coats. I enjoy wearing bright colours in the countryside. I feel like a little exotic bird flitting around, darting between the trees or riding on horseback with a red cloak that could almost be a long cape.

       ‘What is it?’ I shout up from the bottom of the stairs, my tone bright.

       ‘Are the owls in yet?’ he replies hurriedly. I can smell the shower gel he uses, wafting powerfully down the corridor. I peek closer and spot his wet, reddish hair swaying over the balcony, but I can’t see his face.

       ‘No, not yet. It’s too windy. Perhaps you should try the two-way mirror with Harry to see if he’s received any word.'

       Footsteps sound in response, croaking the floor. ‘Good shout! I’ll be down in a few minutes,’ he says, rushing towards the bathroom. The door shuts, and I'm left alone in the foyer.

        It's silent in the dining room. Ron doesn’t usually wait for Sofia to arrive. I eat my poached eggs on a bagel until she comes, and we catch up on errands and uneventful gossip. In the end, Ron contacted Harry, who relayed the ins and outs of a recently enlisted assignment. In short, he will be gone for a few days, lodging somewhere in Cornwall where a Fire Crab outbreak threatens highly populated muggle beaches.

      ‘Aren’t you due a phone call with your parents?’ Sofia asks, cloth and antibacterial spray at hand when she places the coffee in front of me.

       I finish biting the last of my bagel before answering, ‘I’ll call them after dinner. I have to catch my mum before Eastenders is on.’

       The notion fills me with a stifling sorrow. Of course, I adore them. But we don't talk often since we’ve had to rebuild our relationship from scratch, and the awkward silences have become too much to bear. It was a nightmare to rationalise and convince them that they had a wizarding daughter who was forced to wipe their memories. They still talk about my childhood as if I was never a part of it or the birthdays and family events they attended. They watched yearly nativities from my primary school, recalling teachers’ names and my old friends, but not me. It's heartbreaking.

      ‘Are they improving?’ she asks, following a charged silence.

      I look up from my breakfast to her, noticing the sun shining behind her, almost through her. ‘I’m sure the upcoming holiday will help,’ I say quickly.

      Sofia is a middle-aged woman with braided, long brown hair. Her fine lines give her an elegant air; the crow’s feet point upwards instead of vice versa. She wears vintage dresses with patterned tights, and today, her outfit is a blue floral dress with yellow stockings and emerald Doc Martens.

       I adore her style and her vibrancy. When I told her this, she started clearing out her wardrobe to gift me pieces that no longer fit her, trying desperately to break my plain and sophisticated style. Besides the coats, my outfits are comfortable: casual, warm nudes and simple patterns. Though I like to buy things that aren't me in charity shops, in the end, they get tucked away into the depths of my wardrobe, forgotten.

      Sofia was born into a family in the wizarding world but decided to continue a muggle’s life after losing her muggle husband. Her children haven’t inherited any magical abilities, and she is glad for it. For some unknown reason, I agree with her. I look down at blue mom jeans with a grey vest and a heavy, red woollen cardigan. I still buy pretty red outfits, yet I never feel as comfortable in them as I once did. It’s a Gryffindor habit that is hard to break. I think and dress like one, and at the end of the day, I sit in the dusk and find that my heart and bones are filled with something that is not Gryffindor.

       Sofia sighs. ‘It’s a slow process, but I have known it to happen with recovering loved ones years after an obliviate spell,' she reassures, spraying a side table with a citrus-scented cleaner. She wipes the product away, and I stare vacantly at the action, following each movement. ‘You've got a frown on you today. Care to share why?’

       'Hmn?' I return to our conversation with a half smile. Sofia is also straight to the point, which is another reason I like her. ‘I'm a little tired.’ My brow lifts playfully. ‘Don't worry. There's no woe behind the frown. My husband has abandoned me to my writing for a few days. I am mostly alone and undisturbed. What more could I ask for?’

       She rolls her eyes. I know she finds it strange that I enjoy Ron’s absences. But it’s true. I've never been co-dependent. The silence gives me time to think—to breathe. Sometimes, I feel like I carry a bottomless hollow, a void that can not be filled. No matter how many words of affection are directed my way, my smile never quite reaches my eyes. I've been like this for as long as I can remember.

       ‘That’s what happens when you’ve had one boy your whole life,’ she protests, walking to the cutlery drawer to clatter the silver together. ‘My sister was the same. One man...’

        Her voice begins to drift, slowly replaced by another, more sinister memory I can't comprehend. 'Do you like what you taste? Nod for yes, open wider for no.'

        On instinct, my lips part, and the coffee trickles down my chin, dripping into my cleavage.

        'Shit. Sorry,' I murmur, swiping the liquid which streaks across my chest.

        ‘Oh god. Here.’ Sofia comes to my side, extending the towel towards me. 'That's how I react when she tells me about her drab teenage years.'

        ‘Thank you.’ I take the cloth, wiping the liquid trickling down my neck now, which strangely reminds me of blood.

     At some point, following a distressing dream, I reached for my wand and almost obliviated myself.

      Stirring the bedsheets in a daze, the bed feels callous and unwelcoming, as if its frigidness is trying to force me out. When I first woke up, slowly coming to my senses, I could still sense the imprint of a hand on my neck, pressing into my throat.

     My god. I'll lose my mind if this continues.

     Opening my bedside drawer, I pull out my trusty amber-glassed tincture, bringing its dropper to my tongue. I release several drops, swallowing with a deep breath. Once the medicine settles, I drag myself to my study to work on my latest manuscript. It feels futile to remain in the darkness of my desolate bed, bedevilled by nightmares and recollections of a foggy past. My skin is clammy, sweat-slicked to the bone, and I'm glad Ron isn't here to witness it.

     The nightmares return to me every so often. Some months are worse than others. One year, I even took up the habit of smoking herbal blends before bed. It's not nearly as bad as it sounds, considering this time, I reached for my wand, a terrible spell waiting on the tip of my tongue.

     When I eventually reach my workplace, the lights come on as soon as my foot breaches the threshold. It's eerily quiet; even the local barn owl has decided against its familiar nightly tune.

     My trepidation has hounded me through the empty corridors. I have not escaped it; the relief has yet to soothe me; I'm still shaken as if I've seen a ghost. Something uncanny follows me at every turn. It always has, harbouring no face and name. After tonight's restless episode, I find the sensation exceptionally distressing. I've walked through this house in complete darkness, with the windows open and the doors unlocked, and still, I've never felt anxious by its shadows as I do now. The windows are darker, concealing a cloudless evening that the moon has yet to illuminate.

     At least when I'm sitting on the velvet chair at my desk, binding my hair back with a claw clip, I feel somewhat distracted. There is a mess of files and papers to navigate, and as I do, a sense of ease overcomes me. This is my place. If there is one safe sanctuary in the world—I am already here, and there is no more room for foreboding. Often, during my writing, I habitually abandon the work mid-task to stroll to the window for shameless pondering and daydreaming while considering the vast landscape beyond. Something is always there to greet me, like a humble blackbird sitting on the fence. At nighttime, I will open the window and—

      A shiver racks my spine, making me abruptly swivel in my seat. Rubbing the back of my neck, I notice my hairs are raised; the skin is pebbled. I could’ve sworn I felt an icy breeze tickling the baby hairs like glacial tendrils, jeering and haunting, pulling my attention back to confront the unknown.

      I turn to the window, finding the darkness outside indistinguishable. The glass is a mirror, and the top of my curly bun just about juts out over the reflection of the study with the tomes stacked on the windowsill. If something is outside, I wouldn't be able to see it. I reason paranoia and wrench my attention back to my desk where my journal, teeming with articles and scraps, waits for me to allow it its daily dose of open air. I've likened it to unfastening your jeans after a filling meal. It’s so dense that I often feel bad adding extra folded-up notes. I pry it open, and my nostrils flare.

      I can smell smoke.

      My thoughts reel with panic, and I deliberately turn back to the window, anticipating flames to lick the side of the house. However, for some reason, it takes me five pitiful seconds to process what’s changed. The house is not aflame. Instead, the glass directly in front of me is slightly ajar, breaking the mirror of my study and allowing me to see the shapeless black outside in a gap that appears to be widening, where a faint trail of smoke wafts in. It's as if something is pulling it open, but I didn't even catch the unfastened clasp, which makes a distinct sound when pulled apart. Why didn't it make a noise?

      For several seconds, I'm just staring at it; my breath anxiously caught somewhere in my lungs. Suddenly, It stops moving, and I'm confronted with the slit of an endless void; even the trees are hidden from the light of my study. My brows draw together in bewilderment as I try to rationalise the ordeal.

      Has a fire started somewhere on the property? Are the animals alright? I don’t hear anything besides my hammering pulse. My feet are slipping back into the slippers. I'm about to turn away to leave the office and find the origin of the intrusion when suddenly, a bright red cherry glows to life, revealing a hooded figure leaning against a tree only a few metres from the window. He’s wearing a black mask that ends just above his fleshy lips, grinning widely as he sucks on the cigarette. When the heat from the flame subdues, I notice his skin is ashen, ghostly and terrible, and when the light vanishes, he exhales into the night; a cloud of smoke is the only indication he is there.

       I scream, scrambling in the chair whose wheels croak against the wooden flooring, sounding like nails on a chalkboard. My arm slaps on the desk, frantically swiping everything in its path as I scour the desk for my wand, which is always at my side in any room. Somehow, I seize the reassuring vinewood, and the chair slams into the metal cabinet. I scramble to the other side of the door, putting distance between us. Pointing the wand at the window, I'm dumbfounded to realise he’s gone; the window is shut in his place, and even the latch is drawn.

      The breath that leaves me is audible, and my adrenaline is still pumping wildly. I can still smell the smoke. It envelopes me like the reminiscence of a curse, in the same way the imprint of the Dark Arts is retained. I stand there for so long, probing the impenetrable night, waiting for any movement that will prompt me into action. A blood-curdling feeling begins to mount as I consider a petrifying notion: did I shut all the other doors and windows?

       My feet are moving of their own accord. Shutting the door behind me, I wait for the sound of the latch before I run to each corner of the downstairs, sensing eyes on me at every turn, even when everything appears untouched. 

Chapter Text

       The wedding ring on my finger twirls absentmindedly, coiling itself into oblivion.

       No. I’ve been turning it absentmindedly while distantly listening to Ron, my eyes skimming the tree line below, preoccupied with my anxieties. ‘And we slipped into a cave…’ Ron continues while I hum robotically in encouragement. 

       I don't know how long we've been talking. He lost me a while ago when I started considering the terrifying possibilities of what may have happened to me during the night. Every window and door was double-checked before I eventually resigned to my crimson wingchair in the living room, keeping sentry of the shadows as if they would suddenly lunge towards me. Walking the house felt like being on display. It's past midday, and I've been hounded all morning by the prickly sensation, even with company.

        All night, the wind slapped the branches into the window, their skinny fingers skimming the glass to prod me awake whenever my eyes slipped. When I pulled back the blanket, it was to the sound of the gravel crunching outside, signalling Sofia’s arrival. Her car door slammed shut, and I ran upstairs, feigning to have been in the shower. When I appeared for breakfast, I forced a smile, suppressing the hundreds of yawns that threatened to slip out. 

       ‘We're supposed to be staying until the ministry sends…’ My attention catches on a doe slipping back into the dense thicket of low-lying Oak branches. ‘Maybe at the end of the week.’

       I tune back into the call. ‘Pardon?’

       ‘We might be extending our stay, but I will let you know more tomorrow,’ he replies, sounding breathless from walking while talking.

        We talk via smartphones, provided the signal works when I reach a specific hill. ‘Oh, okay. Well, that's... good news, I suppose,’ I breathe without thinking. 'I know how much you love Cornwall,' I input quickly. I'm not sure why I haven't told him about the ordeal. I've tried to summon the words, but nothing comes out. He'll only ask me if I've been dosing my calming draughts, that I ought to lest I slip back into my habits. 

        ‘Don’t you have a signing at Flourish and Blotts tomorrow?’ He coughs, muffling the rest of the sound. I imagine him trudging through a marsh, his feet sinking and seaweed catching in his work boots. He and Harry visit many remote places, but sometimes cities, too. I know he prefers the distraction of an undisturbed landscape, while Harry would rather keep home comforts nearby. It makes sense. Ginny is pregnant, and some paternal entity has overcome him, determined not to let her lift a finger, which they relentlessly bicker about.      

        Swallowing on a dry throat, I say, ‘I'll be preparing for it tonight. I meant to—There are no gods here,' he chuckles sinisterly. ‘Just you, me, and your screams.’

        ‘I missed the last thing you said? The signal is fucking rubbish, as always. I was about to say that I'm sorry I forgot about it. I promise I'll make the next one,' he assures.

        Rubbing the bridge of my nose, I blink through the unclear thought. This always happens when the nightmares start up. I hear voices; I remember false memories. I've read several research papers about it. They call it trauma, something that can be triggered, manifesting in unlikely phases of our lives, even creating false narratives as a coping mechanism. 

        The war. It has to be because of the battle at Hogwarts.

        I smile weakly at the empty promise. Ron never attends or takes time off for them. ‘It's fine, Ron. Truly. You ought to do something better than sitting through my tedious speeches.'

        I should be begging my husband to come home. The intruder may or may not have been a figment of my imagination, and if he wasn't… despite my abundance of layers, my spine grows cold beneath the thermal shirt. Hiking the hill, I was sweating at the thought of sharing what had happened with Ron and what he would make of it. But that wasn't it. I couldn't stop thinking about the black, ornately decorated mask and the full lips enclosing the cigarette. I couldn’t see his eyes or any other shred of skin. My dread was induced by what I could see: the figure was tall, broad-shouldered, and smiling at me like my fear was the most enjoyable sight.

        When I hike back down the hill, I breathe deeply, trying to uncoil my twisted insides.  

       All the Death Eaters are gone. Ron's repeated assurances are comforting. The sentiment has become like a second voice when I'm overwhelmed. I've only loosely explained the nature of my dreams to him, a few vague details, and he was quick to rationalise the phantom figures as Death Eaters. It's sensible to assume that I had conjured an entity that looks like one waiting for me outside the window. It was only expected that my demons would eventually develop blood and bones, hunting me through the night.

        ‘Ms Granger!’ Arthur, the hostler, shouts at me from the gate that separates my land from the open forest and knolls. He used to call me Mrs Weasley before I amended him, and every time he did, I could only imagine Mrs Weasley herself: the matriarch and my second mother by nature.

        ‘Arthur?’ I jog down the track, meeting him at the gate. ‘What is it?’

        ‘Nae to worry about,’ he says in a thick, Scottish accent. ‘Paddock’s had a pile of bird’s bones scattered in the grass. Thought I’d tell ye.’

        ‘Birds bones?’ I say, raising a brow while crossing my arms against the chill.

        ‘Could be a tod or summat,’ he says. Tod means ‘fox’, as I have come to learn over the years of our discourse. He waits for me with his small, green eyes and thick, brown beard that drowns half his face.

         Smiling brightly, as I've become accustomed to do, I say, ‘Let’s take a look.'

        Inside the paddock where the horses roam, the aura feels peculiar. I've been hovering around Arthur, who is squatting on his knees to grab hold of the small, bleached skulls. There is a concentrated gathering of them that he directed me towards. The longer I look at the grass, the more tiny bones poke out of its healthy, green blades. They are everywhere. It’s bizarre because they don't appear to be from freshly killed corpses but rather from foraged bones that have been sitting dormant for some time, letting the elements strip them of their former skin.

        I can't comprehend why a fox would do that. In Arthur’s bewilderment, I suppose he thought it better to reassure instead of worrying me with elusive, bone mysteries that would likely lead to a dead end. ‘Would you like help cleaning them up?’ I suggest. 'I have a little time before I'm stuck in the office.'

       The sky is glumly overcast despite the vivid blue that painted my morning. My hands are desperate to burrow deeper into the pockets of my white coat. I’ve had to put on my Gryffindor scarf, unknowingly matching it to the red yoga pants that are doing little to keep me warm.

       ‘I shud manage on my own,’ he assures. 'Ye get on with your work, Ms.'

       My mouth opens and closes. I’d usually insist. Going to bed for a prolonged nap seems far too appealing to staying outside a moment longer. I’ve barely slept the last handful of nights. I wake up with the same thoughts I was thinking before dropping off.

       I’ll stumble at my book signing tomorrow if I don't resolve it. Perhaps., I should take another dose of my calming draughts, though overdosing could prove fatal.

       I knead my bottom lip between my teeth. 'Sure?' I say finally. 

       He only glances up at me with the ghost of a grin hidden beneath his beard. 'I'm used to shovelin shit. This is more like pickin' up my grandkid's toys from the floor.'

       'Of course,' I say, rolling my eyes. 'Very well.'

       The walk back to the house proves fruitful. I reason on brewing a Vitamix potion, which I haven't made since god knows when. If I'm fast, I could clean up before Sofia notices anything. She's tackling the conservatory roof, which will keep her busy all afternoon.  

        Wormwood, Root of Asphodel and Monkshood.

        The ingredients and method are engrained into the impenetrable archives of my memories. Trauma aside, I seem never to forget how to brew a good potion. I'm overwrought with glee as I gather the scoops from each labelled glass jar, dropping the appropriate measurements into the copper cauldron. I watch Arthur from the kitchen window, fearing him stumbling into my witchery. I try not to entertain my anxieties, like the idea of him finishing in an hour, which makes me shiver.

       At least there is a trickle of time between now and nightfall when I can nap without fear of consequences, recovering any morsels of vitality, and for that, I am grateful.

       I am stirring the contents when a Ping! rings out beside me. Thankfully, Arthur is still squatting in the paddock, except now he has a bin beside him, which he is using to dump the carcasses into. The potion is almost at its boiling point, and I resolve to ignore my phone lest I blunder the entire thing by being distracted.

        Immediately, an insistent Ping! follows, and a curse flies out as I extend my right arm towards the lit screen. 'I rarely receive messages, and the one time—' My heart lodges in my throat as the words process.

         Unknown Number:

          I love it when you look into my eyes.

         Unknown Number:

          From the kitchen window, I can almost taste you.

          Another message Pings! the exact instant I finish reading the previous one.

         Unknown Number:

          Should we have some fun tonight, Birdie?

Chapter Text

       My eyes shoot up to the window.

       No cloaked man is waiting to puff smoke towards the barred glass or with a phone to send tantalising texts. If it wasn’t for Arthur, I could scream with equal rage and frustration. Who does he think he is? Prowling around the property of a young, married woman.

       Am I expected to call the Muggle Police or the Magical Law Enforcement? I can hardly distinguish between a man and a wizard by the pixilated letters alone. It's what I ought to be doing. It's what they do in the TV shows I glimpsed Ron watching, where the girls die because they ignore the signs or there's an emphasis on how public services let them down. Even my parents cautioned me about stalkers—obviously without specifications for their magical or mortal blood type.

       Did they mention anything against retaliation? I’d imagine they’d frown upon it if I had suggested it. And yet, my fingers fly across the keyboard of their uncontrolled, prideful will.

       Me:

       Who are you?! I suggest you quickly leave before I call the enforcments!

       In the end, frustration gets the better of me, and I swiftly type out another message.

       Me:

       So you know, I will blast you to the other end of the highlands if you come anywhere near me! Leave now!

       Reading the words over, I dread to imagine what blasting may translate to in a muggle’s mind. At least if it’s a wizard, they will understand that I am certainly not willing to have some "fun" tonight. I'm shooting daggers at the window, focusing on any shaded tree that appears suspicious. Much to my dismay, there's no one outside, and when my heart settles, I notice a burning smell emanating from my proximity. 

        ‘No, no, no!’ The liquid inside the cauldron has turned a grubby colour and is rapidly evaporating into deadly fumes that curl towards the ceiling. The wooden spoon is still in my hand, and I nearly drop the phone into the mixture when flinging the window open lest the fire alarms reveal my predicament to Arthur. It seems heedless, considering I have a prowler nearby, supposedly watching me. Maybe this is what he wanted: to make me paranoid and leave me shaken.

        I scoop the sticky sludge into a mug, where I can dispose of the toxic mixture away from animals and muggles. The smell coats the kitchen with a sickly, acidic scent. I swipe my arms to disperse the smoke before hiding the cauldron and plant allies in a cupboard to clean up later. Checking the window once, twice, and a third time for good measure, I involuntarily shudder before locking the front and back doors.

        Climbing the stairs two at a time, I'm determined to make up for lost sleep in the likelihood that I'll receive another threat tonight. I briefly consider if I should warn Arthur. Yet, if I did, we would all be involved with the muggle police, which may get Ron and Sofia included, who would question why I didn't say anything. It would all result in a sordid muddle. I settle to keep quiet unless I discover him to be enough of a threat, which I will find out later tonight.

       Arthur will have left by the time I wake up. Last I checked, he returned the bin to the office adjacent to the stables. I sigh with relief before shutting the bathroom door and stripping my clothes. It’s not as if the stranger can just kidnap a burly Scotsman, right?  The yawn that rips out of my throat promises retribution if I'm disturbed. If the stalker disturbs my sleep, I may turn feral and hunt for him with my wand across every inch of the property. 

       I've dealt with so much worse than him, and he'll soon realise he's menaced more than a worthy opponent. 

       I’m drifting out of sleep, wondering how the cold air has reached my legs from beneath the generous Egyptian cotton duvet covering me. My bare feet graze for the soft bedding, and I cannot locate where the displeasure comes from. My naked skin against the rich, warm fabric is one of my favourite feelings in the world, but right now, it's forcing me out of intense slumber. How can the chill be so apparent when I'm dressed in a full-body pyjama set and woollen socks?

       The realisation makes me rub my eyes, and they slowly open to discover an unlikely intrusion. There are lights on; the bedroom is lit by a tall lamp in the corner that illuminates every corner. Suddenly, I'm violently rubbing my eyes to disperse the tiredness toiling to pull me under again. There are vital thoughts I need to have: Who turned the light on? My feet clench into the mattress: Where are my socks? I kick my foot out, sensing the absence of the duvet. Instead, I'm half-covered in the sheer undersheet that does little for warmth.

       Looking down, I notice my legs are bare to the elements: I am wearing nothing but the silky black shorts I wear in the summer heat, matched with a revealing black vest. I instinctively reach for my wand on the bedside table, bursting out of bed in a panic when I don't find it. Almost immediately, I trip over the duvet bunched up on the floor, falling belly-first into the messy mound of bedding. My breathing is heavy and stifling, and when I land, heaving myself up as quickly as possible with unceremonious panic, I somehow stumble towards the wardrobe by sheer luck, pressing my back against the cherry wood. At the same time, I scour the entire room, trying desperately to recover my wits.

       My phone Pings! and I notice that no one appears to be in the room with me unless they hide on the other side of the bed, which I can't confront without a weapon for reassurance. I search the floor without leaving the reassurance of the wardrobe, and manage to spot it half-camouflaged with the wooden flooring. The handle is poking out of the bedding, probably having fallen with it. With shaky legs, I swipe for it, quickly turning back to face the side of the room that harbours the only entryway.

       Thankfully, the key at my door is turned, and the window is fixed. I may have left the lamp on, though I can't recall turning it on in the first place. It's more decorative than practical.

       My gaze sweeps over the quiet room; nothing else appears amiss, though I resolve not to leave any rock unturned. Edging around the bed with my wand pointed at the ready, it's evident that no one is hiding here. Another more sinister thought strikes me, and I abruptly fall to my knees. ‘Lumos!’ I squeal, my voice hoarse from sleep.

      The darkness under the bed vanishes when the wand's tip comes to life. Again, no intruder waits for me in all the anticipated places. My phone Pings! again. Yet, I vaguely recall going to the bathroom without it. I get to my feet on unsteady legs, slowly rounding the bed to my bedside table, where my locked screen featuring a picture of the Edinburgh Central Library is replaced with a grey display glowing with two notifications.

        Unknown Number:

        Are you ready for me? ;)

        Play fair, or Arthur dies.

        Rules:

        1. Take the entire draught on your vanity.

        2. Find Arthur before I catch you.

        Unknown Number:

        3. No shoes. No coat. I want to see your pretty naked flesh darting past.

        My heart drops, and I look at the vanity to see an emerald glass bottle waiting for me.

        Does he think I’m stupid? Ping!

        Unknown Number:

        I know you’re good at swallowing. Drink. It. I won’t ask again.

        Admittedly, I may be stupid because the notion of Arthur being caught when I should have warned him makes me reach for the bottle. Fuck. I should have expected it. I neglected Arthur while a lunatic had been running around the property. I look down at the dreaded thing; it's a simple thing: scratched and labelless. Pulling the cork off, I lift the rim to my nose, inhaling cautiously, and immediately, I pick up the familiar notes of lovage, scurvygrass and—

       My bedroom door Clicks! I wait for several heartbeats in silence, though the handle remains untouched. Not a breath or a footstep can be heard from the other side. I'm so fucking scared that tears have started welling in my eyes, threatening to unleash in torrents. I smear them away with my arm, hating how vulnerable and cold I feel in this unbelievably raunchy sleepwear that I don't recall putting on. I'm prone to forgetfulness quite severely, as a matter of fact, but this is on a whole other level, and I'm terrified to consider the possibility that someone undressed me and that someone is holding Arthur hostage because I ignored the threat.

       My insides are a whirl of trepidation and panic. My god. Arthur! The gentlest, humblest man, with an entire family waiting for him at home. He practically beams with pride when he talks about his wife and seven children, who have given him three beautiful grandchildren he spends his weekends playing and treating.

       Based on the herbs, I can suspect what the drink will do; after all, I received a distinction in my O.W.L.S. for Potions. At least I have my answer: the intruder is from the wizarding world. The reality poses an important question: do I know him? Has Ron insulted someone? I can’t possibly rationalise why this would be happening besides the fact he must be insane, having abandoned some kind of asylum or, worse, Azkaban.

       How dare he warn me about playing fair when I could be poisoned just enough to hallucinate? It’s far too late to make arguments when a precious life is at risk, and I get the impression that the door clicking is a signal to make me haste. Without allowing room for other rational thoughts to prevent me, I down the drought, renouncing a gag that will spit it all out.

       Wiping the sour residue coating my lips, I welcome the rage that simmers beneath my flesh. My hand grips my wand with newfound conviction as I power walk towards the bedroom door, pulling it open, ready to assault any entity behind it. There is only darkness, except where my lamp reaches, casting a crooked shadow of me against the landing wall. All the doors on each side of the corridor are shut, and I try to perceive any shapes in the stairs through the gap in the railing that winds down the stairs, vanishing into more obscurity.

       The house is completely dark except for my bedroom. Next to me, I try the hallway switch, but nothing happens.

       ‘Lumos Maximus!’ I throw the spark overhead, casting luminosity above the entire landing and stairs. ‘You fucking monster!’ I bellow, stepping out into the corridor. I grip the rail and trail it to the stairs, glancing down to see the foyer sufficiently lit but empty.

        I swallow on a dry throat. ‘You’re messing with the wrong witch!’ Ping!

        Unknown Number:

        Is that right? ;)

        If my phone weren't crucial to my survival tonight, I'd throw it into the darkness for emphasis. ‘Where's Arthur?! 'If you've hurt him, I swear—' I choke on a sob. Ping!

       Unknown Number:

       Oh, Birdie. If you keep teasing me, I will have to oblige you.

        I take the last few steps into the foyer in a daze, realising belatedly that the front door is wide open. Is that an invitation? Should I really be taking the bait? The icy breeze seeping in grips my skin in glacial tendrils, raising goosebumps and tickling the loose strands that have escaped my braid.

       ‘You're sick,' I rasp, knowing I don’t need to yell to be heard. ‘If you want to play games, play them with me. Involving innocent people is a coward’s game.’

       My feet skim my muddied wellies as I step outside. Ping! Instead of indulging him, I grip the phone while glowering at the darkness surrounding my home. All appears as it should be: the gravel road is empty, and the dim light above the office is on, casting a faint glow on the path towards the stables. Mustering a false sense of bravery, I straighten my spine and step tentatively out of the porch, finding that the unforgiving ground piercing my bare soles doesn’t affect me. It's cold and piercing, but I welcome it. 

        By the time I'm halfway to the stables, several small rocks have buried into my skin. My jaw is clenched so forcefully I fear it could crack a few teeth if I don’t find Arthur soon. ‘Arthur!’ I scream into the hauntingly quiet night. I stop to do a quick full-circle sweep, noticing that the front door of my house is still open, and I turn back to the stables when a cold sweep of air prickles my exposed arms and legs. ‘ARTHUR!’ I echo with unkept panic.

       ‘Ms. Granger?’ A low, hesitant reply sounds from somewhere nearby, inside the building that houses my horses.

       Arthur! I start running towards it with bruised feet, my loose stands billowing around me. ‘Arthur?! Where are you? Please… Arthur!’ The barn door is shut, and I haul it open with an earsplitting shriek. When I peer inside, the lights are already lit, and a gust of wind howls from the opposite end, crashing into me. The sliding doors for the paddock are drawn, and all the horses are gone, their empty stalls blowing hay across the floor. ‘Arthur, I’m here! You can come out,’ I say through a sob, having stepped on something that feels like a nail.

        Small stars have started to frame my vision, purposely crowding in. I’m breathless with panic. It’s been five years that I haven’t had to struggle for my life or for the ones of those I love. To experience the terrifying burst of adrenaline again makes me want to shrivel up and die. I can't handle it.

       Walking this route each day, I do so slowly and mindfully. The land holds me, and when I’m here in the stables, it’s healing and nourishing, surrounded by creatures that ask nothing of me but brushes and long rides through the forest and meadows. But this… this is all wrong!

       I can't stand it...

       I can't stand it!

       I can't breathe! ‘Arthur!’

       With each step, I'm sensing myself lapsing. As soon as I reach the open entryway, my legs become gruelling, as if I’m endeavouring to walk through a ruthless ocean.

       I break out into the opening, on the verge of collapse, and I rationalise that it has to be the draught taking effect. Oh, god. I have to breathe. One deep breath, two, three; I need oxygen! My hair is blowing around my face, obstructing my vision further. I'm walking into an obscure darkness, and my feet won't let me stop. There's a storm out here, though it’s unclear what’s causing it. When I look up, trying to find the source, I see a thousand black bodies flying around me.

       The next step makes wings slap against my arms and cheeks, and I have to squint my eyes when a claw grazes my cheek.

       I have to be hallucinating. It’s a whirlwind of birds!

       My feet search for the softer ground. This is where the steeds bask in their freedom, and the grass is kept lush all year round. Where are the horses? Where is Arthur? I don't hear a thing—

       ‘Ms. Granger?'  Arthur’s muffled voice travels over the tumult.

        Oh my god! He’s so close! I follow the vague direction, hands on my face to protect it when a sudden Ping! lights up my face. I glance at the screen, though I can barely read a word. Even the time is blurred. I must stop walking for a second to read it; birds slap against my head, and I'm convinced this is a nightmare. It has to be. Their claws catch a few strands, pulling them from my skull, and I try to ignore the pain that wishes to impede me. 

        Unwnkow Nurmber:

        Boo.

        The word rings through my skull, silky and menacing; my legs buckle as if someone's kicked the back of my knees, and I drop my phone.

       ‘NO!’ I roar, desperate to recover my wits, but the tears finally torrent down my cheeks.

        I'm so petrified for Arthur and me. My thoughts chime his name on repeat. Where is he? He had to be nearby; he was so close!

        Suddenly, an idea forms in my mind, a solid thought, and I don’t hesitate to drop to my knees and search the ground for my phone. It's wet as if it rained, and I'm fingering mud instead of soft grass. Somehow, I find it with my eyes half-closed and bring it to my face, disobeying my limbs that have started to give into the drought.

        I've pulled up my call log because of sheer mechanical memory because I evidently can't see anything! My eyes go cross-eyed looking at each name, and somewhere in the struggle, I drop my wand, which doesn't seem as important right now.

       Ah! I find it! Aruthr.

        I read the jumbled words to myself just as the birds start croaking loudly when I bring the phone to my ear, waiting for an endless ring. Finally, someone answers, and I almost choke with joy even if he doesn't say greet the line. ‘Arthur! Where are you? I’m here in the paddock, find me quick!'

       There’s a long pause that makes me feel the sluggish effects of the draught. I think he's hanged up until I hear him clear his throat and croak, ‘Ms. Granger? What ye doing doon there? I’m at my house, sleepin'.’

       It takes me a moment to process his words, and I sincerely believe I've lost my mind. I'm in the paddocks, squatting in mud so cold I can barely feel my feet. I'm about to tell him as much when footfalls develop in front of me, and I'm forced to look up, wishing with all my might that it's Arthur and this delirium is a result of the poison.

       The darkness is moving, the birds are parting, and it's taking shape—a very tall and manly shape.

       ‘Should I come there? Is the summat wrong?...Ms. Granger?’ The call abruptly drops just as the footsteps stop.

       ‘You found him,’ a deep, unfamiliar voice mocks. Is this him? Is this the intruder stalking my property? I can only perceive a dim silhouette in front of me, a foot away.

        I want to curse at him. I need to scream at him, to reach my arms forward before the blackness consumes me. But I can’t. I can’t do anything but gawk at him vacantly. All at once, my hands release the phone just as my shoulders liberate their strength, and I bow in front of this terrible man, losing consciousness. My hands catch me in a final attempt at fortitude before my face plants itself into the mud. Again, I try to open my mouth to say something, anything, and nothing comes out.

       ‘I don’t play fair, baby.’ His voice is so close, like each word is warming my ear. I don't know where he is, but he is near. So near. ‘That’s how I get what I want. You should remember that because the hunt has just begun,’ he taunts.

       Suddenly, my face is being lifted, though I can't feel with what or from where.

       I am forced to confront him again, and he snickers at my weak attempt at a glower. Is this funny to him? I slit my eyes to see him better and emphasise my rage, but I find myself staring, barely tethered to reality. Silver eyes stare back at me, and as if made of something lustrous, his opaque mask is patterned with a shimmering film: it’s the only thing I can see on his face, or perhaps, it’s the only thing he is letting me see. I try to lower my eyes, desperate to know his face, to see a shred of something distinguishable or familiar. He is spellbinding: a solitary entity in this bleak, misty world vanishing around me.

       I think he smiles at my evident gawking. His full lips materialise instantly, catching my gaze, and I watch them move. ‘Give me your mouth willingly, or I will take so much more unwillingly,’ he warns with a silky tone.

       How can something so terrible sound enticing? Is he intending to rape me? Is he asking for some sick type of permission? 

       The birds are still storming around us, and I'm unsure what to do. I can't speak; I can't move. In essence, it's all perfect, really. It’s what I imagine my mind looks like and the empty cavity in my chest that can't be filled. I have dreamed of raging birds, seas and vengeful cyclones for as long as I can remember. My lips part again; before I know it, the mask and the gathering stars of my diminishing vision have become one.

       There is a suppleness that presses into my mouth. It’s soft and inviting, and I cannot form a single thought to contest it. This isn't so bad. If this is all he wants, he can take it. But all at once, his hot mouth grows insistent and heady, and I am held firmly in place as heat and wetness part my lips, lapping hungrily against my tongue.

       There is no more gentleness. He is devouring me, and firm fingers are gripping my neck, stealing the last of my breath.

       ‘Mm...you taste so sweet, don’t you, Granger? How have you kept this devastating sweetness from me?’ I gasp at the memory.

       My stalker smiles against my lips, and a goading chuckle leaves his throat when a husky moan escapes me. But the unwelcome sound drowns, and I sink further into the moans and growls until the cavernous night takes me.

Chapter Text

         Knock!

         My head is thumping violently as if a nerve is throbbing out of place. Even though the curtains are drawn, I wrench the covers over my face, casting the room in a perpetual eclipse. All night, I dreamt that swallows were striking my window, their majestic bodies thrashing wildly as if possessed. There was something ominous about their chirping right before they beat into the glass. I couldn’t shut them up, even when I became conscious of the menacing vision that was a nightmare. At some point, I believe I was yelling for Arthur, and I hope to the gods that I wasn’t doing it aloud.

         Knock! Knock! Knock! ‘Hermione?’ Sofia mutters from the other side of my bedroom door. ‘Are you not feeling well?’

          ‘Just a minute!’ My voice is grating. It’s as if I chewed on nails in my sleep. The need to quench it with water is monumental, but I couldn’t get up to unlock the door, even if a Hungarian Horntail threatened to scorch my bed.

         There is a long pause, and I think she is gone. ‘Ok, well…breakfast is on the table. Do you need anything from me?’ Ping!

         What in the world is that sound? ‘I’ll be down in a minute,’ I groan, failing to keep the irritation from my tone. I don't spare the noise another thought before burying my face into the pillow. I hear her footsteps travel down the hall as the annoying chime reverberates through my skull, and I roll to my bedside table, seeing a bright glow through my closed lids.

         Opening my eyes feels like gashing them with a blade. Reaching for the phone with weak fingers, a sinking feeling ripens at the thought of Ron probing me for a phone call. There is no way in hell that I’m hiking a hill—

         Unknown Number:

         I love it when you look into my eyes like that.

         (Image)

         My fingers fight with the passcode when the device doesn't detect my face. I've almost forgotten the pattern as the sinking feeling only intensifies. I sweep over the conversation, seeing the fragments of my dreams in a physical manifestation. The blue light is blinding, but I endure it.

         The latest message includes a picture. I click on it, but it’s murky at first glance. There’s a white blob in the centre surrounded by blackness. I have to rub my eyes, waiting for them to refocus, and when they do, I sit up so fast that my head protests like I’ve been gouged in the skull.

         It’s a picture of me. I’m on my knees in my skimpy black pyjama set. My arms and legs are soiled with streaks of mud, and my boobs are almost jutting out of the disarranged fabric. I’m looking up at the camera, hazel eyes clear in the flash and a mane of wild curls framing my face. The whites of my eyes are bloodshot, while the skin around them is rubbed red. They are tear-streaked, and the wetness is smeared down my cheeks, bypassing my flushed lips.

         My countenance is abandoned. I’m peering up at the camera, vacant and helpless. Ping!

         Unknown Number:

         I can’t wait to taste you again tonight.

         It wasn't a dream. It was fucking real! If the migraine wasn't already an indication, my sordid picture and his jeering messages are an awful return to reality. I roar into the empty bedroom, thumping my fingers against the keyboard. How dare he?! Who the fuck is he?! To do such despicable things to a woman is unforgivable!

         Me:

         I WILL FUCKING KILL YOU!!!!

         His reply is instant.

         Unknown Number:

         Careful with your pretty threats, baby. The temptation to send the souvenir to your pitiful husband is too tempting.

         Me:

         GO AND FUCK YOURSELF!!!!!!

         Unknown Number:

         Try again.

          Me:

          LEAVE. ME. ALONE!!!!

          I'm breathing heavily when I hear the dreaded Ping! arrive.

          Unknown Number:

          You’re begging me to make the next one more explicit for him.

          How in the world is he replying so fast? I can barely catch my breath in between each assault. Pinching the bridge of my nose, I exhale forcefully, desperate to regain some clarity. I'm not entertaining this conversation. I should contact the police or wizarding enforcement. Ping!

          Unknown Number:

           ;)

          Before I can form a coherent thought, I throw my phone at the headboard, and it leaps off the ornately carved wood, crashing with a satisfactory crack on the floor.

        Hammering down the stairs, I remember to muster an air of casual indifference, and I slow my steps a notch, hearing Sofia switching the hoover off at my arrival. The fury grips my throat from the inside. I'm tempted to sprint into the forest to snarl and bellow my rage. My feet ache, though there's nothing there but the memory of a wound. When I started dressing, I realised I was wearing the full-body cat pyjamas I had gone to bed in. My woollen socks covered my unblemished feet. I don't understand any of it. Did he actually kiss me, or was it a part of his illusion? What a disgusting thing. To make sure, I brushed my teeth twice and rinsed my gums with mouthwash, imagining it was bleach. 

       ‘What were you fighting upstairs?’ Sofia asks from the threshold of the living room. She's leaning her right shoulder in the stone arch, watching me woefully and wearing a bright yellow dress, but I can scarcely focus on the details.

       ‘You look pretty.’ I smile so brightly at her—it hurts. I make sure my words are loud and gaudy when I say, ‘I was trying to stupefy a rodent. Nasty, nasty little thing it was. Don’t worry, though. It will be dead soon.’          

        She raises a brow, clearly confused at my out-of-character response. ‘Thank you…’ her eyes drop to my legs. ‘They’re lovely! Oh, and I put your breakfast in the oven so it wouldn’t get cold.’ Her eyes skim over my jumper. ‘Is that new?’

        ‘I have to go to Diagon Alley in the afternoon for a signing. Can you tell Ron if he happens to call? Just tell him I’ll be busy with preparations all day and don't fancy climbing the hill,’ I retort bluntly. I can’t imagine anything worse than talking to my husband right now. What would he think of the assault? I'm not even sure I understand it, myself. Anything could have happened. It seems he took my drugged willingness as an invitation. 

        Sofia hums in response, and I take it as an encouragement to go to the kitchen and grab the breakfast. I don’t think my stomach can handle the food, though, certainly, the coffee. It doesn't taste as it should, but I put it down to the onslaught of chemicals coating my mouth. The kitchen clock chimes nine, and I glance out the window while I drink, staring daggers into the trees, contemplating what I should be doing, when suddenly, I notice a figure moving in the paddocks. It's Arthur!

        I walk to the front door without considering how strange it looks, still sipping my coffee in my slippers, without grabbing my coat, undoubtedly looking the part of a crazy cat lady: the ginger cat slippers resembling Crookshanks (who passed away last year) paired with my remarkably messy bun. I’m wearing floral fishnets beneath a bulky black jumper that says "Calamus Gladio Fortior" in an edgy, elegant font, with a nifty long sword detailed between my shoulder blades at the back. 

        The Latin phrase translates to: The pen is mightier than the sword. I haven’t worn it since I bought it. But today, it looked appropriate, and I needed some time to kill before heading downstairs. I searched my wardrobe, bringing out pieces I'd like to experiment with. I don't feel myself; I've sometimes felt a semblance of control over my life, but recently, with the emergence of my nightmares and now this, control feels like a fickle thing, trickling pitifully through my fingers.

        Stepping onto the porch, I immediately feel eyes on me. It could be Sofia glancing out the living room window, concerned at my odd behaviour. Yet I suspect my prowler is about and witnessing my carefully curated parade. I hope the snidey pervert can read Latin. I'm not scared of you, asshole! Although he startles the skin from my bone, I will not let him see it. While I devise a plan to overcome him and hand him over to the authorities, he can bask in my vehemence. I'm stronger than this; I'm fiercer than I feel, and the absence of assurance is only an illusion on my part.

        Taking the steps leisurely, I suppress a shiver when I involuntarily evoke the picture he sent me. I have never felt so humiliated in all my life. The forbidding reality is that I don’t remember him taking it. Not one second of it. There was a flash because my eyes were bright and dotted with red, like every family picture from my childhood taken on a disposable camera. But I don't recall the light; it was only darkness. Everything about me was so raw.

        I looked like a victim of sexual assault.

        My migraine wants to hide from the sun, but I'm desperate for its warmth. I feel cold to the bone, my spirit shivering, and how strange it feels to be sauntering in the serene path I was sobbing over in my attempt to find Arthur, feet pressing into the jagged gravel, living through a literal nightmare.

        He’s sick! What kind of man takes pleasure in tormenting a woman?

        My heart jolts with relief when I spot all the horses ambling merrily around the enclosure, untouched by whatever corruption altered my perception of their grassy paddock. Where did the mud go? It was wet, and I was soiled in the picture. Stepping into the lush enclosure, I don’t notice any remnants of bones or feathers. Arthur doesn’t even look my way when I approach. He’s got a clipboard in hand, jotting down any observations he makes about the horses and their habits.

        ‘Good morning, Arthur,’ I say cheerily, pretending that coming outside in such a fit with a mug that reads: "Classic– a book which people praise and don’t read " is what I do on a daily.

        His eyes find mine over the clipboard. ‘Ye’re lookin’ jolly this morning,’ he points out. ‘Yer lad back?’

        I ignore how his awareness lingers on my provocative tights and feral slippers. ‘Not yet.’ I sip my coffee. ‘But my husband will be back soon,’ I state with subtle emphasis, hoping that the menace is, indeed, in the trees around us, listening. ‘Did you receive a call from me last night?’ I muster a casual tone.

        Arthur frowns, his bristly brows meeting in the middle. ‘Nae, why? Did yer need summat?’

        I sip my coffee before shaking my head. It's just as I thought.

        We talk briefly before I walk back while inconspicuously checking the perimeter for any sign of my wand. The vine wood and heartstring core would definitely stand out. But it’s not here. Did he take it? I don’t play fair, baby. His words ring out from the dark pools of my recollections. My heart could break at the thought of it being in that lunatic’s hands again. My only consolidation for the day is that I’ll be going to Diagon Alley soon, and I can purchase another one in the meantime. Garrick Ollivander has since been replaced by his son, who is a quiet and timid fellow. It suits me well on occasions like this, where an explanation seems too personal to disclose.

       I'm thinking about what I should wear for my speech. It's a casual but sophisticated setting, and my heart sets on a cute tartan skirt that pairs with an array of turtlenecks. It complements the picture on the dust cover of my books: simple and modest Hermione Jean Granger. Though I haven't published new research for some months, the discussions I cover on my pages are sensational. One review by a critic described it as "extraordinary contemporary research for a modern, curious audience by an exceptional, keen-sighted witch."

       Looking down at my outfit, keeping the edgy tights, I see someone different, wearing the evidence of the darkness that haunts her. I don't know whether I'm trying to provoke him or myself. Yet somehow, I feel comfortable like this. By not subduing what’s inside, I feel more powerful than I have since I can last remember.

       I’ve spent the hours before my departure gathering papers and rehearsing important lines I want to include in my presentation. Besides that and my lack of preparation, I’m eager to see how a more casual approach will fare. Occasionally, talking academically for too long is dulling and dispiriting, and I’m willing to try and step out of the mould for once. When I return to my bedroom, mind reeling with information, I notice the curtains are drawn, and by the looks of it, Sofia has amended the chaos from this morning.

      Just seeing my phone on the bedside table makes me sick.

      I decide to keep to what I’m wearing, which will undoubtedly raise a few brows. Settling at my vanity, I apply the lipstick, my only form of makeup, allowing myself a heavier hand when coating the brownish rogue with my finger. It daubs on smoothly, and I suck my finger lightly to ensure none of it settles on my teeth. Ping!

      ‘I hope you trip from a very tall cliff,’ I say aloud while spraying perfume on my neck and wrists. Ping!

       I pretend to be unconcerned about the irritating pressure, putting on my black Doc-Martens unhurried leisure. When I’m finished, I pretend to look for something on my bedside table before entertaining him. I’m surprised it doesn’t ring again while I riffle through random pieces of paper and indulge in an over-the-top nostalgic moment when I come across a few pictures from a holiday with Ron’s family. Finally, feigning to glance at the time, I see three messages:

       Ron:

       Good luck! Love you! X

       I don’t swipe it open. Bile rises to my throat at the message beneath it.

        Unknown Number:

        Good luck! Love you! X

        I can't decide whether to throw my phone again or roll my eyes, so I settled on the latter. He thinks he's funny, showing off whatever powers he harbours. Ping!

        Unknown Number:

        I can’t wait to watch you talking cleverly in those racy tights.

         I scoff before typing back a reply.

         Me:

         YOU ARE NOT COMING, ASSHOLE! And I expect my wand back when I’m home!!

         Silencing my phone is the appropriate way to assert myself. I carry the device over to my bag on the end of the bed, wondering how he moves around me and sees me, all undected by me or Sofia. There are limitations even to magic. It’s like he’s all-seeing, a presence that shadows me but doesn't breathe or slip up. 

        Downstairs, I check my phone once more. My stalker hasn’t replied, which I expected. Following me in the wizarding world would be way too obvious. There are some wizards and witches who are attuned to invisible enchantments. It would take someone exceptionally dark to go unnoticed in a public, magical place. Thankfully, those given to the dark mark are gone, as Ron assures. He says it so much, especially when he's had a drink, and I believe it.

        Sofia watches me leave from the dining table. I nod in her direction just as I throw the powder at the foot of the hearth, shouting my intended location. The emerald flames consume me, transporting me to Diagon Alley.

Chapter Text

       The two-story shop of Ollivanders looms painfully vacant. I peek through the windows, yearning for an indication of anything: a warm seepage from a backroom light or even a sulking pet. There is a sign on the door, but I’m trying to ignore it. The moving portrait of Ollivander feels like a gibe, considering the futile words scribbled above his bust: Any queries or complaints: Speak to the portrait!

       ‘Ten and three-quarters Vinewood with a dragon heartstring core, Miss. Hermione Granger from the House of Gryffindor! Ten and three-quarters Vinewood with a dragon…’ he keeps parroting in a loop.

        I tune him out while pressing my forehead into the glass. My line of defence is gone. But there will be no time for tears, I tell myself while forcing the backs of my thumbs into my eyes, pushing the helplessness back to sorrow in some other part of my body. I have a signing, for goodness' sake! Bursting out in tears in the bookstore would surely make it to a strip in the Daily Prophet, knowing my recent bout of luck.

        The diabolical intruder is probably laughing right now, and it’s a good thing he can’t taunt me with texts here. The signal is dead. In truth, I’m terrified of what this stranger knows. He talks to me like he knows me. That damned picture he threatened to send to Ron looks like a cutout from some perverse porno and worst of all—my head whips around to the left, where footsteps echo in the cobblestone. It’s a Wednesday. Of course, it’s mostly empty, and I'm severely on edge.

        The commuting wizard is probably on their way towards the same place I should be, setting up a stand and preparing to sell my book. Though, at least in my perpetual state of panic, I haven't thought about a particular death eater who haunts my dreams with all the malevolent words and acts he was capable of. Not once today did he cross my thoughts. But it's hardly reassuring when a genuine monster has replaced him. With a heavy heart, I leave the storefront, echoing my name through the passageways until I lose him on the main road, spotting Flourish and Blotts and its mossy wooden-trimmed windows. 

        The young, charming man has unknowingly alleviated my evening. Muddled in his faraway place, he just disclosed a store security measure while preparing my cup of tea, ranting about a group of students who tried to sneak in with powerful invisibility charms. ‘It’s impossible! The spell is a part of the foundations: as old as the structure itself!’ he gushes, stirring the sugar in my teacup into a cyclone. 

       My stalker won’t be able to watch me like he claimed. Just to be sure, I scour the crowd thoughtfully before I forsake my fears and start talking, seeing if anyone catches my eye. I only recall that he was pale, broad, and had abundant lips straight from hell. It’s a very vague image, to be honest. I can hazily remember the assault on my mouth before I blacked out. It’s not enough to justify why my hands are growing clammy. Clearly, my hormones have been stirring wildly with all this mounting lack of sleep and constant state of paranoia. Putting my purple-framed glasses on, I abandon the comfort of the squeaky stool, clearing my throat before I welcome everyone with a beaming smile, noticing several familiar faces.

       It’s dusk when I arrive home from the Leaky Cauldron. The presentation went so well that a group from the crowd gathered after it was finished for a prolonged conversation, carrying it over to a large table in the crowded pub. My belly is warm with mead and wine, and as the author, I was offered several drinks, forgetting my grief in the friendly discourse and hearty cups. I grew heady with excitement, recalling what it felt like to be surrounded by people. Tonight's group was eager and animated, which isn't my typical gathering. I have become more used to the company of birds and horses, and any token of my temporal desires: interacting with a community or being heard by like-minded people is welcome.

       I shrug off the faint spattering of rain that I somehow picked up along the floo journey. When I look around the vacant space, it takes me a moment to realise that everything is normal. Sofia has left the lamps on for my arrival, and the curtains are all drawn. There’s no sign of that menace, at least. Discarding my bag on the sofa, I plop myself into a footstall and reach for my shoelaces. I’m sloppy, and it takes me a few minutes to shuffle my feet out of the taut leather. When I do, I immediately reach for the band of my fishnets, relieved to feel them rolling down my bare legs.

      I'm half-dressed when I venture upstairs, spotting a picture of me and Ron in front of my hardback classics collection. Then, leaping back to the plush footstool on my toes, I rummage through the notepads and pluck out the white device, thinking I should tell Ron about my successful evening. It’s still turned off. But I daren’t check it. It would be nice to shower in blissful ignorance, even if the creep is moping about outside, sizing me up.

      Perhaps I have grown careless or stupid, or it’s the lulling liquid in my system, swirling around as I take the stairs one at a time, following the cherrywood rail the entire journey, basking in a semblance of ease. Reaching the top, I notice how lovely and clean the house is, and I’m struck with immense gratitude for Sofia. There have been days when the nightmares leave such an impression: I forget to eat. When Arthur isn’t around, she’s been known to levitate food towards me, reminding me to stay nourished if she notices I haven’t touched the cupboards or fruit bowl. I hardly think Ron would notice. He adores his work and spends abundant time with Harry, seeing all his family, too, when they take lunch breaks at the newly-built Burrow.

       I pull my phone up, turn it on, and lock the door behind me in the bathroom. There are no texts.

       Me:

       Thank you, darling! I had a wonderful time :) I went for a few drinks afterwards, and I’m home now, about to shower. Any idea when you will be back? X

        I sent the message, but I hardly expect a response tonight. My thumb drifts of its own accord, venturing away from the conversation and roaming over the chat with the unknown number. Unable to resist the urge, I open it, and I’m immediately drawn to the picture of me.

        My stomach coils at seeing my sparkly, tear-drowned eyes. They are glossed over with fear. Yet, there is more to my gaze…something akin to astonishment. I recall him wearing a mask, but the details are still nebulous. He may as well have shown me his face, and I wouldn’t have remembered it the following day, anyway. Maybe this is why I’m petrified of Ron seeing it. Thinking about the power this stranger has over me is making my hands itch for the security of my wand.

       Twisting the shower nozzle, I wait for the steam to beckon me while liberating my tousled bun. I run my fingers and nails through my scalp and moan at the simple pleasure before opening a drawer and retrieving the hair comb to untangle the curls with coconut oil before styling them in a milkmaid’s braid.

       The shower felt so good: I could weep from the release it offered. After brushing my teeth, I dress in my oversized jumper again, realising I left the dressing gown in the bedroom. With my phone in hand, I step outside the bathroom and skip barefoot down the hallway, heading to fetch my underwear, socks and pyjamas. I grasp the bronze doorknob and push—

        It’s locked. ‘What…’ I mumble to myself. Maybe Sofia locked it with a spell by accident? It can only be locked from the inside. I entertain the notion until a light switch is being turned off from somewhere in the house.

        Then another. 

        And another.

        I scramble to the doors of the guest bedrooms, Ron’s office and the second bathroom. They are all locked! A chill tickles the back of my neck, shifting my baby hair, and I turn abruptly. At the other end of the corridor, the bathroom, whose door is still agape, revealing the sound of the purring extractor fan, is the only light left on when the one above me turns off. My hand clenches around my phone.

       ‘What the fuck are you doing?’ I bite out, knowing he can hear me. And yet, my phone remains silent. The droning of the extractor fan is the only sound I can hear over the blood rushing in my ears as I approach the top of the landing, glimpsing into the darkness at the foot of the foyer.

       I need a weapon, something to defend myself with. If I'm fast enough, I could grab my keys and sprint for the car, but I still feel hazy from the drinks. The idea is ridiculous. I would never drive while under the influence. But with the floo network, I don’t need to leave the house! I could grasp the powder and quickly transport myself before he got a chance to assault me again.

       My feet are light when they meet the stairs. Thankfully, I amended the creaky steps with an old housewife charm. I’m as quiet as a prowling predator when I round a turn, stopping as I try to navigate the impending obscurity below. Nothing awaits me, not even an open front door like the previous night. Without a second thought, I practically jump the last steps and dash straight for the fireplace.

       ‘Shit!’ I can’t see anything! My left leg hits something—

       The footstool! I can see the fireplace beside it. I feel around with my hand, breathing heavily; my fingers scoop chaotically into the pot with the powder, blowing it everywhere. Clenching my fist in the ash-like substance, I grab a handful and raise a foot onto the stone slabs of the hearth, still feeling around its hollow body. I think I’m inside. I'm holding my phone tightly to avoid losing it while travelling, considering several places, but each one fills me with dread to visit.

        Settling on the rebuilt Lovegood’s house, where Luna resides alone, I toss the powder at my bare feet and proclaim, ‘My house in Montrose!’

        What the fuck? My mind is churning in desperate confusion at what I just said. I was thinking Luna’s house, right? Perhaps I'm really out of it. I reach down into the dim outline of the pot, picking up more powder. ‘Lovegood house in Ottery St Catchpole,’ I recite aloud. ‘Lovegood house in Ottery Catchpole!’ Throwing the powder again, I declare, ‘My house in Montrose!’

       Unsurprisingly, nothing changes; no green flame licks at my dust-covered feet. How in the world is he tampering with my words? Ping! A ball the size of a crab apple forms in my throat. My phone’s light is blinding, and I anxiously turn the brightness down as I lift it to my face, seeing a lone message waiting for me like a dreadful premonition.

        Unknown Number:

        Put your tights back on.

        My tights? The ones I left on the footstool? Gritting my teeth, I start typing back a venomous response when a movement to my right catches my eye. Glancing over at the living room window, I see the curtains are drawn. They certainly didn't look like that when I first arrived home.

        Outside, the sky is overcast with muted grey clouds that render the land in a strange, haunting light. My eyes adjust to the shapes: the knolls in the distance, the tops of pines, the rooftop of the stables… a black figure on the other side of the glass. My stomach drops.

       ‘I’m calling the muggle enforcement!’ I yell in a frenzy before swiping our conversation away and clicking the green phone symbol.

       Tap! Nothing

       Tap! Nothing Ping!

       I glance back to the window, my heart in my chest. Although faint, I can see where the light of his phone screen meets the skin below the mask: fleshy lips are grinning, and he is holding an unlit cigarette between them. His mask has a faint shimmer, but the rest of him is obscure and shrouded in a black hood, not even a strand of hair slipping out. I can sense he’s watching me, even if I can’t discern his eyes from the mask. Looking down at my lit screen, I've somehow returned to our conversation.

        Unknown Number:

        Put. The. Tights. On.

        I almost lunge the phone towards him when bellowing, ‘OR WHAT?!’ 

        He only smiles wider while typing out a reply. Ping! I’m boring daggers into his elusive form before resolving to check his response. Ping!

         Unknown Number:

         (Image)

         Unknown Number:

         Or your husband can see how much you like me.

        My mouth dries, and the promise of bile that rises tastes punitively acid when I swallow. I’m practically shaking when I press on the image, gasping in horror when it finally loads. It’s almost identical to the other one, taken on the same night. I’m still on my knees, wearing the same skimpy black pyjamas, and my arms and legs are marked in grime. My cheeks are damp with tears, reddish against the flash. I’m looking up at the lens with hooded eyes that make it seem like they are rolled back with pleasure.

        This time, my mouth is puckered around a finger—his thumb. A strapping and tattoed left forearm is stretched towards me, his fingers holding my cheek as I suck the digit willingly. His black tattoo spirals the entire extent of the visible skin, ending towards the thumb. It’s a snake.

        The tattoo of the serpent disappears in my mouth, where my lips are wet around it. Suddenly, a glow from the window prompts me to lift my head in his direction. There’s a small blue flame on the tip of his wand, and he’s raising it towards his cigarette, igniting it. The act makes his mask shimmer brighter, where, for a split second, I see his black eyes burning into me. Then, the flame vanishes, and all that’s left is the bright red cherry that he sucks in one long pull, exhaling the smoke in haunting swirls before resuming on his phone. Ping!

        Unknown Number:

        Be a good girl for me and follow my rules. And again, no shoes, no coat...

        I'm trembling as I anticipate the three dots. Ping!

        Unknown Number:

        Then come outside and get your wand.

         My wand? He’s using my wand!

        ‘FUCK YOU!’ I roar at the window while leaving the fireplace, angrily swiping the tights on my way out. ‘Give me some fucking privacy then, you disgusting pervert!’ I can feel his eyes on me the entire journey to the kitchen, even when I veer out of sight.

        How does he do that?

        I dread to conceive the magnitude of his abilities. There is something inconceivably baleful about him, and I need to breathe as the fear of the unknown grips me. I’m struggling to retain oxygen, and it’s making me lightheaded. My knees are weak, and I realise with mounting anxiety that I could faint. I begin violently pulling on the patterned fishnets in the kitchen, feeling wrong about tugging them over my bare pussy and cheeks.

       The room is still dark when I swipe a trickling tear before feverishly delving through the cutlery for a knife: a long and sharp one. Fastening it to my hand like I do with my wand, I feel prepared for combat. I must remind myself to breathe like it’s a chant. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. Deep ones! When the light-headedness subsides, I swipe my car keys from the counter, worrying that I’m carrying too much in my two hands as I step into the foyer, where the front door is now open, and the glacial breeze sends a paralysing shiver down my spine when I go to step outside.

Chapter Text

       There is a parting in the clouds where the waxing moon blinks at me through a hazy film. Outside, it appears exactly how it feels: menacing. There are even tendrils of fog seeping through the open doorway. I sniff the air, inhaling the ashy scent of cigarette smoke. No. Not fog. I’m gripping the knife handle so tight that I could bruise myself before being allowed to swipe at him.

       Treading onto the porch with equal trepidation and resolve, I’m grateful that my eyes are better adjusted to the dimness. Straightening my spine, I abandon the false sense of safety, releasing the doorframe that feels like a clutch, and straightaway turn my attention towards the trail of smoke. What I don’t expect is to see him. The intruder is at the far right of the porch, where the living room window looks out.

       My nerves shudder in a frenzy as I process the unlikely surprise: the man is so tall and broad, it’s foreboding. He’s leaning languorously against the railing, long legs stretched and crossed at the ankles. The warm glow from the cigarette he’s sucking reveals his evident delight. He’s grinning like the lunatic he is.

       ‘What will it take to make you sincerely go fuck yourself?’ I say, suppressing a tremble.

        Instead of responding, he only watches me thoughtfully, unmoving. It’s ominous how he loosely resembles a Dementor when releasing the white wisps of smoke, masking his enigmatic disguise and penetrating eyes.

        ‘I’m married,’ I accuse, realising belatedly how pathetic it sounds. 'My husband will be back soon.' 

         When he exhales this time, it comes out with a jeering chuckle, and I shift uncomfortably at his response. Why is he so unnervingly silent? His predatory intent alone could devour me. ‘Where's m-my wand?’ I stammer after a prolonged hush. 

         When I think he doesn’t plan to respond, he abruptly flicks the cigarette butt out of the porch, releasing another long and lingering exhale before indulging me. ‘Come and get it,’ he says in a low, silky voice.

         What does that entail? I grip the knife tighter. ‘Roll it to me.'

         The wizard must be using a spell to shroud himself with. He’s too grim; the shadows are overly professed around him. It’s as if he absorbs the nocturnal, radiating it from his robes and ashen skin.

         ‘I said: come and get it, Birdie,’ he purrs.

         My backbone is crumbling. If his vague responses and grim demeanour are intended to intimidate me, he's already won. ‘I’m not coming anywhere near you!' Shit! I feel like pissing myself!

         He reaches for his left hand, slowly tugging the leather fabric from his solid and pronounced tendons, revealing the meandering snake that lives on his thumb and wrist. Then, he repeats the process with the other hand, never once diverting his brooding consideration of me. I almost believe he is obliging me: the serpent extending into the obscurity of his robes, and he pulls out something.

         Another cigarette.

         Bringing it to his lips, my mouth gapes when I view the tip lighting itself: a tiny, provoking spark highlighting his intense jawline. He inhales and exhales again, deliberately, as if we have all the time in the world, even though my toes are on the verge of frostbite.

         I clench my jaw. ‘Can you—’

         ‘You have ten seconds to get out of my sight and attempt the portkey on the hill,' he cuts me off, flicking his head towards the direction of the knolls behind the stables. ‘Or you may as well get on your knees now and accept your reprisal.’

         My insides shrivel: He discovered our portkey! ‘A reprisal for what?’ I counter sharply as the suppressed shiver finally racks my spine. 'You're a pig, and I'm not entertaining your rotten games!' I sense my cheeks flushing. 'I'm going back inside before I get hypothermia. Oh, and I've already informed the police. They're on their way.'

         His cruel grin resumes at the sight of my shudder. ‘Nine.'

         My body is screaming at me to run. ‘And what of my wand?’ I shift on my feet as a frigid chill sweeps beneath my jumper.

         He sucks the tip to life. Then, on an exhale, he says, ‘Seven.' Following his words, the knife flies out of my hand, a terrifying crack announcing as I look down to see it buried in the wooden foundation. The shadows grazing my legs intensify.

        ‘Five.'

         My hand vibrates as the car keys soar into the bushes on cue. ‘You ghastly—' The darkness around him ripples, seeming to close in on me, and the rest of my words dissolve on a choke as he brings the cigarette to his lips, speaking with it in his mouth.

        ‘Four.’

        I don't wait for the rest. My feet move of their own accord, hammering down the timber steps, imprinting themselves into the gravel with a punishing force. The effort is gruelling: my frantic intake of icy breaths prickle my skin just before reaching the lungs.

        Racing down the track, I can hear the horse’s disturbance in the distance as if something has abruptly roused them just as I break through the trees, gasping for air and with a few toes uncomfortably poking out of the frayed fishnets. The wind has picked up regardless of the densely packed pines and cedar that should obstruct it, sending chills to my perspiring neck. By memory, I navigate the dim trail, nearly spraining my ankle on several potholes and mole mounds. There are things I don’t anticipate: twigs that feel like bramble, the bursting wet body of a slug.

        ‘Ron!’ I cry out pathetically. He’s in Cornwall. My husband can't save me from him! Everywhere I look, it’s like the monster is on my heels, breathing tauntingly down my shoulder. Rounding a corner, I sprint on a stretch of flat ground that feels like it goes on forever. The trees congregate around me, locking in the sounds of my pants and wheezing. I’m still gripping my phone in a sweaty hold, hoping that if I get away from him—the enchantment will break, and I can call for help. The nausea is bubbling. Around both of my hips, a cramp forms, eroding my strength. 

        Where is he? I can’t hear anything over my terror and all its multi-faceted voices. Ping! I whimper as the wind roars above the tree line. I’m almost at the end of this godforsaken path!

        Suddenly, a loud croak like a caw bellows from behind, unnervingly close. I’m slowing down dramatically from the cramps blooming in my hips. Seeing something pursuing me will give me a heart attack, so I don't look back. The ascent is only on the other side of the fence, which is finally in sight, a beacon of triumph. I muster a surge of momentum that will likely kill me.

        ‘Arghhhhh!’ An unexpected blow to the back of my head sends me hurtling towards the fence, crumpling into the frame that only creaks at the collision. My ears are ringing, and the left side of my face is numb from the harsh, direct impact, where it feels as if a tooth has jagged itself into my cheek.

        My mouth is filling up with blood, and I almost choke on a swallow. I may have shattered the tooth, too. In my dazed, faint state, I’m tempted to remain here, slumping for dear life, where he can find me and kill me, offering me that final relief. Please. I want to plead into the forest, swallowing a mouthful of the blood, the crow shrieking overhead. My phone has flown off somewhere beyond the fence, and in its place, my fingers are raw from reaching out into the splintered wood and lessening the impact. They are stinging, and somewhere or everywhere, a stinging nettle is grazing my skin.

        The subsequent caw comes from immediately above me, and I glance up just as talons imprint themselves into my skull. ‘Fuck off!’ I shriek.

        The bird is plucking my fucking hair out! I’m battering my arms at the enormous creature, gripping and pulling feathers into the darkness, screaming like a banshee, but the bastard is relentless. It feels like it’s trying to lift me by my braid, and I can scarcely get a hold of it to wrench it back to earth. Its fluttering wings are violent, thrashing into my head like I ate all its newborn hatchlings. Eventually, I triumph in getting a hold of its foot.

        A crunch rings when I yank the frail bone, lashing my hand back into the fence when it strikes with the other foot, threatening me away.

        My knuckles crack, or maybe it’s my fingers…shattering one by one. The infernal creature evaporates, not even a gust of air in its departure. I sit here, against the post of the fence, paralysed to my bones and sincerely wondering if I died. One of my hands is throbbing, while the other is scathed with claw marks. I’m probably semi-bald, and my mouth still oozes fresh blood. Ping!

        I'm definitely in hell. An ugly and desperate sound that could be a rusted door hinge rattles as I begin laughing. My body shudders when I look at the trail I had come from. I thought I heard a footstep. But alas, no menace or infernal creature awaits to trample over what's left of my strength. There is only a bright light beside my foot that's making me wince.

        It's my phone. The terrible little device has travelled to me from its solidarity beyond the fence. I’m shaking as I pluck it with my saved hand.             

        Unknown Number

        Unknown Number

        I don’t read the two messages waiting for me.

Chapter Text

        ‘Can I just lay on the b-bed?’ I’m shivering profusely while surveilling his slim back, which ripples when he laughs soundlessly.

         I’m on the floor, where he ordered me to bow, pleading until the tears had run their course. As if the stuffy air around us had suddenly developed hands, the blanket I’m using to cover my bare body is torn from my hold. Its harsh wool fibres maim my skin. I sense something despicable in his gaze as he sprawls himself on the emerald leather wingback, observing me like a predator. He opens his stout legs and grazes the ringed finger across his lips.

         His eyes turn completely black as if a shadow has swept across them. They keep doing that. Instead, I focus on the ‘M’ engraved in the silver ring.

         His presence is unsettling. ‘Crawl to me,’ he bids.

         His white hair is ruffled at the front from when I fought him. We struggled on the floor until his hand was on my throat, my eyes rolling back.

         I gulp. ‘Why?

         His eyes revert to their penetrating blue. ‘Crawl. To. Me.’  I can still taste the evidence of our arousal at the back of my throat. This is the third time I have come to see him. The second was like a war. When he told me of his intentions, I attacked him until I was bound to the bed, agreeing to his terms with a shriek, a hot black substance being poured in a pattern on my back and belly.

         He licked my maidenhood blood from his lips, those eyes turning bottomless and sinister.

         I had bruises all over my skin when I returned to our hiding place, and I have been trembling ever since like a glacial entity is permanently residing in my spine. But I've managed to keep them hidden.

         Ron and Harry were jubilant all night at the arrival of an unexpected payoff that disclosed what the Death Eaters were devising for the foreseeable days. It was brought by a bird whose feathers moved the night and drowned its stars when it came down. A massive raven, while t he ink on the scroll was so black, I could feel the eyes boring into me from the cursive font.

         Suddenly, I’m obliging on my hands and knees, slinking towards him with a fire in my eyes. This is not the same boy I went to school with. I am terrified of him. But he will perceive my vehemence every second I have to play his twisted games, even if he punishes me for it.

        My eyes break open, and what awaits me is not my bed. It’s not my home, and it feels like a hundred things are piercing into my back while the wintry chill bites my nerves. There are rocks beneath me, and my hand is numbly grasping onto something. I look above me, where the tree canopy breaks to receive the stars. There are a thousand bodies twinkling down at me. It reminds me of the hill where our portkey is, littered with daisies and the bright suns of dandelion faces.

         I need to reach the portkey! Ping!

         I’m convinced I have died and that in my purgatory, the stalker is still taunting me, and I wonder what terrible things I did in my life to merit this torment. I’m teetering on the edge of blackness as I try to sit up, holding onto the longstanding frame that has both supported and tortured me. In the morning, I may even ask Arthur to burn it. If I'm alive, that is. I'm sobbing with the limbs that protest my movements. I should stop. I may as well sit here and await my retribution. And yet, a part of me recalls something lovely enough to make me muster a semblance of fortitude, though I could not tell you what it is.

         I lift the throbbing hand towards my face, squealing at the brightness that burns my eyes.

         Unknown Number:

         Be wary of the big birdie.

         The times of the texts are spread apart. The next one is minutes later.

         Unknown Number:

         I warned you, didn’t I?

         My shredded skin weeps at the most recent one.

         Unknown Number:

          Now, I’m going to eat you alive.

        The trees groan as if a menacing force is provoking the forest. All at once, a warm feeling travels from my feet to my navel, continuing towards my chest and shoulders. It’s like the first breath of spring air when it seeps down to my fingertips, caressing each one before journeying to kiss my cheek and scalp, warm as the sun. Has some magical hearth engulfed me in its flames? The bottomless pain is subsiding, and I am being lifted—

        ‘NO!’ I bellow. My body is being compelled by some invisible force, dislodging the tiny rocks imprinted on my back. I am being turned towards the fence before I can anticipate the ground at my feet. My arms are spreading out like I’m preparing for a sacrifice. Drawn towards the wood, they clasp onto the barrier, obliged to hold it. Nothing is binding me to the wood—no shackles or chains—yet I am restrained by it.

        Captured.

        Arrested.

        I’m leaning forward, my back arching, and I’m jutting my ass towards the path I had come from. The darkness is closing in, like it did on the porch just before I ran. Something snarls behind me. It echoes through the trees. It’s a growl.

        ‘Mm,’ he says. His voice is all around me. ‘What an enticing invitation.’

         Following his words, something caresses my hips. No, not something. His fingers. They graze around the curve of my cheeks, drawing circles on the rim of the sizeable tear that exposes my bare ass to him. It feels like he’s goading me with his touch, sending tremors through my body as they tease the area, creeping up and down the cleft.

         ‘I love that you put these on for me,’ he croons.

         My jaw clenches as he pushes the finger between the folds.

         ‘Watching you on the stand with your purple glasses was torture.’ He is so close, and yet, I can’t feel him. There is only darkness. ‘How the pen is mightier than the sword…’ His chuckle is wholly derisive.

         The psycho was at my book signing! ‘Go fuck yourself,’ I snarl, clenching my thighs to prevent him.

         ‘Shall we put it to the test?’ His fingers graze my puckered hole, and I have to bite my lip to prevent a squeal. ‘I could turn my fingers into both and see which makes you cry the shrillest.’

          I’m shuddering as my muscles fight to overpower his enchantment. ‘You heinous monster—’ My lips fasten.

         He tsks. ‘I didn’t heal you so you could contest me.’ I can only grumble the rest of my words, and I sense a smile when he says, ‘Try again.’

         My lips unfasten, and I continue the onslaught ‘Nefarious and ghastly—' Until my lips abruptly clasp as the tips of his fingers venture to the warmth between my legs. I grouse with a whimper. Then, all at once, I can feel his body as it overpowers me like he just divulged himself. He is so thawing, and yet, his proximity is wintry. My muscles judder to escape him while my thighs betray me.

         He finds my pussy's folds easily, breathing into my ear. ‘Despite your resolve to overcome me…’ he slides a fingertip on the slick entrance. ‘I can feel how you are partial to the sword breaking you open.’

         I growl in objection.

        ‘Here’s what’s going to happen.’ His finger slides on my deceptive inclination, covering me in my wetness. When I think he’s pulling away, the damp fingers travel back to my cleft, grazing the evidence against the hole. I whine pitifully. My feet are shaking. If his power didn’t support me, I would collapse.

        ‘I’m going to feast on my little bird until she claws through the barrier...’ I glance down at my fingers, noticing for the first time that they have been scraping the wood. But he doesn’t finish his avowal. The silence is deafening as the shadows ripple, grazing my quivering chin like they are an extension of him, mocking and luring my submission.

        ‘Mm. Look at that. Your husband is here,’ he says with a chortle, pressing the tip of his finger into my ass. Ron?! I try to glimpse through the darkness beyond.

        ‘Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t drag him at our feet so he can watch his wife break before I slaughter him,’ he murmurs in my ear, moving his finger in and out. 

         I wail into the magical fastening.

         ‘One reason,’ he warns.

         My lips unfasten. ‘He will fucking kill you—’ 

         Abruptly, I’m being crudely turned to face him, the finger leaving my hole, and holy shit. His eyes are terrifying. There is something monstrous about how they glow through an absence of light, silver as the white lights above. Their colouring is shocking with the lethal glower he’s giving me. They are tomblike but gods. He’s beautiful. It’s like he’s absorbing the starlight, swallowing it in a boundless and malevolent abyss.

        ‘One reason,’ he repeats. ‘He’s coming down the path now.’

         Without thinking, I spit into his face, watching the saliva tracing his fleshly lips. Fuck.

         His delight is perverse as he beams with a ravenous intent. The snake sentries me as his corded hand reaches for the spit, swiping it with its head on the tip of his thumb and straight into his mouth, watching me with a severe glower as he groans. This close, I see the patterning on his mask. It’s alive. Images are moving around it: talons, people, carnage, beasts, massacre, and I shudder when I hear a distant screech. He looks over my shoulder, the cruel grin intensifying as if he’s spotted something wildly mirthful. ‘He’s almost here…’

         Before I can think of my actions, my feet oblige me to reach him on my tiptoes. Sinking into his scent of smoke, I feel like I’m being smouldered alive. I don’t let my hands touch him, even if the magical bindings would let me. 'We will.' I can hear them echo in my thoughts. I merely break the small space between us and crush my lips into his, indulging him with minimum effort. Tears want to unleash with what I am doing as he reaches for my neck, overwhelming my lips with the force of his lecherous carnality.

         I refrain from giving it to him, pressing my lips tight.

         ‘Open wide,’ His voice booms in my head. My mouth parts on cue, receiving the onslaught of his tongue that brushes feverishly into mine. Against my will, a whimper escapes at the feel and taste of him: how he moves with such languid deliberateness. He’s overwhelming me with his racy taste. I feel his devastating strength detaining me into the barrier, his cloak stroking the holes where my skin is bared. It ignites a fire somewhere in my bones, and I’m trying desperately to quench it. There is no world in which I will warm to this demon because he knows how to kiss.

          It’s too intense. I want to scream at my body. The sound of our wet lips is too erotic for what we are doing. What an abysmal, loathsome thing to do when my husband is in the same forest, and I’m pandering to this lunatic with something that should only belong to him.

         He has ruined kissing for me.

         There are distant footsteps emerging. Panicked, I try to push him at his chest, but he will not yield. He’s grinning into my mouth, savouring me, making me weak, and I’m rattling with foreboding. Ron will fucking catch us!

         I force him harder. The footsteps are maturing—he’s so close! I bite his lip with unkept force, feeling the cold blood coating my own. But he doesn’t pull back. He spreads the evidence all over my lips, painting us both in the assault. Then, he apparates with a glacial breeze, leaving my body wobbling in his absence.  

         ‘Mione? Is that you?’

          I look over my shoulder, seeing Ron emerging hesitantly from the bend, a bag over his shoulder and his wand clutched daringly in his hand.

Chapter Text

       The crackling of a cigarette echoes through the opaque pines.

       ‘So let me get this straight…’ Ron begins, staring down at my tights with a frown. I’m in his arms, pressed closely to his chest, being carried back home. ‘You heard a scream from the forest and thought you’d run towards it without your coat and shoes on?’

       It’s a weak attempt at a lie, I will admit. ‘There was a ruckus coming from the stables too, and I panicked,’ I input, subtly piercing daggers into the trees with my gaze, pointing the wand tip towards any disturbance. He’s here. He’s always here. Yet no one but me can hear the dreaded cigarette.

       Holding Ron’s wand to illuminate the endless way home is the fiercest I’ve felt in days. The thick willow wood imprints strangely in the palm of my hand, and I miss the slim vinewood that has kept me alive since my first term at Hogwarts. The reassurance of a weapon is the most I’ve had in days since I plunged to my knees before him. 

       But the kiss we just shared…it was diabolical. When Ron wasn’t looking, I spat into the barrier I was chained to, releasing the taste of him. Behind me, Ron plucked out a flask from his bag to offer me, distracted and concerned about my state. My husband is so good to me. He’s so pure. Meanwhile, the sharp taste of that demon is still clawing at my throat: his coppery blood and smoke, with an underlying sweetness.

       ‘Honestly, Hermione,’ Ron lets out a long breath, considering my face, which is still flushed from the terrors of my night. I can’t see my hair, but I’m sure it’s equally a sight for sore eyes.

       The magnitude of that demon’s powers is bloodcurdling. In all my books, I have never known a wizard to be like him. Apparating on one instance can drain you, yet he seems to do it even under an invisibility charm, moving anywhere and everywhere, susceptible to my thoughts like he’s a god, making the night and long shadows of the day do his bidding. He controls the floo network, my phone…God, I dread to think of what else.

       Suddenly, an animal scurries in the underbrush, startling me.

       ‘I missed you,’ Ron says at last, his tousled red hair hanging like strands of saffron over his blue eyes.

       A feeling that is both rotten and nauseous stirs in my stomach. But I don't allow it to hinder me as I reach my cold hands towards my husband’s freckled cheeks, bringing our faces together as I press a chaste kiss to his lips. The contrast is glaring. It must be his heinous influence that makes me believe the shadows are cackling at my twisted heart as I force my eyes closed for just a second, basking in the innocence that has been my life for nearly five years. I love this. I have always loved this. Ron has faithfully grounded me since the beginning, and I would rather die than be under the influence of a Veritaserum, forced to admit all of my crimes.

        Releasing my husband, I whisper through a lump, ‘I missed you so much.’

        This is the truth, and It’s an easy one. I will continue to live in blissful ignorance with him rather than disclose the extent of the ghouls and night prowlers who hound me. I will always choose to continue our idyllic existence because to see Ron’s face churning with disgust at his ghastly wife would only confirm that I am as corrupted and ruined as the black snake tattoo engulfed in my eager lips would suggest.

        One whole day. I’ve lived an entire day without the shoe dropping at any given second, snuggled up into Ron like he was my lifeline, even when I fell asleep during a movie yesterday, clutching his chest through the nightfall of my dreams, and all night he embraced me, even when the shadows wouldn’t let me sleep, and I kept fidgeting.

        It’s a new day, and I still haven’t received a provoking message. He’s slacking, and I can only hope it's because he’s fallen off a mountain somewhere stalking in the highlands. ‘If Ollivander’s isn’t open…’ I start, tying my laces on the cream footstool, trying to keep the desperation from my tone.

        Ron is lounging on the sofa in his grey dressing gown, a cup of tea and remote in hand. A true crime series is paused on the TV screen.

        ‘Where did the clothes come from?’ He says, and I look up to see him sipping the drink with wrinkled brows. I’m wearing a lace-trimmed mossy-coloured top with a short denim black skirt and a pair of lace-patterned fishnets (thicker and less provocative than the previous one). I couldn’t tell you why I’ve been exploring the undisturbed side of my wardrobe: the pieces I buy but am too scared to wear. I almost put on a pair of snake-patterned tights—but determined that It may come across as inciting him for a reaction, and the thought makes me queasy.

        ‘I’ve always had them,’ I say with a chirpy tone. My mouth opens to defend myself further, and it shuts again quickly. I don’t have to explain myself. I’m just being me. Right?

         I may be becoming a wayward Gryffindor at this stage of my life.

         ‘Fancy going to the shop when you get back? I’ve got a parcel at the sorting office,’ he says in a ductile tone that usually works to make me run errands for him. Ron never gets his parcels or goes to the shop. After his dad’s enchanted car, he swears they will all start flying as he squirms beside me when I drive to town.

         ‘Fine,’ I retort. ‘But you’re making dinner over the weekend.’

         We have a brief goodbye kiss before I step into our fireplace, plucking the floo powder. With a small smile at Ron, I exclaim, ‘Diagon Alley!’ The emerald flames crackle beneath my black boots.

        When the bell rings above me as I tread into Ollivanders, I gulp down my giddiness and saunter straight for the counter, drinking a take-away butterbeer while feigning an air of wonderment at the refurbishment. It’s not much changed, and the details are more personalised: the lampshades are green, the counter is a light oak, and the few paintings around feature countryside scenes.

        ‘The place looks wonderful, Dedalus! It’s good to see you doing well,’ I say to the short, slim figure behind the counter whose impeccable appearance makes him look like a scholar. He gazes beneath thick brown lashes and through generous circular lenses, golden and much loftier than Harry’s.

        ‘Ms. Granger,’ he nods curtly. ‘How can I help?’

         Dedalus isn’t one for conversation. I retain my cheerful smile as I place my half-empty cup on the fresh counter, noticing him frown at the sight as if it may spill without needing a prompt. ‘I’ve lost my wand,’ I begin, unsure what more to say. ‘Can I get another ten and three-quarters vinewood with a dragon heartstring core, please.’

         He stares at me, a wand he’s polishing paused in his hand, and places it silently on the counter before saying anything. ‘You are aware that the wand chooses you?’

         I meet his eyes, slightly bewildered at his sombre tone. ‘Of course?’

         He continues staring. ‘Very well.’ Without another word, I watch his back vanish into the inventory that is no longer stacked to the ceiling but labelled with immaculate precision, and from what I can see, he has extended the stock into the next room. Sipping my drink, I wait tensely for him, which takes several minutes, and I almost expect him to return and announce that no wand wants me.

        ‘Here we are,’ he paces back to the counter so quickly the wind whistles behind at his urgency.

         He starts unwrapping the dark brown box, lifting the blackened wood out and making me squeak at the sight of it. ‘Eleven inches of Ebony with a Thestral tail hair core.’

         I’m just gawking as he extends it towards me. ‘Don’t you…’ he begins, startling me from my shock. ‘Want to look at it?’

         My hands tremble. ‘What the in the world is that?’ I say, reaching for it like it’s infected.

         The wood is coal black throughout, unphased by the sunlight streaming through the glass that should settle on its wooden body, setting it alight. It deflects it—remaining solid, only shimmering slightly where a speckling of faint reflective particles begins from the tip down, vanishing into the thorny design part scales and prickly branches: barbs and serpent’s body. That's all it is.

         ‘The shimmer, I believe, is produced from an Augurey stomach, which retains the magic of its prey like fairies. Perhaps its ink was used to darken the wood, a method that is no longer in practice,’ he narrates over my tumult. ‘It’s a peculiar wand, hiding for hundreds of years in the furthermost part of our collection. Its origin remains cryptic. Though, in my opinion, its enigma should be thoroughly explored as you work with it.’

         Outside, a crow shrieks noisily. ‘I don’t want it.’ I declare with a high-pitch similar to that of a spoiled child. ‘Can I just have something similar to what I had?’

         Again, he stares at me with a dismal intensity. ‘The wand has chosen you, Ms Granger.’

         Gaping at it, something is oddly foreboding about it. It looks like the wand of a dark wizard. One that would be carried by my stalker or one of the death eaters. ‘There must be a mistake—’ I start just as the door opens and the bell dings. Dedalus packages it in an emerald velvet drawstring, placing it in the paper bag with the shop’s logo. His patience has evaporated, and I am forced to open my purse with a terse smile.

         Outside, I dread even looking at the depths of the bag. It amounted to about ten times more than the average wand, and if it weren’t for my recent royalties, I would have been willing to walk out without it, keeping me defenceless. But It’s not worth the risk. Because of the absence of my wand, I’ve had a finger forced in a hole where previously nothing had entered, with my husband strolling the same path towards us. Just thinking about it makes me want to pull the wand out from its pretty casing.

         What is Ron going to think when he sees it?

         Taking a deep breath, I plunge my hand into the bag and awkwardly strip the packaging away. Despite its hefty cost, I don’t mind being rough with it. Unlike when I held it in the shop, I pulled it out into the street, and it felt…perfect. It fits into my hand like it was designed around each mound of skin. The thorns are forgiving when I squeeze. They have a reassuring jaggedness as if reminding me that I am powerful when I have felt so powerless for so long. It feels steadying, silken and mellow for such a dark thing.

         I twirl it around—admiring the masterful handiwork. It’s a masterpiece—a twisted, raven and baleful thing.

         From its place on the passenger seat, I keep staring at the wand as if it may suddenly grow fangs and lunge at me, even if its presence fills me with warmth. It suits the darkness: the growing dusk. The tiny dots shimmer like stars. It’s like a mistress of nightfall and the last stars before dawn. I release a long sigh at the strange turn of events. I haven’t even shown it to Ron yet as I have about fifteen minutes to reach the sorting office, and I left home in a flurry.

         The stunning landscape passes rapidly in shades of gold and bright emerald leaves from the first trees emerging with spring. The window is agape enough to listen to the howling wind grazing the tip of my ear with its icy touch. It’s mollifying, and with so few cars filling the bareness, it reminds me that I’m not solitary in this primordial setting.

         When I park outside, it's quiet. With so few cars, I can get in and out and speed to the supermarket before it shuts. Once inside, the slow-moving queue does little to reassure me.

         I’m juggling Ron’s parcels as I pry the door open with my foot. I’m the last out, and the door is callous as it tries to shut me back in because it’s so stiff. With a grunt, I shoulder into it and step outside into the punitive wind that has turned into a light rain. I’m carrying three large parcels, all of them ridiculously weighty.

         I thought he said one parcel! I'm trying to navigate for the steps when the wind suddenly rips the customs sheet from between two parcels. Glancing over the box, I see it tumbling beneath a car. ‘Really!’ I exclaim aloud. I put the parcels in the boot, shutting the door harshly with my frustration. Walking to the other side of the parking lot, I kneel beside the car, peeking my head underneath it.

        ‘Are you looking for this?’

         I swing my head to the opposite side so fast I feel it pull the muscle at my neck. It takes me a second to focus on the shadows beneath the overhang, where a man in a black t-shirt and matching cargo pants walks towards me with the visor open on his charcoal grey helmet. He extends the paper as he reaches me, the gravel crunching beneath his bulky boots.

         ‘That’s it! Thank you so much,’ I say, lifting from my knees to my feet, meeting the stranger head-on. ‘I was just about to give up—’ His eyes…

          There is something unnervingly familiar about them. Yet, as I take the damp sheet from his gloved hand, I realise it must be my paranoia. They look warm, not dark or silver. I assume that beneath light—which is currently absent—they would be brown or even hazel.

          I can sense his smile through the helmet. ‘If you don’t pay them soon enough, they amount interest,’ he says in a husky voice. Not his voice, thankfully. I almost sigh with relief. ‘They can be nasty surprises.’

          ‘Oh, I know,’ I say with an exaggerated eye-roll. ‘I’ve been caught out before.’

          He unbuckles his helmet at the chin, and I watch his impressive and tattooed arms as they lift the grey thing free of his head. There are no serpent tattoos or enclosing darkness. He leans forward slightly to tug it harder, and I see his messy jet-black hair unfurl atop his head in short waves, faded at the side. He’s like the men described in the guilty-pleasure books that Ginny lends to me: the ones with bad boys, motorbikes and grim attitudes. Yet, this chiselled man appears to be anything but uninviting.

          ‘Where do you come from?’ he asks, ruffling his hair. Hazel eyes. Full lips. Strong jaw. Robust figure…at least one of those things isn’t connected to my stalker.

          ‘About an hour to the left,’ I reply with a smile, clutching the paper to my chest to prevent it from getting drenched. It’s a vague reply, and I’m absolutely not about to disclose any personal details when I already have one prowler to deal with. ‘What about yourself?’

          He grins. ‘So you’re a little way off.’ His voice is definitely more British than Scottish. ‘I’m visiting my family. I grew up nearby, next town from the right.’

          I readjust my stance. I’m too anti-social for this! ‘I’m just about to head there.’ I sway on my feet a little. ‘I’m hoping to make it to the shop before it shuts,’ I finish, followed by a polite laugh.

          He raises a thick, black brow. ‘You better hurry then. They close in thirty minutes.' Then, glancing down at his silver watch where a barb tattoo spirals around his wrist, he says, ‘I may even catch you there if you’re lucky.’

          His dimpled smile is dangerous. I’m confident he doesn’t face any problems charming the local girls at the pub. ‘You probably could with that thing.’ I laugh, flicking my head towards his motorbike. ‘See you there, maybe.’

          I stroll towards the driver’s side, rounding the hood when he calls, ‘What was your name?’

          Glancing over the car, I meet his intense eyes. ‘Hermione. And yours?’ I could pat myself on the back for maintaining the conversation without any awkwardness for this long.

          ‘Virgil,’ he replies while glancing at the road beyond when the first car since the start of our conversation passes by. ‘It’s nice to meet you, Hermione.’

          ‘You too, Virgil,’ I say, opening my car door and lowering inside. ‘Thanks again!’ I put the keys in the ignition, and I swear I can still feel his presence next to the car as I ready myself quickly, turning the heat on full blast and basking in the warmth before releasing the handbrake. When I look to the side and in my rearview mirror before stepping on the clutch, he’s walking back towards his motorbike, a tall shadow in the dusky light.

Chapter Text

        My feet crunch an ugly, bone-shattering sound. Arthurs disappeared to fetch the bin, scratching his head on the way. We are on the southernmost side of the property, where freshly planted flowers and herbs occupy the raised beds.

        His bewilderment is severe, and I sense it’s upsetting him that he doesn’t have the answers. Being a local who has watched the streetlights being erected into his undisturbed world one by one, he feels obliged to have the answers in his calloused, land-imprinted hands. Instead, we stare at the ghastly pile, arms crossed, speculating into the ether. When he returns, we stare at each other, a grim air between us, until he reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out the most unexpected thing.

       ‘Cig?’ Arthur offers, bringing the bleach-white twig to his dry lips.

       I glance up at Ron's office window, feeling the rebellious teenager about to commit a crime. I couldn’t tell you why I ignored the refusal on the tip of my tongue. ‘Thank you,’ I say, accepting the instrument of my stalker’s obsession. ‘I’ve never tried it before.’

        These are entirely different from the herbal equivalent in the wizarding world. I twirl the peculiar thing between my thumb and forefinger, sniffing the end that exudes chemicals.

        Arthur raises a brow, struggling in his denim jeans for the worn copper lighter that looks vintage and faded with time. ‘Nae?’

        I shake my head, following his instructions; I place the filter between my puckered lips, realising that I’m treating it like a lollipop, and I readjust it to the side, awaiting nervously for my turn of the flame.

        He extends it to me. ‘Ye’ll choke at first,’ he murmurs while puffing out a cloud of smoke that smells like toxic ashes. ‘Hold it steady.’ I suck weakly, the crackle from the tip reminding me of the other night. ‘There ye go.’

        My choke is instant and brutal. The cigarette is between two fingers as I bend over to cough. A large hand is patting my back, helping me to recover breath. ‘I’m fine,’ I rasp as if speaking through a tin of nails. I’m leaking tears when I straighten, swiping them with the sleeve of my cardigan. I glance back to Arthur, sensing a teasing smile beneath his generous brown beard.

        ‘Amusing, am I?’ I mock, taking a hesitant second drag and managing to stomach it with a suppressed cough. ‘It tastes vile.’ The smoke I blow out is weak as if I had swallowed half of it. ‘Why do you do it?’

        He chuckles. ‘Yer a wee thing yet, Ms. Granger.’

        My brows shoot up. ‘What does that mean?’ I ask before taking another drag that feels like an assault on my throat.

        His eyes sparkle. ‘Yer never liked suman bad for ye?’

        His words make me choke again, and I’m buckled over, coughing for dear life. I hope my stalker does the same on his next cigarette.

        ‘Wee people or witches,’ Arthur states when my breathing turns shallow. ‘Is what my ma would say bout the bones.’

        My eyes widen, and thankfully, he can’t see my face.

        ‘Arthur. Mione?’ Ron calls from the backdoor. I drop the death stick into the damp grass, and it doesn’t go out.

        ‘Mr. Weasley!’ Arthur hollers as I stomp it with my boot. I will make a mental note to retrieve it later and dispose of it.

        ‘Is Hermione alright?’ he yells back.

        ‘Fine!’ I squeak. ‘I just choked on a fly.’ I swallow something thick in the back of my throat. Mucus, maybe? ‘What is it, darling?’ Arthur chuckles to himself, and I throw him a playful glare.

        ‘Harry’s…’ Ron hesitates, probably because Arthur is here. ‘We are being called back to the job.’

         My heart. It just plummeted from existence. ‘Ah,’ I breathe out, realising that only Arthur can hear me. ‘Right! Well, I’ll come see you off then.’ Should I fall to my knees and beg? To reveal everything and fuck the consequences. I bite the inside of my mouth at the thought. My hand slips into my pocket, where I grasp the thorny handle of my new wand for reassurance. Nodding at Arthur, I begin trailing the stony path towards my husband, who is abandoning me to the prince of darkness.

        I type out the three words that make me want to hide in a cave: See you tomorrow.

        The green bubble turns white, and I click away from Mr Malefic and our agreement through a marketplace for selling horses. I’ve recently listed one of our Clydesdale who has been carefully trained and looked after by Arthur and his equestrian partner. The fellow with a laughable username will be stopping by tomorrow, and I’m eager to have the deal finalised after a week’s back and forth.

         I watch the knolls behind the stables at my desk chair for too long. After seeing Ron off from the start of the portkey trail, I could taste my fear like a living, breathing thing. He asked several times if I was ok when my lip would involuntarily tremble or if I stared absentmindedly over his shoulder when he spoke. I cried in secret while he got dressed and readied his bag. I’m still crying now, a warm tear trickling down my cheek, and I wipe it with the soft cotton fabric of my grey cardigan.

         My phone has been eerily silent for days, and I'm hopeful. Maybe he's found someone else to scare?

         Watching Arthur loading up his van, I switch off the monitor and abruptly go around the house, turning everything off and locking the doors and windows before I leave. The keys are on the kitchen counter, and I snatch them rapidly in case they resolve to fly off again. Securing the front door behind me, I wave to Arthur as he climbs into the driver’s side of his van and turns the engine on.

        Ping! I don’t stop. My spine is growing colder and colder the nearer I get my pickup truck. What If I come back and he’s eaten all the horses? I’m not sure if it’s a reasonable thought to entertain. The wizard is unpredictable and disturbing; I shouldn’t put it past him to assume such a frightful task.

        After a few minutes, I check the phone.

        Unknown Number:

        One by one, they go.

        Ping! I unlock the truck and practically dive into it, securing the doors. Arthur is still parked ahead, and I sigh at the realisation.

        Unknown Number:

        Hurry up. I can’t wait to see what that wand can do ;)

        A few days ago, I would have replied. It would have been an angry onslaught. If he wants retaliation—he can step out of the shadows and straight into my waiting hand. I throw the phone into the passenger seat, pulling the hand break while keeping the wand securely at hand regardless of what Arthur sees. Let him think that I collect strangely shaped sticks!

       The mundanity of the supermarket is striking. It’s as if I’ve been in limbo, clutching onto the normality of Ron, living in terror before he returned. Thankfully, the sign from yesterday about closing early because of supply issues was absent from the double doors. The simple pleasure of food shopping is amplified, and I don’t refrain from filling the trolley with fruits and vegetables, but also luxurious-looking yoghurts and a cake mix for a carrot cake.

       Looking for a quick dinner idea, I can feel the chill from the frozen isles tickling the inside of my thighs—beneath my black embroidery dress and crimson fishnets with a velvet floral pattern. I’ve worn my hair down for a few days after the first wash of the week with Ron around. If I attempt to do it up, he will keep tugging the band off, telling me that it’s perfect this way. It reminds him of falling in love with me at Hogwarts.

        But he isn’t here now. 

        I reach for the crinkled hairband on my wrist, and through the obscure reflection of the freezer doors, I pull my hair into a high and messy bun, leaving two strands of curls on either side of my face. I can’t tell if my stalker is following me anymore. His darkness is all-consuming, regardless if it whispers down my neck. I reason that it could also be my paranoia. I’ve become embarrassingly skittish, and any man wearing dark clothes in my peripheral summons a tremor from me.

        I look down at the tips of my fingers, growing cold. It's pizza. My hands are dormant on the sliding doors.

        ‘Please tell me you aren’t a pineapple girl.’

        I startle on the spot, quickly summoning a friendly chortle. I turn to the voice. ‘Although there’s nothing wrong with pineapple—'

        Hazel eyes. ‘Virgil!’ I try to recover quickly, plastering on an expression of pleasant surprise at the strapping muggle before me. He’s wearing a dark brown t-shirt that strains against his physique, and I have to raise my eyes back to his face before falling distracted by the many pieces of art framing his arms.

       ‘Hermione?’ he teases with a smirk as if it’s funny that I threw his name at him like an accusation. ‘If you are trying to decide on a good brand...’ He points his finger at the glass. I follow the tip of his finger, seeing a stack of boxes with an Italian flag on them.

       ‘Will you personally refund me if I don’t enjoy it?’ I tease with a raised brow, sliding the door open to retrieve the box. But before I can get my hand on the top one, his tatted hand grabs it first.

       ‘I’ll get it for you.’

        I look at him in surprise. ‘Of course you aren’t! I’m only teasing. I won’t hold it against you if I don’t like it.’ I reach for another one, but he stops my hand—maintaining a hold on it by the wrist.

        ‘Uh-uh. That one’s for me.’ He releases my wrist.

         ‘Virgil, seriously. You don’t have to get it for me.’ My tone is firm, and I extend my hand to the box he’s holding.

         ‘I’d like to,’ he reaches into the freezer again. ‘How many do you need?’

         Straightening my shoulders, I cross my arms against the synthetic chill. ‘My husband is away for work. It’s just for me. But seriously—’ I reach for the box again, and he jerks a shoulder back.

         ‘Let. Me,’ he utters in a way that has me know he won’t budge.

         Virgil appears utterly unphased by the comment about my husband. If anything, the glee on his features is burning brighter. Lucky for him, he is abnormally striking. Without the darkness, there is an uncomfortable beauty about him: the kind that stops girls mid-word. Perhaps he knows the charm works so well that there is no threat of a husband where most women are concerned.

         Glancing down at his basket, I see a brown bag poking out. ‘I’ll get you this, then.’ My reflexes are no match for his frustrating determination. I pull my hand back, tucking back into the warmth of my cardigan. ‘Fine,’ I lift my chin. ‘But the next time I see you—I’ll be taking that lovely motorbike for compensation.’

         His head swings back in a laugh, showing me the entirety of his neck, where a black-inked bird is mid-flit on the left corner, towards his collarbone. He looks wolfish when he retains the smile while meeting my eyes. ‘Would you like a ride to see if you can handle it?’

         I tense. Or blush. Or probably both. ‘I don’t…’ I think for the appropriate expression. ‘…do riding through the highlands with a stranger. Thank you for the offer, though.’

         He puts the pizza boxes into his basket. ‘Good girl.' His gaze flicks up and down the length of me. ‘I’ll wait for you outside then.’ He winks before walking past and towards the empty tills.

        When I hear the grumble of a bike starting up, I’m bagging up my shopping, the friendly lady on the checkout talking a life story into my ear, and I resolve to leave him with the pizza and get into my car with a friendly wave. He’s only in town for his family, anyway. I may never see him again. I won’t be coming back into town anytime soon for more shopping.

        When I push the trolley through the doors, my heart drops. He’s leaning against my truck, pizza at hand, biceps winking at me, and his black motorbike vibrating next to him. I press the button to unlock the boot and lower my eyes, displaying a saccharine smirk as I approach.

        ‘So here’s the thing, pretty boy.’ I keep my tone cool and sharp. ‘I appreciate the pizza despite my grievance. But I will not be charmed to do anything else. I’m married.’

        He cocks his head a little to the side. ‘Is that right?’ he says, unruffled and grinning through it all. ‘I’m moving back into town, so it would be nice to know some new people. That’s all it is.’

        Oh. ‘Right.’ As I round his motorbike to reach my boot, I pretend to notice something slipping out of a bag. ‘That’s nice to hear. It really is lovely here. You’ll love it.’ I smile brighter, and he raises a brow. Pat yourself, Hermione. You’ve recovered so well!

        I’m unloading the shopping silently, waiting for him to approach with the pizza, but he doesn’t. When I retrieve the last bag from the trolley, I turn back and almost jump out of my skin.

        ‘Here you go.’ He extends the box towards me, eyes boring through the open visor. ‘Enjoy.’

         He walks to his motorbike without another word.

        ‘Have a good evening!’ I have to raise my voice over the engine as he straddles the huge thing I would almost certainly never get on. My tone is sweet and polite as I salvage my good manners from the awkwardness of my accusation.

         He glances over his shoulder. ‘You too, pretty girl,’ he mimics my earlier words, slipping the visor over his eyes before leaning forward and twisting the handle. I watch him until he turns out of the car park, fading into the fog down the road, leaving me disorientated and berating myself for my unwarranted distrust of a friendly, muggle man.

        Any other day, I would swing my head back to watch the stars glimmer to life, one by one, the rosy sky and fluffy orange clouds making my heart warm. It’s dusk when I get back from the shop, and the porchlight is on. My eyes are lowered in a perpetual glare as I carry each bag from the boot to the bottom of the steps, taking two in one hand. I point my wand into the shadows with the other. 

        Peace is a luxury that was robbed of me. The reality makes my muscles jittery to throw a spell at something: him. I want to open my mouth and bellow at him: come out and play big bad wolf! Instead, I keep my lips pressed firmly together as I gather the bags and repeat the process in the kitchen. At least the front door is still locked. Jingling the other set of keys, I stare at the corner where he stood a few nights ago, seeing it unfilled. The wind blows through the teeth of the railing, blowing loose leaves and debris towards me. Unlocking the door, I step into the darkness and murmur for light.

        Only the enchanted lamp on a table at the end of the foyer turns on. When I pass it, I fist a switch on the wall, still clutching tightly to my wand.

        On the second trip outside, the shadows have grown deeper. Nightfall is a breadth away. I’ve convinced myself that my life is still ordinary; this is just another late trip into town, and I’ll get cosy on the sofa with dinner on my lap after a shower. God. I miss those days.

        Scurrying about in the kitchen, I’m still aware that I have one more trip to the porch, but I don’t rush it. I turn the kettle on and unpack one bag before something falls from it and rolls towards the entryway. I glance at my wand, pointing it at the tin of green beans. ‘Accio!’ It flies straight into the open cupboard, sitting neatly on the shelf.

        Picking up the last two bags, I’m still in awe that it’s just me outside with the distant hooting of owls and the sudden throaty shriek of a muntjac. I breathe in the air deeply before locking the car, watching its lights illuminate the perimeter, and I’m halfway to the kitchen when I realise I forgot to shut the front door behind me.

        I lean the bags against the dining room table and skip to the door, finding it strange that the porchlight has gone off. Sparing a cursory glance outside, I don't see anything unusual. Returning to the kitchen, I pour myself a chamomile and mint tea, leaving it on the side for when I get out of the shower.

        I’m quiet the entire venture upwards, half expecting the lunatic to be waiting for me with his dick in hand at the top of the stairs. Thankfully, all the doors are unlocked and open. When I enter my bedroom, the old boards creaking in the comfortable silence, I change my shoes for the feral slippers and grab the long-sleeve Gryffindor top that belongs to Ron. My eyes are hot, and it’s only in the shower that I let the tears run. Pressing my forehead into the blue-patterned tiles, I bask in the hot water caressing my ailing soul.

        I need physical touch. I want my husband’s reassurance. But Ron is never fucking here! I haven’t minded it until recently. My dream was always to be alone: isolated, left to my work and studies. To live in a place where my demons couldn’t find me.

        A gust of wind hits the bathroom door. I pull the curtain back, relieved to see my wand still by the sink. ‘Can I wash in fucking peace!’ My yell echoes in the small, tiled space, and it's returned by silence. Even the phone is behaving. Recalling our kiss makes me turn off the shower with an angry fist to the large button. I step into the bathmat and dry myself with a force that may be a self-inflicted punishment or a burning desire to inflict suffering on my stalker. Either way, when I’m dressed in the baggy top and slippers, I open the door with my wand pointed.

        I’m certainly not surprised to see the entire place is dark. How original. I roll my eyes. When I take a step into the landing, my foot squashes something. It’s a black bundle of fabric. Picking it up with two fingers in case it’s a Horcrux, I unravel it to the light from the bathroom, seeing the serpentine patterning of my tights. Ping!

       Unknown Number:

       Come and show the big bad wolf what you sound like when you come.

        An enraging warmth fills my belly as my fingers type frantically, even while holding the wand and tights in both hands.

        Me:

        You’re DEAD!! I HAVE A WAND!!

        Ping! There were no dots. His reply was as instant as if he was right next to me, speaking the words into my ear.

        Unknown Number:

        Mmm. My good girls turning bad ;)

        My hand tightens on the device that has become the orchestrator of my living nightmare. Ping!

        Unknown Number:

        Put the tights on and smoke with me. 

Chapter Text

      ‘What do you see when you look at me?’

       Through the tears, I see nothing. I shake my head in response.

       His chuckle is dry and derisive. ‘What you will see is the devil that can kill every member of your pitiful order with my hands tied behind my back.’ He lifts my chin to his face, but I still can’t see anything.

       My chin involuntarily trembles. ‘She saw m-me walking here,’ I stammer through a sob. ‘To you. T-that’s all.’

        His hand encloses my neck. ‘If you put anyone in my path to prevent me from you…’ His grip is bruising, and I squeal. ‘I will fuck you in their blood. Do you understand, little bird? I will bury your pretty face in their crimson remains and make you scream my name like I am the god of the highest order.’

      Silence.

      Spine-chilling, hollow, empty, stillness.

      My hand grips the wand tighter. Where the fuck are you?’ I ask with a snappy tongue. ‘Hiding like the sick coward you are. How pathetic!’ My wand is pointed at the corner of the porch, where my stalker was smoking when he lured me outside the other day. Unlike that night, I’m wearing my boots, and I’m ready to run and fight until he is cold and lifeless at my feet.

      In the forest beyond, the distant glimmer of a warm light breaks through the trees. Maybe I’m stupid. But a giddy desperation to finally overpower him allows me to move, to follow the bait in the hopes that my life with Ron will return to normality. It has to, and I must be strong for it to happen. I don’t feel the chill as I forsake the shelter of my home that keeps the wind at bay. It presses Ron’s long-sleeve shirt snuggly against my body.

      When I step through the nettles to enter the grisly woods, I invite the irritating sting that makes me feel alive. They graze the snakes coiling the entirety of my legs.

      For once, I can pretend to be formidable: a witch who's a little terrible, imposing, and someone who is not a Gryffindor. If my phantom wizard was still alive, I’m sure he’d discover a like-minded kindship with my stalker. Hell, they’d probably be holding hands while tormenting me. Snap!

      My steps are as quiet as I can make them, but they still crunch on the forest floor.

      ‘Come out, kitty cat,’ I taunt, glancing over my shoulder, making sure the last snapping was mine. Ping!

      The bright screen makes me squint.

       Unknown Number:

       Let's play a game...

      Unknown Number:

       Truth or dare?

       Trying to catch any movement from the dense darkness, I snicker, realising he's just messing with me.

      ‘There is no way—’ Ping!

       Unknown Number:

        I’ll pick.

       Unknown Number:

        Truth…

        I nearly trip on a fallen branch when attempting to step over it.

       Unknown Number:

        Does your pussy like the sound of getting fucked on a pool of your husband’s blood?

        My thighs clench, and I stop walking from the sheer horror of his words. ‘You're disgusting,' I howl louder, ‘I would never enjoy—' Ping!

        Unknown Number:

        Little liar ;)

        Unknown Number:

        Truth or dare?

         My wand glides in the sweat of my clenched hand. ‘Neither!’ I roar, my voice penetrating the eerie hush. Ping!

        Unknown Number:

        Dare.

        Unknown Number:

        Keep walking towards the light.

        Looking up, I see I’m almost nearing it. Ping!

        Unknown Number:

        Truth.

        My laugh is half-crazed. ‘That’s not how the game works!’ Ping!

        Unknown Number:

        It’s how my games work.

        Unknown Number:

        Truth. Does your spine shiver when I promise to devour both your holes while your husband watches with a blade buried in his skull?

         My back prickles, and I shudder. I’m ready to throw every unforgivable curse at him when—Ping!

        Unknown Number:

        That’s my good girl ;)

        The utter repugnance of him! I bite a gag at the possibility of the words, nearly tripping again at my flustered distractedness. Thank goodness that Ron is far away. As the light draws nearer, I see a fire burning in the centre of a small clearing, crackling and threatening the dry spruces. I realise it's empty when I bend beneath an oak to enter it. There are two logs on either side of the fire: smooth fallen trees that frame the makeshift campfire or the opening that reveals a cloudless and breathtaking sky. I certainly haven't put them here. Last I recalled this clearing was barren. 

       ‘Truth,’ I abruptly declare. ‘I played into yours. Now answer mine.’ Ping!

       Unknown Number:

        Ask.

        Clearing my throat, I do a full circle on myself with every step towards the fire. ‘Who are you?’

        The fire hisses. Ping!

        Unknown Number:

        Revenant.

        Unknown Number:

        Anything else before it’s your turn?

        I’m too distracted by his answer to respond right away. Revenant? Is that a name? ‘What do you look like without your hood and mask?’ I ask, letting my curiosity get the better of my other, more burning questions. Ping!

       Unknown Number:

        Do you want to see?

        Behind me, something cracks, and the fire sizzles, spitting tiny sparks towards me. I jump, landing awkwardly on one ankle and almost twisting it. ‘Y-yes,’ I blurt out.

        The wind gathers, making me feel cold for the first time since stepping into this terrible game we are playing. I plant my feet and notice that the fire is not affected. Even when it becomes so ardent, I must shield my eyes from the dirt and leaves that are blinding me from the sudden gust. The trees groan, and the pine needles and cones disperse around me.

       ‘Arghhhh!’ A great gust of wind knocks my chest, forcing me back. Fuck! I lost my wand! With the gale blowing me back down, I get on my side and search for the dark wood. Why did it have to be black? Another crunch sounds, and I cry out as a boot settles on the back of my hand, pressing the limb into the earth, compressing my bones with a crunch.

       The gust breaks at his entrance. 

       'You want to see what I look like?’ the deep, velvety voice taunts above me.

       My vision is impeded by the black dots crowding my vision. He releases my hand, and I roll to my back, not caring that I can’t see him. The pain is excruciating, racking my arm and shoulder and rendering me speechless. I’m gasping for breath.

       ‘Shhhh,’ he croons. ‘I’m here.’

        With his words, I feel that familiar warmth growing from my fingertips, wrist, forearm, and finally, my shoulder. It’s so pacifying that I start crying and shaking with relief. Regardless of his healing touch, I still don’t see him. Though with my sanity and voice returning, I can scoff at his shocking contradiction. ‘You fucking psychopath!’ I yell, getting to my elbows. ‘You hurt me! I don't fucking want or need you here!’

        A singular gust clouts me back down, and I stare skyward, winded, petrified, watching the stars blink at me. There are thousands, and a big, black cloud is about to obstruct them—

       ‘Do you like what you see?' Two inhuman eyes stare back at me. 'Because you'll be worshipping the sight of me for the remainder of your days.’

        With his words, my eyes finally find him. They slowly adjust to the darkness, to him…and my breath is stolen.

        His hair is black. As dark as the unpolluted sky above him. He’s looking down at me through hooded, frightful eyes glittering like starlight beneath thick, shapely black brows drawn in a glower. Every feature on his striking face is sharp and defined, mimicking the seductive nightmare of a succubus. He’s ashen and startling, like a marble statue of a beautiful yet all-devouring kind of angel—one that’s fallen, lured and loved by the darkness. He’s not a muggle or a wizard.

       Perfect, fleshy lips part. ‘Did the big, bad wolf get your tongue, baby?’

       The breeze sways the overhanging waves on his forehead, noticing the short sides. ‘You’re terrible,’ is all I manage to rasp out.

       He smiles, his silver eyes dangerously darkening. ‘Good. I want to watch your nightmares painted with this face.’ Suddenly, he squats down beside me, and my body starts juddering as if sensing the despicable in his aura, like a predator drawing dangerously nearer. 

       I notice he’s wearing a white shirt beneath a dark leather vest unfastened to reveal his robust form. My lips part and close. I'm lost for words on how or what to feel. ‘How…’ I stumble. His darkness is choking me, I swear. ‘How…’

       He cocks his head. ‘How, how, what, Birdie?’

       A nervous, dry choke escapes me at his mockery of me. I can only watch his eyes scour my face.

       He doesn't wait for me to recover. ‘How do I render you powerless?’ He cocks his head to the side, intensifying the shadows on his face. ‘How is it possible to know, wield and command all things?’ Reaching a hand to my neck, fingers graze my rapidly moving pulse. ‘How badly will I ravage you by the end of our night…’

        I writhe through the magical binding. ‘No!’ I shriek, wanting to wipe the tear that’s about to leak. ‘No...bindings or…overpowering. Can we play fair?' My paralysing desperation urges me to try an amiable approach. Perhaps if I try to play along and he perceives my willingness, he may slip up and give me an opportunity. So few thoughts are crossing my mind that I can't consider any other way.

       Sensing his eagerness at the slight smile curving his lips, I've done the right thing.

       ‘Fair?’

        My tear leaks, and he moves his finger to capture it, bringing the salty drop to his lips. ‘Mm.’ He licks the entire tip, eyes glossing over a bottomless black for a split second. My spine shudders at the sight. 'And what does fair look like?' he asks, rendering me speechless with his penetrating, heavy-lidded gaze.

       ‘Please,’ I cry, hating how weak and vulnerable I sound. ‘Just…let me have my wand. That's fair.’

        His gaze flicks to where I assume my wand is, somewhere close to my feet. Instead of saying anything, he stares at it. Several seconds pass, and I feel the darkness around us teasing the goosebumps rapturing on every part of my body.

       Silver eyes glow menacingly when they return to me. ‘Smoke with me, as I asked, and I’ll think about it.’ His hand reaches into his vest, and I watch the blank ink on his arms move. Like the mask, his tattoos are animated. He extends a bleach-white stick towards me. ‘Here. Take it, sweetheart.’

       I shouldn't. I really don't want to. And yet, my hand moves against my will, and I accept his invitation and shakily bring the cigarette to my lips. The end lights itself, and I inhale with a grumble, feeling my throat scald. The cough that rips out of me is dry and painful. It takes several tries before my eyes stop watering.

      Once satisfied, he gets to his feet, cigarette in mouth, and gives me his back, walking towards the bonfire. Like a doe startled in the heat of the hunt, I watch him until my entire body is suddenly released, allowing me to sit up. When I inhale again, appropriately assaulted by it at this point, I welcome the poison. There is nothing else to look at but at him. My fear and uncertainty of him force me to watch him like a hawk, noticing each tantalising detail: the strong lines of his back, a tattoo that covers the entire spinal cord of his neck, climbing to become one with his hair, solid, thick legs in dark trousers as he lounges in standing with his arms crossed, deliberating the flames, who flurry out towards him. I've never beheld anyone quite like him. 

       The amber flares are in his eyes when he looks back at me. ‘Sit.’

       I glance between him and the fallen trees, then down at my feet, where my wand is anticipating.

       ‘Bring the wand,’ he says, a finality to his tone.

       My legs are shaky when I get to my feet, and god grief, seeing our height and stature difference is filling me with ground-shuddering nausea that makes my knees want to buckle as I advance to the log farthest from him. Sitting down, I keep my wand on my lap, smoking apprehensively while considering him. He will kill me before I even land a spell on him.

       ‘Let me see you enjoy it.' He's observing me with a burning attentiveness. ‘Isn’t that why you tried it this morning? To remember what I taste like?’

        I glower in return. ‘Fuck you.’

       ‘You will,’ he retorts, stepping towards me. ‘Whether it’s tonight or…’ He stops before me, forcing me to lift my face to him. I'm still glaring with all my quivering might. The menace beams at my evident rage and grasps my chin before lowering his hold to my neck and grasping harder, which instantly has me squirming and reaching my free hand to prevent him.

       ‘Let me see it,’ he growls each word.

       The need to grab my wand brings another onslaught of tears to my eyes. But in the end, I oblige to lift the cigarette to my lips, closing my eyes at the sensation and opening them again to release the smoke towards him. ‘Happy?’

       The smile doesn’t leave his lips when he asks, ‘Truth or dare?’

        I swallow, the movement sorely restricted beneath his hold. ‘Truth.’

        ‘Dare,’ he retorts. ‘You’re too sweet for a dark game. So, I get to choose.’

        I inhale to muster courage, keeping my eyes low and broody when I grate, ‘It’s not how it works—’

        ‘—It’s how it’s going to work,’ he retorts sharply, the sound vibrating my body and the makeshift seat. ‘Let’s see.’ He pretends to think. ‘I dare you to burn this.' Fingers pluck the collar of Ron's shirt as his eyes flick towards the flames. ‘Then, you're to run into the trees and hide. And If I find you…’ The black in his eyes agitates and threatens to consume him again, but he doesn’t finish the promise.             

       ‘What if you don’t?’ I press breathlessly. My god. His hold on my throat will leave a bruise. I'm tethering on the verge of surrendering my consciousness.

        ‘I’ll let you point your wand at me,’ he says cooly as if the notion is a playful nuisance. Stepping away suddenly, he leaves me to clutch my abused neck in place of his hand. I'm crying again at the agony he left behind as he stands a few feet away, hands in his pockets, gaze falling skyward. While I'm fighting for my life, he seems to be basking in the view of the night sky like he's been taking a casual stroll through my forest.

       ‘Does that sound like a fair game?’ he asks, flicking me a jeering gaze. 

       I nod, sensing something terrible brewing in the air; my instincts prickle. What he's doing almost appears gleeful and innocent: stargazing, absorbing the light into his skin. Until the flesh ripples like he’s overcast with enchantment, and beneath it, I perceive someone covered in black veins that pulse and create shimmering currents. Horrified, I meet his eyes, but nothing remotely human is staring back at me. He's anticipating me making the first move, and I lift Ron’s shirt over my head like my survival instinct has willpower against my pride.

       Under his scrutiny, my modesty and backbone have crumpled, and when his judgements lower shamelessly to my bare chest, I realise why.

        He is darkness. Sovereign and enslaved by it. And I’m about to play a game of hide and seek with it.

Chapter Text

       My nipples are firm against the chill, but my hands don't lift. I don’t hide them from him; despite the lunacy of the monster before me, my insecurities are abandoned with the rest of my better judgments. I'm frightened. I've never been so scared. Somehow, feeling appropriately degraded is the last of my concerns.

       ‘What do you want from me?’ I cross my arms over my chest, hoping the fire will oblige to render me the same terrifying light it’s been favouring to him. ‘I’m a happily married witch. I have been for years, and your intrusion will not divert me from my husband... you are harassing and tormenting me to no end but to rape me?! Is that it?’

       My features contort into a grimace when he doesn't reply. ‘You need to leave or fly away to whatever ghastly hellhole you come from!’ His eyes skim to mine at the insult, taking any successive words I might have frustratingly thrown at him. Good god. They're burning me from the inside! 

       ‘Do I?’ he asks with a mocking edge. ‘Why don’t you make the big bad wolf go away, then?’ He lifts a brow as if enticing me to try. ‘Or will you finally tell your husband about me?’ He reaches into his vest, pulling out another cigarette while his eyes resume on my half-nude form, devouring me as if I belong to him and he has the right.

       The cigarette lights itself, and he smirks. ‘Why don’t you see what he will do?’

       ‘He will destroy you. That’s what he will do,’ I bristle with a pout.

        His features are overcast in a lethal shadow, inhaling and exhaling, watching me with a fevered grin. ‘Would that turn you on, Birdie? Dispatching him for slaughter to the big bad wolf and getting fucked in the gore with his limbs tangling in your hair?’

        My mouth opens and closes like a fish for water. I am too stunned for words. I have never heard a more deranged and dreadful thing in all my life!

        'You have three minutes to hide,' he murmurs. 'Your fair games starts...' He flicks the cigarette.

        'Now.' 

        My legs start moving towards the forest as he inhales and exhales deeply, enjoying the outcome of whatever loathsome thoughts he’s having. I don't want to give him my back, but I must run! The notion of safety, my home, and calling the police stun me momentarily. But I recover, and start sprinting the way I came, deciding to divert my route once he realises I’m heading towards the house. My limbs are shaking from the words and terror he instils.

       Pressing my hand to my chest, I feel my heart hammering. I’m running like I ran from the snatchers all those years ago alongside Ron and Harry in the Forest of Dean. It doesn't feel much different now. My focus is solely on navigating the darkness that offers me no reprimand. Keeping a hand to my chest to prevent the harsh bouncing of my breasts, I jump over branches and boulders that materialise abruptly, heading in the direction of a river that converges into a waterfall.

       It’s been three minutes—surely?  I daren't look over my shoulder to confirm as the willows that signal the nearness of water brush my back and shoulders as the forest stoops into the riverbank, grazing my exposed skin with branches that puncture on impact.

       What is he going to do to me if he catches me? Considering the possibilities, I'm sure my list would be sadistic and endless. The menace is downright unstable. He is a monster that requires being put down or shackled in Azkaban to decay as a basic kindness.

       I am sweating and seeing stars when I slide down the muddy slope, landing clumsily into the pebbled bank. I don’t think twice before dipping my booted feet into the glacial waters and dragging them across the strong current to the other side, crying out at the paralysing cold. When I realise what I've done, my hand shoots to my mouth to belatedly stifle it. My wand and phone are in one hand, virtually slipping through my shaky grasp.

       Eventually, I reach the other side, falling on my hands and knees on the soft stones. I'm panting profusely when I force my thoughts to form strategies: survival instincts or ways to overpower and outsmart him. Instead, I’m shivering and crying, grasping my wet tights to rip them off me.  

       It will only take seconds for him to find me, and I summarise that he must be toying with me. I give up on the tights and shake my boots that have accumulated a pond, staggering to the rise in the bank that will return me to the woodlands. Without a second thought, I twirl the end of my wand around my body, casting the elusive disillusionment charm I’ve only read about. The words leave me in a gravelly incantation, but surely enough, my body replicates the murky environment like a chameleon.

       I’m a shadow darting clumsily between the trees, my sodden boots the only indication that I am here. Running over somewhat more even ground, I come to a jog and unlock my phone screen, whose bright light has also, thankfully, been concealed, and tap on the call log, where Ron’s name is the first of my most recent contacts. I dial it.

       Ring! Ring! Ring! My heart is thrashing for the words I need to bellow out.

       Ring!

       Ring!

       Ring!

       Silence.

       ‘Mione?’ Ron says through a weak signal.

       My hand is to my mouth, and I silently sob and scream into it.

       ‘Are you alright? It’s late,’ he murmurs, and all I can manage Is a squeak. ‘It’s a bad signal. I can’t hear you...I’ll call you back. One second.’

        What am I doing? Talk, Hermione! ‘Ron, wait!’ I shriek. ‘You have to contact Wizarding enforcement and get them to find me in the forest around our home…’ Bypassing a rabbit hole, I wipe the tears clouding my vision, feeling on the verge of hysteria when an ugly sob leaves my lips. ‘Please, send help,’ my voice breaks.

       Silence. 'Ron?' I whine, sniffling and slowing my step to hear him better.

       Instead of a reassuring response, he chuckles darkly before saying, ‘Why don’t you wait for me by that big tree in front of you like a good girl?’

       No, not Ron. My body freezes. ‘Ron?’

       ‘Try again, baby.’ His voice is deep and clear as if he were behind me.

       ‘How—’ I cut myself off. ‘Where the fuck is Ron, YOU SINISTER FUCKING LUNATIC?!’

       The call ends as my battery dies, and I swallow, sensing the shadows enclosing me.

       My feet are hammering and spraining over the unstable forest floor. I’m running so carelessly and fast that I’m biting back pain in my left ankle, and I can taste blood. The wind is stronger here, and I know I’m drawing near a cliff. My fear of heights almost paralyses me on the spot, knowing what I must do. The rocky, jagged cliff face can be descended with the appropriate gear and a rope. Practically naked, I'm willing to take the plunge, even if it may cost me my life. I’m fucking sick of this! If it’s not my nightmares hounding me, then it is a literal nefarious entity chasing me through the night.

       I have been haunted since the war. Everyone has moved on—everyone except me. ‘Look at me.’

       With teary eyes and his cock touching the back of my throat, I open my eyes. He’s staring at me so intently, eyes downcast with pleasure but with their habitual wicked light still burning.

      ‘Your soul is as soiled as mine,’ he croons.

       I slit my eyes, and h e pushes deeper. I slide my mouth back and forth to accommodate him, summoning a groan before he says, ‘You can look at me with your burning insolence, believing you are better than this. Yet you came to me. Dressed prettily and willing to spread your legs for the wizard who will be so much worse than the Dark Lord.’

       Breaking through the trees is like stepping into the mouth of the unrelenting northern winds. It's so cold that I'm shaking while limping to where the stony climb ends. I'm staring at the endless void below when I reach it. I know that if I try to descend it, I will die. Regardless, I swallow and step towards the ledge where the ragged steps begin. Tears have dried my cheeks raw, and the glacial breeze tightens the skin.

       My foot searches and finds the first step. My legs tremble so much that I have to squat down and support myself with my hands instead, holding onto the rock face that is promising to send me to my death. Securing my wand between my teeth, I have to abandon my phone to be able to grip the jutting roots. The next step feels metres away, and I dart my foot into the darkness, still feeling nothing.

       Fuck it. I push down, holding my body weight on my hands. I find the ledge, but just the tip of it. When I'm about to plant a foot securely onto the slab of rock I know is there, the root I'm holding my entire weight onto gives with a shower of stones propelling towards my face, pushing me backwards.

       I’m screaming and falling into the darkness, my wand barely pacifying the sounds—

       Until I’m not, and the darkness catches me. I think I've died swiftly and painlessly, which is all I could ask for. Until I realise I'm suspended mid-air and that my body is being lifted back towards the slope, which is growing and growing until my flailing feet hover above it.

       I'm harshly and unceremoniously dropped onto the floor, sinking to my knees in a slump that is partial relief and terror. I wanted to die, didn’t I? I thought I did… The darkness titters.

       ‘You think death can save you from me?’ his voice is all around me. ‘Tell me, my clever little witch, what does revenant mean?’

       The night lifts my chin with warm fingers, prompting me to look at the stars. He is not there, looking down at me when I do. The wand falls from my mouth. It lands in front of my knees as I gasp at the vault of starlight that is lovely and winking at me in mockery.

       I clear the buildup in my throat, my teeth aching from biting the wood so firmly. I don't want to reply, but I don't want to be tortured, either, and I know it's what he will do. ‘A-a p-person who has ri-ri-risen from the d-d-dead,’ I stutter with a shiver that racks my spine.

       The air is thick. I can smell smoke that tells me he is here, yet I can’t see any vapours of its evidence. My hair is blown out of my face with it, a sudden warm and ashy breath; the wayward curls lifted like a curtain to reveal my frightful state. There is a silence where I feel that I'm being watched.

       His voice is low and raspy: ‘You look beautiful when soiled and corrupted. '

       I blink, and the blackness overwhelms my vision until I breathe in the poisonous fumes instead of the breeze. Velvety lips and a hot tongue fill my mouth, engulfing my senses. My soul shudders as the darkness claims me.

       An electrical fire begins in my stomach as his tongue devours me, lapping up my fears and trepidation, and all I can do is open up to him with a broken heart. Our tongues are tangling, curling, sliding, and the wet, fleshy sounds bruise the stillness. My tears mingle with our lips, joining this lecherous feast. It’s as if we have kissed a thousand times. Like his essence is imprinted in the cavern of my being, even if I want to scream at the onslaught...I couldn't. My tyrant thighs clench.

      I hope he dies choking in my fucking mouth!

      With that thought, I kiss him harder, consuming him more fervently, fighting his mouth with my loathing. Taste how much I fucking hate you!

      He grins into my mouth at the determination, letting me live out this fantasy where my tongue could kill him, and our joined air will be his last breath. I keep going until he bites my bottom lip, and I snarl, my mouth filling with blood when he pulls away.

      ‘Enough,’ he growls, and the night around us trembles. ‘Lay on your front.’

       I tense. ‘I got away from you! You fucking cheated! It's not my fault—'

       Suddenly, the side of my face is being forced into the hard, cold ground, and I shriek, feeling a weight like a knee pressing between my shoulder blades, stealing the breath from my lungs. My breasts ache from being forced so punitively, and my arms are being pulled behind my back, settling on my lower back like I'm being arrested.

       The sob that rips out of me is desperate and pained. He is silent behind me as I cry, wetting the floor and feeling it turn cold. But I don't stop until something chokes me, and I cough profusely, realising that the smoke finally has a form. It blows to the side of my unscathed face like a poisonous taunt, slitted silver eyes staring back at me.

       ‘What have you learnt so far, baby?’ he asks, letting his fingers trail the length of my spine. I want to stop him from touching me, but I can't. ‘You should know to behave by now.’ The fingers graze beneath the elastic band of my tights. ‘Perhaps you like being punished, and it’s why you can’t keep that sweet mouth compliant.’

       ‘You said you’d play fair!’ I bawl.

       My joined hands tighten by some invisible force while the elastic band of my tights is being pulled down by his fingers, slowly and deliberately, revealing my bare ass.

       ‘Did I?’ he murmurs, ripping the tights. Gradually and painlessly, my pussy and thighs are being exposed to him.

       ‘Please, stop! I don’t fucking want this. I don’t fucking want you!’ I scream, and unexpectedly, his weight leaves my back. I gasp at the relief, still not trusting that he won't try another despicable thing.

        My fears are confirmed as my legs are being parted. ‘NO!’ I yell. ‘Don’t! PLEASE STOP!’

       ‘Now this is playing fair…’ I feel his hot breath close to my pussy. ‘Lift.’ My knees oblige him, scraping on the ground to give him better access. ‘What did you learn today, my pretty little witch?’

        I snivel. ‘I d-don’t know!’

        He inhales deeply. So close to my pussy, I feel the vibrations of his groan and the heat of his exhale. My ass cheeks are being spread, and his nose grazes against the puckered hole before he presses his lips to it, darting a tongue out to taste it.

        He grunts. ‘Maybe I should fuck you here, then? Only allowing you the tip.’ He presses the tip of his tongue against it as if for emphasis, and I squeal, inwardly buckling at the sensation. He licks the length of it once and twice and says, ‘Do you think that would help you remember what you learnt?’

       ‘I learnt that you d-don’t play fe-fair,’ I chance, and he laughs as soon the breathless response leaves me.

       The sound is too pleasant for such a vile being.

       ‘Here’s what’s going to happen.’ He kisses the inside of my thigh, only a breadth away from the mound of my pussy. ‘I’ll give you ten seconds to convince me to change my mind by offering a tempting diversion. How does that sound for fair?’

       I'm racking my brain in desperation. I shouldn't be fucking entertaining this! He's proven to be unreliable and deceitful. The reality is confirmed with his following, gleeful words, ‘Seven,’ he mutters treacherously, darting his tongue out to the slick entrance of my pussy, gathering the mounting wetness and spreading it upwards to my ass, where he kisses and licks it with the same languid fervour he showed to my mouth.

       I'm wailing when I say, ‘Let me point my wand at you like you promised!’

       He circles the tip of his tongue around the hole, making me cry out before pulling away abruptly. ‘And what do I get in return? If you fail to kill me—’

       ‘—Anything!’ I swallow a sob, hating how vulnerable and exposed I feel. ‘Eat my pussy if you want. Fucking choke on it for all I care, you sick asshole!’

       His thumb thoughtfully grazes the hole, pressing it in slightly. ‘Hmn. Persuasive enough.'

       Suddenly, my tender cheek and breasts are being lifted from the ground, and he releases whatever hold he has on me as I am brought to my feet. Without a solid and reliable afterthought, I lunge forward to grab my wand, straightening once I have it firmly in my grip, and I turn around quickly, shuddering at the sight. He’s here now, still unmasked and commanding the night with his terrible beauty and a cigarette glowing against his full lips.

      ‘Get on your knees,’ I order, pointing my wand at him.

       He raises a brow before flicking the cigarette off the cliff’s edge and dropping slowly to the ground with a deranged smile.

       ‘Keep going, baby. I like where it’s going—' I break the distance in two strides and slap him in the face with all my strength. He turns to face me with a wild light glimmering in his eyes, seeming unphased by my assault.

       ‘Again,’ he croons, and I don't need to be encouraged twice. I slap him hard enough that my palm and fingers prickle and burn in the aftermath of the assault.

       ‘Good girl,’ he licks his bottom lip. ‘Keep showing the big bad wolf how fuckable you look standing in your power.’

        The words spot me momentarily, and I look at him. Really, look at him. My breaths are coming out in harsh and angry puffs as I consider him. Meeting his eyes, I see how perfect every feature of his ungodly face is. The short dark waves hanging lazily over his forehead gave him a carefree and almost boyish impression. He is the most despicable and profane creature I have ever encountered, and staring up at me, I notice no trace of fear in his eyes. They are sinful and intense, but there is something familiar in them that I can't quite place.

      ‘You have made my life a living hell.' My voice is low, grated, and cried raw. ‘Tell me what you want from me. Now!’

       The monster's eyes dance with glee. ‘You.’

       ‘You’re not having me!’ My voice bounces off the rocks.

       ‘I wasn’t asking,’ he retorts cooly.

        My hand trembles when he clutches it. I attempt to pull it free, but he is firm. He lifts my hand to his eye, making me point the tip into the tear duct. ‘Here.’ His voice is low, as if guiding me to do the right thing. ‘Kill your demons. Let your nightmares remind you that you are haunted and always will be.’

        My heart drops. ‘What did you say?’

        He lets go of my hand. ‘Become it, or be eaten alive by it. We are the same, baby. It’s why you’re mine. It’s why I will haunt you until every single star above your pretty head dies out.’

        My hand visibly shakes—do it! Be rid of him! I stare at his bottomless eyes beneath shapely eyebrows that look at me expectantly. Does he want to die? Why is he letting me kill him so quickly? It has to be a trick. Any moment now, and I'll be thrown back to the floor.

       ‘What do you really want from me?’

        His expression turns wolfish as if I'm playing with him. ‘You.’

        ‘And if you don’t have me?’ I chance, expecting the answer.

        He smiles lazily. ‘There are no ifs in my world, sweetheart. I will destroy everything standing in my way until I occupy and possess you, wholly and utterly mine.’

        My breath is stolen by the same winds that have occupied the silence of my comfortable life for the last five years. I don't understand what I feel. I've been petrified of god knows what for as long as I can recall. And yet, through it all, I just wanted someone to make me feel something. When Ron made me believe that everything was fine, that the world was safe, I thought it was what I needed. Now, I realise my monster has uttered the exact words I've always wanted to hear from my husband. I needed him to tell me he would will the stars for me, defying fate if it meant saving me.

       This is not right.

       I will myself not to feel anything, a spell on the brink of my tongue as I open my mouth, and a great burst of light alights the tip of my wand.

Chapter Text

           Flashback I :::

      My heart is in my throat. Draco Malfoy.

      I follow Theodore Nott through the snug cobblestone passageways that snake into Diagon Alley, leading me past establishments I have never seen.  

      I can't reassure myself enough that I trust Theo. We became friendly in secret after bumping into each other in the Hogwarts library for years until Irma Pince entrusted us as casual library assistants. In our demanding jobs, we formed a kinship that defied the separation between rivalling houses. However, we have always kept at arm's length. When I considered contacting a death eater in the safest possible way, there was only one person for the job. 

      ‘So…’ I begin hesitantly, almost shouldering into a menacing-looking wizard who steps out of an equally spine-chilling door. ‘He lives around here?’

      ‘Indeed,’ Theo replies dejectedly.

      ‘And his family…’ I think, ‘Aren’t aware of this secret residence?’

      ‘That’s right,’ he replies with equal lack of spirit, not turning once to consider me trailing behind him in my raucous heels. ‘Any more questions, Granger?’

       I'm trying not to fidget with my bag strap and, instead, reach for my unbound hair, fretting over a lock that is more frizz than shapely curl. I readjust the ugly headpiece Fleur is making me wear: a bright red bird matching the dress.

       I bite my lip with apprehension. ‘You aren’t showing me to an early grave?’

       Theo glances over his shoulder for the first time. ‘I thought you trusted me?’

       I stop fretting with my hair. ‘I do.’

       Yes, I have to trust him. I approached Theo about meeting with Draco on Monday. It’s now Friday. Harry and Ron are at the Burrow, helping prepare for Bill and Fleur’s wedding. I’m wearing the red dress that I’ll be wearing for the ceremony, and I’m hoping this meeting with Draco won’t take long. Then, I can get back in time for the rehearsal completely unnoticed because no one notices when Hermione disappears.

       ‘He agreed to meet you, albeit after some careful consideration,’ he says, wiping the sweat from his brow. ‘I’d say he’s open to the proposition, although…’

        I startle when he doesn’t finish. ‘But what?’

       ‘But…’ he brushes his brown hair back, seeming nervous. ‘Draco isn’t the same boy we once knew. Let’s leave it at that.’

        Oh, god. I have seriously fucked up, haven’t I? ‘So, he’s changed?’

        He swallows, making his bony jaw work. ‘Something like that.’

        After a prolonged silence that makes me shudder with fear, we loom in front of a red door with a silver-plated number ‘06’ on the side wall. The door handle is engraved with a worn, golden raven whose beak is open in a scream. It’s so old that the details are scarce. I stare at it for some time after Theo knocks in a particular sequence.

       The weather is unrelenting, and my back is dripping with sweat. I feel like someone is watching me, that if I lift my head to consider the two-story residence, I will be met with a shadow by the window. The door opens, and a reluctant house elf frowns at us.

       ‘What business do you have with my master?’ the creature inquires, wiping down his surprisingly well-kept attire.

       ‘Theodore and Hermione are here,’ Theo intercedes before I stumble over my nerves.

       ‘Absolutely. Yes,’ I nod in encouragement.

        The elf looks us up and down, focusing keenly on my dress before lifting his attention to our faces. He says, ‘I am to bring inside only the witch, master says.’

        I gulp, looking at Theo for a course of action. He nods at the elf before turning to me with a weak grin. ‘Very well. Good luck, Granger. I’ll wait nearby to walk you back when you’re finished.’

        ‘Thank you, Theo.’

        The words are all I can manage to utter before shakily stepping into the foyer. Immediately, I smell something in the air that resembles incense. The door shuts firmly behind me, and I jump, making my heels pound on the wooden floorboards.

        It’s a dark space. There is a lack of sunlight streaming through the windows, creating a sombre air better suited for an abandoned place. Regardless, the green glass lamps paint the simple abode with a pleasant light that compliments a rainy day. There are few paintings, but the scenes are amiable instead of ominous. In them, blackbirds are darting out of forests or sitting peacefully in pasture fields surrounded by cornflowers.

        ‘Up the stairs and to the right, mud-blood,’ the elf says, stepping beside me.

        ‘Excuse me?’ I move to the foot of the stairs. ‘You will mind your tongue, creature, irrespective of who your master is. My name is Hermione Granger, and you will address me as such.’

        ‘My apologies, Miss Granger,’ the elf says without a morsel of regret. ‘Master used to call you mud-blood.’

        That bloody bastard! I am seething as I take the steps, one at a time, hammering them with my heels. When I reach the murky landing, I do a sharp right and head towards the only door at the far end. It’s slightly ajar. I barrel into the room. My prior nervousness has completely subsided, and I distantly notice his whereabouts, standing at the foot of a green wingback chair.

        His back is to me. He is wearing a form-fitting white shirt and pleated black tailored trousers. His expression is focused someplace beyond the window overlooking the street below.

       ‘Keep calling me mud-blood, Malfoy, and I will discharge you to Azkaban myself—’

        He tilts his head in my direction, making me swallow the remainder of my threats in a long gulp that I struggle to push down on a dry throat. He has a lengthy and violent scar across his right cheek. It splits the skin into a dark gash and ends down his neck, merging with the blank ink that seems to devour his fair skin. Even beneath his white shirt, which is rolled up at the arms, I can see where the ink continues. His blue eyes are hauntingly bright, though downcast.

        Something about him is disarming, like standing before an ancient being whose moral compass is jarringly wayward. A tumbler of amber liquid rests in his hands.

        When I notice it, I see a silver ring on his forefinger engraved with an M, winking at me in the weak light. His jaw works. ‘Is that any way to address the wizard you were so overwrought to meet?’ His voice is lower than I remember, and his hair is slightly dishevelled. It's a strange contrast to the tidy, proper boy who tolerated no strand blowing astray.

        Each line of his face is severe and defined. His shoulders have substantially broadened. I briefly lower my eyes to see the exposed forearms corded with veins and defined muscles. My back prickles. It’s like there’s something in the room with us. The shadows are pronounced on every corner, even at my feet; they seem to ripple. I can feel their cold fingers on my ankles, making me shift on my feet anxiously.

       ‘Don’t confuse despair with eagerness, Malfoy,’ I counter harshly. ‘Did you read the terms of my letter?’

        Draco doesn’t say anything as his glacial blue eyes bore into me. It’s hard to look at him, yet it seems far more difficult to look away. They lower on my dress. It’s glowing painfully bright against such a dreary room. He grins in a cruel and predatory way that makes me want to run. The shadow tickles my leg as it trails a path towards my thigh.

       ‘D-did you…’ I stop and bend to swat the annoying sensation away. ‘Are you doing this?’ I accuse, lifting my head to glare at him.

       His grin intensifies. ‘What will the order think about their beloved Granger willingly whoring herself to a Death Eater?’ His tone has a menacing bite. ‘No wrong answers.’

       My shock is palpable as I stare at him with a gaping mouth. ‘What an atrocious assumption—’ On instinct, I retrieve my wand from my purse, remembering with a tremor that I left it with Theo upon Draco's instruction. ‘How dare you accuse me of such a loathsome thing?’

       His bleak eyes only blink once, twice, and he is upon me like the stroke of lightning. He swings me around and presses me against the wall. The air is knocked out of my lungs. I see stars by the force of my cheek crowded into the hard surface. I try to push him away, but my arms are locked to my lower back, forced to receive the hardness of his body that holds me captive.

      ‘You’ve come to me unarmed?’ I shiver at the terrible laughter that ensues, vibrating frostily through my spine. ‘The heedless doe is looking pitifully vulnerable,’ he says, breathing hotly into my neck from his proximity. ‘What did you think would happen, Granger?’

      ‘Theo said—’

       ‘I don’t give a fuck what Theo says. This is between me and you, and you won’t speak another man’s name while you’re in this room with me. Have I made myself clear?’

       What the fuck? He releases me, and I drop on the floor in a heap. I can’t recover my breath quickly enough to form a word.

       ‘What are you willing to do to keep your pathetic little order alive?’ he utters darkly over my shoulder.

       I massage my neck, rasping out an appropriately gravelled, ‘Fuck. You.’

       The sound of pacing footsteps fills the silence. I don’t see where he goes to. It seriously unnerves me. ‘Didn’t you r-read my t-t-terms?’ I grit out, turning my body to regard him.

       He’s back to flanking the armchair, extending a hand to a small table where a pile of cigars sit in a neat arrangement. He brings it to his lips, and the embers burn brightly, lighting themselves. I hear the sound of crackling tobacco as smoke curls around his face.

       He pulls it away after a long exhale. ‘I’ll ask you again.' He inhales a quick drag. ‘What are you willing to do to ensure the order survives?’

       My breathing is not returning. I panic and slump into the door, severely panting while following his movements with heavy eyes. What is happening to me? This place feels like it’s draining me, slowly but surely poisoning the air I try to retain. He starts pacing towards me, and his feet stop in front of me. I sense the bird on my head twitch as it’s being toyed. ‘Answer me, little bird. Or I’ll find a creative way to pull the truth out of you.’

        What am I willing to do? I would do anything for those I care about. The witches, wizards and muggles I love flash before my eyes. Harry believes there is a way to overcome this evil without getting our hands dirty. There isn’t. And I have realised this for some time. The ministry will fall. My vision was clear. The cruel outcome of the war came to me one night about a week ago with such vividness that I woke up screaming and crying. We will all die.

        ‘Anything,’ I reply firmly despite my trembling voice.

        As if a spell is lifted, I can finally breathe. I rise without a second thought, my back finding the door for support. Looking at his form, I feel threatened by his menacing presence and purposefully avoid his eyes.

       ‘Take your dress off.’

        I lift my eyes to his. ‘Are you delusional?’

        His brooding gaze darkens. ‘How would you like to leave without your final lifeline?’

        My body grows completely cold despite the summer heat, and I’d like to believe that’s why I’m sweating profusely. Considering his eyes, I try to plead my case. But they are void of sympathy, and I bite my tongue and chance, ‘My terms were communicated in the letter—’

       ‘Your terms are insignificant,’ he interrupts. ‘The only words that hold value in this room are my directions and assurances.’ He sits in the chair and lays back, letting his head loll to the side of the window as he smokes. His long legs fall open, and he rests the drink on one knee.

       In the subdued daylight, he closes his eyes, a perfect picture of nonchalance. A beautiful monster. They open slowly as if hearing the accusation in my thoughts, and he looks at me through slitted lids.

       ‘I am the starved wolf who does not care if you are sweet and begging on your knees. You will be wise to remember that when we proceed.’

       ‘If we proceed,’ I correct. ‘I haven’t agreed to your terms.’

        He lifts a brow. ‘I wasn’t asking. Nor am I alluding that you do what I ask.’ His gaze lowers to my chest. ‘Take the dress off if you want to keep it intact.’

        I glower at him in response. What a disgusting pervert! If he’s so desperate to glimpse my naked flesh in exchange for his help, then so be it. It’s not as if I have anything spectacular to show—he will be sorely disappointed once he sets his eyes on me. He will avert his gaze and agree to my original terms, surely.

        Gritting my teeth, I pull one strap away from my shoulder, letting the other fall of its own accord. It doesn’t, but an elusive breeze prompts it to fall. I lift a brow as if to say really?

        Next, I reach for the zip that begins on my ribcage, wishing I had picked the dress that required Ginny’s assistance. The zip is halfway before my breasts fall out. I hope he lets me stop. Any minute now…

        ‘Keep going,’ he says, and I am far too ashamed to perceive his reaction.

        The zip sees its finale. The bright red dress falls to the floor, bunching at my feet.  I’m not wearing a bra, only a pair of frilly red underwear. It’s my last defence against full nudity that I am hoping to salvage. ‘Happy?’ I complain. ‘Can I put it back on now?’

       ‘No,’ he replies sternly. ‘You’ll get on the bed and discard the rest.’

        With his words, a door flies open somewhere to my left. I lift my eyes to the intrusion. I see an enormous, perfectly made white bed in the adjacent room waiting for me.

       ‘No. Fucking. Way,’ I object, crossing my arms to conceal my chest. ‘This is enough. You have sufficiently humiliated me, and I’m finished here.’ I drop to my knees to gather the fabric. It slithers from under my feet, magically bypassing my heels and scrambling beneath a black baroque wardrobe and out of sight.

       ‘MY FUCKING DRESS!’ I bellow, getting to my feet. ‘I’m done here. I’m not doing this with you!’ Looking at him, I see that my outrage is lost on him.

        His smile is derisive. ‘Is that so? Why don’t you try to run then? See how far you get.’

        Huffing and glaring, I storm past him to the other side of the room with unkept irritation, falling to my knees to find the runaway fabric. ‘Are you holding me hostage, Malfoy? Is that what this is?’ I dart my arm into the darkness, finding nothing. ‘So you and your nefarious family can ruin me and slaughter every other innocent in your path—’ An ugly sob bypasses my lips. Why did I think I was brave by coming here? Why did I think I could save them all? I’m not the chosen one. I’m the stupid friend who believed she could help from the shadows.

       ‘Are you done?’ he says to my back, sounding impatient. ‘Or else you may miss your wedding rehearsal if you insist on testing my patience.’

        I freeze. ‘How do you know about the rehearsal? ’Did I tell Theo?  I did…but how could Theo tell Draco when he didn't come inside with me?

        ‘You’ll get your dress back when we’re finished,’ he says cooly, disregarding my question.

        I get to my feet. ‘Finished what?’

        He flicks his head to the bed, giving me his devastating side profile. ‘Making you scream until you swear a blood oath on my terms.’

        What?! ‘Go fuck yourself, Malfoy.’ I storm to the bedroom, swiping the white duvet covers from the bed and wrapping them around myself. ‘Keep the dress, you revolting ogre!’ He’s still lounging on the chair when I try for the door.

       ‘Unlock the fucking thing!’ I violently rattle the handle, but he doesn’t do or say a thing while I exasperate over the knob, hoping it will break from my manhandling. ‘FUCK!’ I yell, turning back to him. I break the space between us, ignoring his sardonic expression, and swipe the drink from his hand. The glass shatters beyond us in a piercing crack. ‘Let me out!’

        Draco only smiles, taking a drag that obscures his face. With a frustrated groan, I turn to the window, searching for a latch or anything that reveals an ingress. In the struggle, I drop the duvet.

       ‘Arghhhhh!’ There’s nothing here! There’s no bloody exit!  I turn to him again, not caring to cover myself, and I see his eyes focus on places they shouldn’t. It makes me rage more. I break the small distance and hit him in the face, hoping to dislodge that terrible grin and the cigar he is so determined to kill himself with. ‘LET ME OUT!’ I echo, sensing the tears slipping free.

       The blue in his eyes morphs into a deadly black, then silver, only for a split second. I squeal at the terrifying sight. It’s like I’ve awakened a monster, and he’s staring at me with a wild lethality, tittering at my pathetic display of physical strength—his jaw ticks. ‘Follow my orders willingly or unwillingly,’ his tone is dire. ‘It doesn’t matter. Because you will get on that fucking bed…’

       My body is being hauled backwards by some invisible force. I scream and try to grasp at the door frame, but it’s too late. The force throws me against the flush pillows. I’m positioned perfectly in his direct line of sight.

       He remains on the armchair. ‘And you will show me that pretty pussy and hate every second of it. Have I made myself clear, Granger?’

       My legs part of their own accord, and his lazy expression lowers to consider the sight while taking a long drag of his cigar.

       I bite out, ‘No, you haven’t, Malfoy.’

       He blows out the smoke, still staring at my pussy with his terrible scar and nefarious eyes. ‘Pull the fabric to the side.’

       I try to scramble off the bed, but something binds me to it, and I return to my back. ‘YOU’RE INSANE DRACO!’ I roar, pounding into the bed with a wordless scream until my body slams into the pillows. I flail my legs pathetically in the air.

      ‘Do I have to remind you that you assured me you’ll do anything for the order?’

       I squeal, biting back a sob. ‘I won’t be your whore!’

       It’s as if I am looking at him through a misty forest. The smoke has encompassed the entire space. But I don’t need to see him to perceive the sinister in his face.

       My hand is moving without my consent, fingers grazing my trembling leg as they settle next to the fabric of my underwear.

       His voice is sharp and thawing, clearing the smoke in its path to reach me. ‘My terms are this: you will come to see me twice a week in this exact location, regardless of what’s happening in your life or your whereabouts, you will find a way, or I will find you.’

       I sense a smile when he says, ‘And you don’t want me to find you.’

      ‘OR WHAT?’ I yell, trying to pull my hand away when it grazes the coarse fabric.

       He snickers. ‘You don’t want to find out.’

       My fingers skim beneath the band, stroking the softly-shaven flesh and sending a shiver down my spine. ‘Stop,’ I mumble as the fabric is being pulled aside, revealing my pussy to him, and my fingers begin massaging the area, skimming lightly over my clit, and I audibly weep. They lower with a taunting slowness. The tips of my forefinger and middle finger plunge into my slick entrance, using the wetness to draw a circle. ‘Stop!’ I wail. My arousal is evident, and I want to scream in shame.

      ‘If you’re a good girl, I’ll deliver you the information you seek,’ he continues. I have to close my eyes to avoid him, to pretend that I am not pleasuring myself in front of his lunatic. ‘And what does a good girl do, Hermione?’

       My fingers firmly press on my clit. ‘I don’t fucking know!’

       They circle the exposed bud, making me squeak to subdue a moan.

       ‘Try again,’ he says.

       ‘They let you live out your sick fantasies,’ I squeal against the mounting pressure. I'm sweating from head to toe. ‘YOU’RE SICK DRACO! YOU'VE GONE MAD!’ I manage to yell with appropriate venom. 

       He laughs, and my body responds to it, curving my back. ‘That’s right, my clever little witch. Good girls let their captors watch them come undone.’

       My fingers develop a devastating rhythm. Good god. Someone send me to Azkaban! ‘Stop…’ They slide up and down the slit of my pussy, plunging in again to retrieve the betrayal that is my wetness.

       ‘Good girls are bound to their masters, and if I so much as taste another man on your lips…’ My pussy clenches at his words. ‘I will decapitate every person that you care about. And you will watch me do it.’ My orgasm is on the verge of release. I am desperate to quench it, but my hand doesn't stop, and my legs won't clench. My head falls back as the rapturous feeling consumes me.

        ‘Let go of your pride and show the big bad Death Eater what his whore looks like when she comes undone,’ he says. ‘Then, when I come over there to taste the evidence…’ I scream. ‘You’ll be mine from the moment my mark is burned into your soul,’ his voice is so close, echoing in every forbidden corner of my psyche.

        The stars drown the blackness of my vision when I release, scrunching my face as the moan rips out of me. The shadows laugh as I slump, lifeless, anticipating the inevitable.

       ‘Open your pretty mouth and swallow my promise.’ I feel the tip of his thumb push past my lips, and the coppery tang of his blood coats my tongue.

Chapter Text

       A long time ago, in my first year at Hogwarts, I fell in love with a boy who would leave me secret notes folded into the shape of a blooming rose. The paper was always red, and the ink was a shimmering gold that reflected the light. I would find them atop the books of the restricted section when I was alone in the library at the heart of the night. They started as simple words. At first, I reasoned that I was being toyed with because they made no sense. Until I came across the word from the first note in an old charms book. Anguis’ Serpent; dragon; draco. The notes were in Latin.

       As the months progressed, they developed into lines in English with more words like Secret, sweet, forbidden, or Tumultuous, luminous, and holy.

       It became clear that they were about me. Though in a vague and elusive way. Whenever I met the eyes of the suspected culprit in the hallway or outside classes, they were sharp and mocking. I convinced myself it could not possibly have been him. He hated me.

       But then I slapped him in front of Harry and Ron in our third school year, and the next day, the red rose note said: Violent and pretty and haunted. It was definitely him.

       In our fourth year, after the Yule Ball, Victor Krum snuck me down to the lake, and I eagerly followed, expecting my first kiss in the place I adored. He was leaning into me when Igor Karkaroff’s voice bellowed through the trees, calling for him, and like a startled child, he jumped up and promised to return shortly. I waited patiently on the log, watching the mirror surface reflecting the full moon, a haunting selkies song filling the frostiness.

       From the instant he vanished in the trees, a hand cruelly yanked my hair, forcing my head backwards to face the sky. I nearly fell off the log. But I was caught by a solid body staring down at me with a spiteful glint in his eyes. His grip was severe, and I thought he was trying to pull my hair out.

       ‘You are begging me to drown him, Granger.’

       I can scarcely focus on anything through the discomfort. ‘What the hell are you doing, Draco? Get off me!’

       ‘Get up and leave,’ he barks. ‘Or I'll make you hold his head under until he draws his last breath. It’s your fucking call before I make it for you.’

       He releases me, and I fall back into the gravel, landing painfully on the rocks.

       He vanished, and before Victor could return, I ran away.

       I should run right now. Instead, in my shock, I dropped to my knees. The light of my magic vanquished. Through it all, my stalker's terrible eyes never blinked. Not when the spell left my lips, illuminating the end of the dark wood. Not even when I was convinced he was about to die; the spell was so powerful and blinding that I thought it was inevitable. I don't understand where the sudden recollections about Draco are coming from. I last remembered the red-rose notes a long, long time ago. But I wonder if it's real: I've been known to do that: invent things. Ron tells me when I'm doing it. But I've never spoken to him about Draco; I wouldn't dare. 

       Crackling tobacco reminds me where I am as my stalker looms above me. Suddenly, I feel something being forced past my lips, and without a second thought, I receive it, sucking his thumb into my mouth. It tastes salty, and I grimace up at him. He's watching me through a dark, smoke-billowed face, releasing the fumes, and his voice is throaty when he says, ‘How does it feel?’

       I only scowl deeper, forgetting about my nudity and the cold that bites at every goosebump-raised layer of my skin.

       ‘To realise that you can never be rid of me,’ he finishes.

        I refuse to entertain him, even when he pushes the digit in and out of my wet mouth, coating the black serpent with my saliva.  

       ‘Change of plans,’ he says suddenly, resting the cigarette on his lips. Using his free hand, he reaches into his leather vest and pulls out a black-cased phone. He urges the finger into motion, and with his prompt, I suck his disgusting snake with hatred in my eyes.

       He flicks his thumb on the screen, and I’m blinded by a flash of bright white light that is horrendously revealing.

       ‘I want you to demonstrate to your husband who truly owns you.’ He stops to inhale the cigarette, removing the flash for a moment. 'Who his beautiful wife is whoring for, all sullied and tainted, on her knees like a good, obedient girl for the big bad man she's pretending to loathe.’

       I stop sucking—an ugly cavity forms in my stomach at the possibility of his statement.

       ‘You're going to show him what you look like with my cock buried in your throat.’

       I pull away from him, sharply releasing the wet suction. ‘You can shove that notion into the depths of the FUCKING HELL HOLE YOU CAME FROM!’ I bellow before spitting out the remnants of his taste, making a point of doing it at his feet.

       He takes a long drag, inspecting my angry face beneath the flash. ‘Did I give you the impression of being a harbinger of empty threats, baby?’  

       ‘It doesn’t fucking matter because I’m not—’

       ‘You would rather discover him hanging from your bedroom window? Because I will drag him by a noose from Cornwall, just in time for your morning coffee,’ he interrupts with a sombre tone.

       ‘You…’ I try to breathe through my stifling horror. ‘Can go fuck yourself,’ I grit out. ‘I will bite it off AND SPIT IT BACK IN YOUR FACE!’

       My cheeks are being pinched firmly together. It’s painful, and I squeal. His mass occupies my entire vision as he lifts my face towards him, speaking an inch from my lips, ’Keep pissing me off, Hermione. You don’t know how much I’ll relish severing your husband’s head and presenting it to you in a bloodied box.’

       He releases me harshly. ‘Scream and cry. But you’ll soon be begging me to split you open with my tongue before I fuck you senseless,’ he inhales, and when he exhales, it’s all over my face. He smiles. 'Just know, the pleasure will be annihilating. Your pussy will weep if you ever try to spread your legs for anyone who isn’t me.’

       My rage shudders throughout my body, burning and spitting fire.

       He hums, beaming at my silence before flicking the cigarette away and switching hands. He holds the phone with the serpent's hand, which stirs with movement as if it’s alive. It is alive. I observe its scales ripple with the motions of the tendons. While focused on it, I faintly hear what sounds like a zip coming undone, followed by a belt buckle, and my attention falls to the free hand pulling out his enormous erection.

       I gape at it, dumbstruck. The flash is baring the silky flesh. It's so close; I can almost taste the precum beading on the tip as he pumps it once, twice, before saying, ‘If you so much as think about biting it, I will break a finger for each tooth mark you’ve etched.’

       How am I meant to get this monstrous thing comfortably in my mouth? Or, more importantly, how am I meant to get away from this? 

      ‘Have I made myself clear?’

       I look up at him, meeting the flash face-on. I lower my brows in a severe; I will fucking kill you for this, type of way, but he only laughs, the rich sound spreading a thawing warmth in my constricted chest and tense spine.

      ‘Stick your tongue out and nod your agreement,’ he orders.

       Is this really happening? I don't want to do this. What in the world will Ron think? What if the menace fulfils his threat? I can't let it happen. There is no world in which I will gamble Ron's livelihood.  

       I nod slowly with slitted eyes, willing my thoughts to travel elsewhere. But it doesn't work, and hesitantly, I dart my tongue out and place it flatly against the velvety tip of his cock. My instincts override, and I lick a slow trail, gathering the juices, starting from the bottom of the slit to the top, making him groan.

       I swallow the salty taste; knowing the phone is pointed at me makes me want to die. I refuse to look at it.

       ‘Why don’t you look at the camera, sweetheart,’ he croons. ‘Don’t be shy about showing your husband how much you enjoy it.’ Biting back a protest, I lick it again, but lazily, as if I don’t know what I’m doing. I look up at the camera with a doleful expression.

        He snickers. ‘Take it in your mouth, or reap the consequences of pretending that you don’t know what you’re fucking doing.’

        I leer at him some more before parting enough to accommodate his size, and with dampened lips, I capture the entire head and taste it with my tongue before suctioning it.

        ‘Just like that…’ He groans.

        In some fucked up praise-abiding corner of my mind, I feel encouraged to continue, sucking a little more of him in with each languid motion. He is so overwhelming. I breathe deeply through my nose as I keep going, following the instinct I know all too well. I lather my tongue against the silkiness, trailing a path up and down the underside, following the veins and ridges. He makes a few shallow thrusts, but otherwise, he lets me find my rhythm. Hollowing my cheeks, I suck him harder, fighting the urge to wrap my hand around his length for better reach.

       He grunts as if reading my thoughts. ‘Put your hand on it.’

       I don’t obey him. I let him see the rebellion in my eyes. He snarls. ‘I fucking dare you to defy me. Watch Sofia and Arthur join in the hanging fest.’ His hand buries in my hair, and I grab him back just as hard and begin twisting my hand from the base, pushing his foreskin down. The spotlight on me alights the wetness coating his cock. My mouth has grown so moist that it makes a noisy lathering sound when I build momentum, determined to overcome the halfway point and take his fullness to the back of my throat.

       He growls, and I glimpse him, seeing his head lolled back towards the stars. The sight is disarming. It’s like beholding a god. In my delusional state of wonderment, I almost forget the recording phone pointed at me, and I scoff.

       To conquer the fullness I want, I have to clutch the end of his belt, urging his hips towards me. The action reveals a slash of his waistline from where the trousers are pushed aside. A tattoo is there, but I can’t make out the details. I suck so much more of him as a result of my absentmindedness. He audibly moans, and I look up in surprise, meeting his eyes that observe me with rapt devotion. My mouth pulls back to swirl my tongue on the sensitive ridge of his head.

       ‘You’re too good at that,’ he seethes in a guttural, animalistic way.

       The monster starts thrusting, encouraging me to relax my jaw as he presses on a gag. My eyes are watering from the pressure, and the tears slip out when he drives the devastating length to a blinding spot. I need to remember how to breathe. It’s too late to save me from grace. I’m beyond spoiled and corrupted. I may as well allow him to force his stupid supremacy down my throat. My head is immobilised as my mouth receives the onslaught of his cock, stuffing me full of him.

       The moan that slips out of him when the point of my tongue flicks at the base makes my thighs clench—stupid fucking thighs. He exhales noticeably louder, and I suction harder.

       ‘Fuck,’ he says hoarsely.

       I smile inwardly, relishing the sick satisfaction from sensing him tense, and I wish I could stop. I want to let him perceive my power over him that I can as quickly withhold.

       ‘Why don’t you tell the camera who owns you, Hermione,’ he bids. ‘Who gets to fuck this tight little mouth?’

       I flare my nostrils, and he pushes deeper until my eyes bulge.

       ‘Say it,’ he barks.

       I try to pull back, but he doesn’t let me. ‘Yuhhh,’ I try to respond, failing to form a coherent word.

       He pulls out just enough to let me speak. I graze my teeth on his skin before repeating, ‘You.’

       The grin that develops on his beautiful lips is deranged. ‘That’s right. You belong to me. If you attempt to give anyone what is mine.’ His thrust to the back of my throat is punitive. 'I will feed you their flesh. Do you understand? I will make sure you swallow every piece of your betrayal.’

       What in the world is he saying? I’m married! I'm trying to express the confusion by pinching my brows together. He only smiles wider. ‘Nod your agreement to the camera.’

       I bob my head, slurping the spit that threatens to slip out.

      ‘Good girl,’ he growls on a moan. Good god. My thighs slide against each other from being that slippery. If an earth-sized cavity appeared before me, I would happily plummet into it. I am becoming just as disturbed as he is.

      His rhythm is growing brutal, and my jaw is beginning to hurt. I am almost glad for his force, regardless of the pain. For the first time in my life, my mind is silent. Ron is like a distant memory. The war and all its casualties may as well have been from a past life. A moan slips out of me.

       Fuck my life. If Ron sees this video…

       ‘He will see it.’ I meet his downcast eyes with my watery own. He grins before saying, ‘If you misbehave or resist me…’ He beacons the stifled gag, and more tears slip out as he violently fucks my mouth. I can’t even glare at him. He’s suffocating me with his monstrous fullness.

       ‘You don’t want to see the extent of my reprisal. I've been waiting a long time to ruin you.’

        My heart misses a beat.

        His hand leaves my hair to wipe a tear from my cheek, lifting it to his lips, and he licks it with a tongue that appears to be forked like a snake. 

        ‘For now, you will swallow every last drop of my come and walk back to your comfortable existence, thinking about how you're going to abandon it.’

        I want to protest, but before I can contest him, my mouth fills with his hot taste; he presses me close enough to see the shape of his murky tattoo. It’s a snake coiling around a blackbird, forcing its way through the aperture of the bird’s beak.

       The Serpent and The Blackbird. Those were the words in one of Draco’s notes.

Chapter Text

     Rough Timeline for all 'Red' Chapters: Order of the Phoenix/ Half-Blood Prince, and onwards.

     The fury thrumming through my veins is astronomical.

     ‘…Bulstrode will have a fat chance getting away from me…’

     My wrath strums like an ocean eclipsed by darkness, its waves violent and unrelenting. What if I fractured Crabbe’s skull instead? If the bastard keeps gabbing in my ear, I just fucking might.

     ‘I’ll get her in an empty corridor…’ Goyle sniggers at Crabbe’s words. ‘… She doesn’t wear tights either…’

      The rainwater drips from my jaw, doing nothing to subside the fissures of lightning burning entire forests inside of me. I’m on the other side of the wall, in the courtyard, my head raised to the storm; Crabbe and Goyle are sprawled lazily on the open window.

      The students raucously filter into the empty corridors, disturbing my semblance of stillness in the eye of the storm. If I allowed my dark thoughts to prevail, I would massacre them all.

      It’s cold, and the hail begins. I drop my head, focusing with bleary eyes between the pair chatting about stupid shit. When I see him, I will eradicate him. It’s all I can think about. Instead of my next victim, I notice an all too familiar redhead. His grating voice finds me, and I consider unleashing my rage on the waif dog-looking Weasley and the tragic ‘chosen’ one to lessen this intensity that won’t cease.

      Ah, there she is. Always with them.

      The water trickling from my lashes couldn’t obstruct my vision. The sight is like a warm lantern to my soul's eternal, nefarious darkness. Her wild, curly hair bobs with her animated words. She’s always so fucking loud and insufferable it makes me want to shove something down her throat to humble her.

      Her eyes always find me. No matter where or how many people separate us, I see her eyes already on me, or I beckon hers, like now. I am boring daggers into her, and she quickly averts her gaze. Good. You’d cry like a little bitch if you knew what I was about to do.

      ‘What are we waiting for, Malfoy?’ Crabbe asks the first sensible thing that has left his mouth since they found me.

       I don’t reply as I depart the courtyard, intent on a receding tall blonde head. I shoulder my way through the corridors, hands in my pockets, letting my darkness simmer. The wooden bridge is in sight. We are alone. I am stalking my prey closely behind, waiting for an opportunity; meanwhile, the barrage is fierce above us, hitting the wooden roof like it wants to pierce through.

       Let this blackness seep out and abolish the light—the voice inside me chants.

       I see him sometimes when I look at myself in the mirror: raven black hair and a deranged smile; he is my shadow. Because of him, I left my wand in my room. Because of him, I’m pulling out a thick chain from my back pocket. There’s no fun in cruelty and suffering if you aren’t getting your hands dirty. Hardening my steps just enough to announce my presence, I wait for Ernie Macmillan to glimpse over his shoulder. When he does, I let my chain swing over his head, catching it at his neck.

       I cross my hands, tightening them, and he falls to the floor, a scream obstructed by the stolen air. I squat above him, keeping the metal tight in my unrelenting hold. ‘Macmillan,’ I say, grinning at the sight of his watery eyes and tortured expression.

       ‘Malffff,’ he forces out, eyes crossing in his struggle.

       I smile wider. ‘I thought we could have a friendly catch-up. Just you and me and my gracious weapon.’ The chain blisters into my skin. My god. I fucking love the pain. I live for it. Leaning closer to his face, I echo, ‘How about it, Macmillan? Should we have a friendly little chat?’

       He’s trembling with fear. ‘Nod for yes. Or keep thrashing, and I’ll tighten my grasp,’ I warn. He nods frantically. Christ, I want to fucking kill him. ‘How would you like to repeat what you told Parkinson during Charms? I’m all too fucking excited to hear it coming from you.’

       His blue eyes bulge with bewilderment. His hands fuss to grip the chain, which is suffocating him. He can’t speak, and I don’t want him to. He keeps nodding, trying to please me. ‘I could garrotte you to death and make it look like a spell went wrong,’ I begin, grinning wider when the droplets from my sodded hair start trickling into his eyes. ‘It’s tempting.’

       Macmillan's face is turning purple.

      ‘Here’s what's going to happen,’ I lower my voice to a deadly fraction. ‘You’re going to abandon your touching proposal about asking Granger out, or I'll make you eat my other barbed chain, shit it out, and eat it again and again until you're shit-covered and limp at my feet.’  

       His eyes focus vacantly, and I lessen the pressure slightly. ‘Have I made myself clear, Macmillan?’

       He nods hysterically again, a trail of blood seeping out his nose. I seriously consider ending him right here, right now. But a distant drumming of steps catches my attention. I lift my gaze to see a pair of girls entering the bridge. I release the pathetic excuse for a wizard squatting above him. ‘You played around, and the spell almost choked you. Isn’t that right? If Draco didn’t help you, you’d have killed yourself. What a misfortune, hmm?’ I slap him on the cheek to prompt him back to lucidness. ‘Silly, clumsy you. You’ll know not to mess with things that don’t belong to you.’

       His nod is feeble, but at least he heard me. I get to my feet, lifting him with me. The bastard is so limp that his body slumps weakly into the barrier, looking as if he may topple over the side. He’s breathing heavily, and when the third-year girls pass us, they are too frantic to get out of the rain to notice anything. I leave him there—collapsed over the side, hoping the ruthless wind pushes him over and into the jagged rocks below.  

       Staring into the pines beyond the outlook, I let my mind wander to keep myself from throttling the next student who chances a glance. Instead, I am deliberating when this fascination with the half-blood began. It could’ve been on the Hogwarts Express when we were starting our first school year, and she beamed at me after I crudely shouldered into her, introducing herself like the stupid people-pleaser she is. Perhaps it was after she wished me good luck when I joined the quidditch team.

      From what I recall, she became an all-consuming disease when I had to visit the library in the first few years to keep up with the schoolwork. She materialised beside me like the shining saint of the library, ready to help me even if she hated me, even after she clouted me in front of her friends and thumped a hardback journal into my hand the next day when I sat down to resume my covert studies.

      I love that she loathes me while helping me behind her friends’ backs. Keeping a secret like that, a secret all mine, like a good girl.

      ‘You missed lunch,’ Zabini says, appearing beside me.  I don’t respond to him. My eyes catch on her as she emerges at the end of the hallway, heading towards me. No, not me. Our class.

       He huffs, joining me in leaning against the wall outside Herbology. ‘What’s up? You’re acting shifty lately…’ Zabini begins as Hermione approaches, joining the queue beside me, lost in conversation with Longbottom. I glare at the half-wit Gryffindor until he lowers his eyes. 'You seem tense.’

       I am fucking tense. I’m hounded by a shadow that wants to eradicate everything that moves. I’m haunted by a Gryffindor girl who should be crying and begging, biting and clawing, covered in her blood and sweat as I spoil her sweet and dignified façade.

      Mmm, that’s it. I can smell her, at last. She wears sweet scents and girly fragrances. Shit that’s bottled as "Unicorn Kisses" and "Peachy Beachy Party." It’s sickening and heady. I’ve seen them lined up in her vanity; I’ve watched her spray them on her naked body, the shimmering particles floating everywhere.

       I murmur offhandedly, ‘Same old.’

       She perks her head to the side whenever I speak. The conversation with Longbottom is dominated by him now; she’s withdrawn her attention ever so briefly. I notice the minute details: her receptivity to me, her body responding in contempt of her better judgment.

       Zabini sighs. ‘I’m inclined to agree. Sprout’s got me lined up for extra work after the lesson.’ He snickers. ‘What you got planned for after, anyway?’

       ‘Fuck if I know,’ I retort, not caring to assume politeness. ‘I’ll find a first year to drown if I get bored.’

       She sucks in a breath. I knew it. You can’t help but eavesdrop, can you, baby?

       I leer at the Potter Urchin as he advances with his dog in tow. They crowd around Hermione like a flock of eager hens, and she steps back, breaking the distance between us. I don’t move to prevent her. Come closer. Fall at my feet and show them who your god is.

       She freezes at sensing our proximity, and goosebumps rise on her exposed forearms. Then, abruptly, she steps forward.

       ‘In you come!’ Sprout shouts, startling everyone into motion. Zabini leaves the wall, and I push my foot into it, joining the queue behind him and straightening. I feel the tension in my shoulders, and I roll them back, eager for the release from a good workout.

       She likes what she sees—the shadow croons. I’m not wearing my cloak, and I can feel her eyes lingering on my form, shamelessly dissecting me while her friends are preoccupied behind her. I grin, resuming my hands in my pockets. Keep your eyes on me, sweetheart.

       As we enter the Herbology classroom, I notice the tables and chairs are lined up in rows. I follow Zabini to the back, evading the beaming professor, searching for someone to hand out her pile of scrolls.

      ‘You’ll be my star today, Miss Granger!’ She bellows. ‘Would you be a dear and hand these out for me.’

      ‘Of course,’ she replies in her charming, amicable voice. ‘And the theory test? I’ve got all the questions and answers for the—’

      ‘We will be continuing the practice questions for the theory,’ Sprout booms, cutting her off. ‘Again, review your textbooks with your partner. There is no glossing over the hard questions this time. If you have any queries, my star and I will help you through the gritty and difficult parts.’

       Taking my seat, I keep my eyes on "the star," watching as she travels to each desk, stopping to smile and chat with her friends before gliding to the next one.

       ‘You’re not inconspicuous enough for a sly crush, ' Zabini says, opening the textbook and navigating to the last page we attempted. Then, lowering his voice, he says, ‘Macmillan looked a sight.’

       I only smile wider. I don’t care if Zabini knows. He’s the only one who does. We both have secret obsessions; his fixation is a timid Hufflepuff girl who can barely meet his eyes without shuddering. I glance at him, noticing how his eyes have darkened while absentmindedly staring at the room beyond. He’s probably thinking about doing the same to the guy who keeps sitting next to his girl in the Great Hall, making her laugh when she’s always quiet and reserved.

       She's nothing like my girl who's approaching our table right now.

       Hermione doesn’t meet my eye. ‘Zabini…Malfoy,’ she says my name tentatively. Placing the two scrolls in front of us, I notice her hand tremble when she pushes it towards me before hastily swivelling on her feet, trying to escape us.

      ‘Hey, Granger!’ Zabini hollers to her receding form. ‘I need help!’

       Sprout glances in our direction, stopping Hermione in her determination to avoid us. She turns back slowly, plastering an annoyingly bright smile at Zabini.

       ‘Sure. What is it?’ she approaches the table.

        I don’t even hear what he asks her. Her curls billow over Zabini’s book. ‘That’s strange. It might be a misprint.’

        Sprout materialises behind her, leaning into the desk and herding us in. The overcrowding forces Hermione to go behind Zabini, and she awkwardly settles between us, trying to keep her body turned away from me.  

       The professor's voice is giving me a fucking headache. She repeats the question several times before finally leaving and finding Zabini another textbook.

       ‘Your book?’ Hermione asks, still not looking at me.

       ‘Hmm,’ I pretend to think. ‘Must’ve left it on my bed.’

       I feel her tense. ‘Why?’

       ‘Go and find out.’

       ‘You should’ve brought it to the lesson,’ she sighs.

       ‘Should I?’

        Her jaw ticks. ‘If Sprout realises that you don’t have it on you, she’ll make you stay for a whole week after lessons.’

        I grin. ‘So why don’t you shut the fuck up and fetch it for me like a good girl?’

        I don’t need to see her face to perceive the shock. Her silence gives me sufficient satisfaction as Sprout returns to drop off the book before darting towards a table at the front. She huffs in frustration, skimming to the page.

       ‘So…’ Hermione leans closer to Zabini, her elbows on the desk. ‘… Does the question still confuse you even when it's amended?’

       While they’re occupied, I lean back in my chair, feigning nonchalance and hoping to glimpse the suspected sight. Her skirt is hiked up, revealing a picture-perfect view. The black tights are not opaque enough to mask the flushed pink fabric of her thong. A hole in the tights begins somewhere between the mound of her cheeks, and I'm eager to see its end. Little Miss Granger hasn’t even had her first kiss. She and Ginny talk about it enough, though surprisingly, she hasn’t mentioned to anyone that I hindered her first opportunity with Krum Scum. Or about the notes I leave her in the library.

       By the sounds of it, Zabini is being thoroughly lectured in the history of Mugwort, so why don’t I just...

       I lure my shadow, using its power to get what I want. The shadows congregate, and invisible, murky tendrils pull the fabric up just an inch, exposing more of the baby pink fabric. She doesn’t move, and I decide to venture further. The shadowy tendrils skim higher, revealing the large opening of the enticing hole that opens to another, more intimate hole obstructed by the pink material. Somewhere in their conversation, I hear her stutter on a word.

       Her muscles constrict, but still, she doesn’t impede or accuse me. Is it just me, or can I smell her arousal? Maybe I should keep going…

       Her hand slaps harshly on the wood. ‘If you feel confident, I’ll leave you t-to it.’ She straightens abruptly, shaky hands tugging her skirt's fabric down, dispersing the shadows. ‘I’ll b-be around if you need help with something else.’

       In her flustered getaway, she bumps punitively into the back of Zabini’s chair, urging him forward.

       ‘What the fuck was that?’ he protests with a groan.

       I watch her rattled form speed walk to her desk, pulling the chair back with a piercing shriek. ‘Girls,’ I retort bluntly.

       He huffs. ‘Tell me about it.’

      The textbook slams in front of me just before Sprout reaches our table. It crashes into the wall next to me from the force, and I raise my attention to a scowling Hermione. She finally meets my eyes with a frown. ‘It’s mine. I’ve copied all the questions in my notebook already,’ she says, trying desperately to suppress a blush.

      Of course, you have.

      ‘I expect it returned to me after the lesson.’

      I say nothing as Sprout reappears, beaming at mine and Zabini’s work. For some unknown reason, the fact she gave me her textbook is grating on my nerves. People-pleasing, insufferable little cunt. She should know better.

      Sprout is still sprouting her annoying bullshit, fawning over Zabini’s notes that are probably an exact copy of Granger’s schooling. It’s frantic in here, and I’ve grown disturbingly impatient in recent months that anything is bound to spiral me. I close my eyes, willing all the nuisance and chaos to tamper.

      Finally, the lesson is dismissed, and as I leave Zabini behind, I roll up the textbook and put it in my back pocket, leaving the room without a glance backwards.

     ‘Malfoy!’ she shouts behind me.

      I keep walking, maintaining my ruthless pace. I’m pointedly ignoring her, letting her tiny legs trail me while my long strides cover the sufficient distance. I disregard the looks thrown our way by students, and when a professor passes by, I notice that Granger remains remarkably silent.  

     ‘Hey! My textbook! MALFOY!’

      She starts running, advancing on me quickly, and I pull the book from my pocket before she can grab it, increasing my step to a gruelling speed.

      ‘What in Merlin’s beard has gotten into you,’ she grates, trying to recover her breath. ‘Just give it back!’

       She’s been trailing me for some time, exasperated and hindered by her ridiculously overpacked shoulder bag. I sharply turn into the dungeons, where the Slytherin common room and dormitories are. The stone walls around me are rough and dark. It's a warm welcome and not one that she will be eager to explore for now.           

       She halts at the boundary with a sniffle. Is she fucking crying? I chuckle. That's right. Weep at your stupidity. Her kindness will be her death if she doesn’t realise it soon enough. There is no strength in benevolence. When the time comes for strife, her friends will bury her and give her bullshit titles like "admirable’" and "selfless," throwing dirt on her grave while gushing about her heedless valiancy.

       There will be no valiant efforts on your part, Little Red. The big bad wolf will make sure of it.

       I sense her gaze boring into me in the Great Hall. I stare back at her, unflinching, waiting for her to submit. Look away, baby. Surrender those pretty eyes and render me triumphant. But she doesn’t, and I drop my indifferent expression to wear a deadly smirk that says, you are so fucked.

       She glowers at the sight, and her fury is beautiful. It's truly a sight. I can taste it from across the room, a most delectable feast. I’d live on her vehemence and fear for the rest of my life and never starve a day. Her attention is determined and persistent, as if she could intimidate me with her annoyance alone.

       I’ve eaten a few forkfuls of the food, and so has she. But I’ve decided to preserve my energy for more pressing and punishing activities. I hope that, in her case, it will make her weary and weak.

       I grin wider when a wretched state passes by my line of vision. Macmillan really does look like shit. She notices him pass by, and her eyes widen. For a moment, I imagine it was her beneath me, wearing the metal in her captivity, unable to escape me. I can picture it so vividly: the shrieks and flailing. I would lick her wounds once the iron bites through her skin, lowering my tongue until she pleads me to do what I like.

       When the glittering night sky appears above us, she leaves my eyes with a frown to glimpse it, entirely captivated by it. We've seen it a thousand times, and still, she does that—always gawking at pretty shit.

       You have no idea how many stars I will make you see.

       The Weasley Hound leans in to say something to her. I'm debating turning his fork on him and making him shovel out his own eyes, digging deeper until he reaches the brain and digs out the rest. She smiles at his words, and suddenly, the fork slips and buries into the back of his hand.

       The scream is thunderous.

       There is a great upheaval as bodies horde around the scene. And yet, I’m more focused on Hermione as she tries to help her friend, covering her hands in blood. It paints up her forearms, and the spectacle is arousing. Suddenly, she’s leaving, trailing behind the professors with Potter Pest and more redheads.

       When I get up to leave, Zabini gives me a sidelong glance with a raised brow. I shrug. It was only the tip of the iceberg of what I really wanted to do to the Weasley.

       The pine trees embrace the frigid fog like they live and breathe it. The mist is permanently suspended above the canopy, cascading down the trunks and blanketing my line of sight. The forest voices are few, and what howls and whimpers is something of the spectral kind. It’s a treacherous place to run, but it’s exhilarating.

       Even with the intensity of my exercise, I can still smell her sweetness; it occupies every corner of my darkened senses, overriding the forest scent of damp moss and upturned earth. It’s midnight. The distant warm lights from the castles’ windows are so few. It's isolated, and her scent is so close; my shadow instincts throb at the thought.

       When I break out of the trees, the hillside clearing is empty. I walk to its halfway point, shaking off the sweat from my hair. Turning my back to the castle, I face the forest, admiring the haunting sight that offers me my only semblance of solace.

       Shrugging off my grey t-shirt, I use it to wipe the sweat from my face before reaching into my shorts pocket for the packet of cigarettes. The black lighter is inside, and I pull it out before pressing the muggle pleasure to my lips. Its toxicity is addictive, and I groan at the taste.

       I drop the shirt onto the moist grass and place my free hand in my pocket, straightening slightly to accommodate my sloping posture from the knoll. Ah, here she is. Her trepidation makes me enjoy the poison entering me all the more.

      ‘What are you doing out here?' She begins with a low voice. ‘Are you smoking—’

      ‘Tell me what you want and fuck off.’

       Her steps are slow. ‘Charming,’ her sarcasm is palpable. Passing me, she’s trying to tread carefully on the slippery slope, getting in front of me. She’s wearing a thick white coat over her pyjamas, which appear to be her black shorts and vest set, judging by her bare legs from where the coat ends at the knees.

       I lower my eyes at her, and she straightens, appearing pathetically smaller than she already does when her average head height about reaches my chin. Her eyes desperately dart to my face; she’s flushed and struggling to keep a straight face when I’m standing half-naked and sweat-slicked above her.

       ‘I want my textbook,’ she declares, blowing out a cold puff of air with her words.

       I inhale and exhale slowly, thinking about what I could do to her as punishment for her stupid demands. ‘Is that so?’

       She ignores my blunt reply. ‘I want it back. Right. Now.’

       I titter. ‘Do I look like I’m carrying your fucking book right now?’

       ‘Go and get it, then.’

       I inhale, throwing the finished cigarette at her feet. Breaking the small distance between us, I loom above her, and she has to lift her face from my chest to meet my eyes. Blowing the smoke in her face, I say, ‘What do I get for giving you what you want?’

       She doesn’t budge from the smoke. ‘Are you serious? It’s my book! I was generous by lending it to you; you’ve just thrown my kindness back in my face, and it’s insulting.’

       Her legs tremble.

       ‘I’m not a nice guy, Granger. If you wanted nice, you should see one of the swine you call your friends.’

        She huffs. ‘What is up with you? I was being nice to—'

        ‘And look where it’s got you,’ I mutter, skimming my eyes over her face. She’s flushed with frustration, and I can smell her minty breath this close. ‘You’re shaking and scared, clutching onto your crumbling bravery. I could eat you alive, and no one would hear you scream. You don't have the upper hand to make demands.’

       Her shuddering sets my body on fire. ‘Tell me what you want, and I’ll think about it once I’m back inside.’

       I chuckle. ‘That’s not how this works.’ Her hot breath is deeper now, puffing warmth to the skin of my chest. ‘If I demand it, I get it. Right. Now.’

       She takes a step back, and I eat the distance. ‘Wa-what is it then?’

       ‘Hmm,’ I pretend to think, grinning at her unease. ‘Something you haven’t given to anyone.’

       'Like what?' Her face is contorted in confusion. 

        I give her a wolfish smile, increasing my pace as she walks backwards, nearly tripping. ‘I want to taste your lips.’

        Her breath catches. ‘Are you being serious right now?’

        My voice is hoarse, ‘Deadly.’

        The sound of frustration that leaves her is delectable. She’s got herself all worked up, panting and sweating in her coat. ‘You’re insane! Why am I having to bargain after something I fucking own!’

        I can’t help the laughter that escapes me. My girl is finally allowing herself to use big words. I’ve stopped herding her in, waiting to see what she will do as we stand on the boundary of the forest. I don’t say anything, and she uses the moment of silence to think. I watch as her resolve seeps out, joining the night and being swallowed by my shadow, who shudders at tasting her loss of power.

       She takes a step towards me. That’s it. Come to the big bad wolf, Little Red.

       Her jaw is firm, holding back her chattering teeth. ‘Fine,’ she says, taking another step. ‘But no tongue, just our lips. Ok?’

       My smile is half manic as I say, ‘I didn’t specify which lips I wanted to taste, did I?’

       The blood leaving her face is the most beautiful sight I’ve ever seen.

       ‘Wa-what?’ she stutters again, taking a step back. ‘I’ve never…we aren’t doing that, Draco.’

       I crowd her in again, feeling the dead leaves crunch beneath my feet as we step onto the forest floor. ‘Yes, we are.’

       ‘Draco—’ her back presses into a thick, gnarled oak tree. She squeals, ‘I’ve never done this before.’

       As if that's going to fucking stop me. I don’t respond as I reach for the top of the coat’s zipper, tugging it down, revealing the pyjama set I knew was waiting for me. I’ve watched her put it on so many times after her baths. I’ve seen it twisted from sleep, exposing a breast or the side of her pussy as she kicks the duvet away when it gets too hot. Her firm nipples are poking into the fabric.

       ‘I-I’ve…Draco. Oh my god. We can’t!' She’s breathless, and when the zipper comes to its end, her hands dart to cover her breasts.

       ‘Drop them or lose them,’ I bark. ‘And shut the fuck up before I’m tempted to take more than we agreed.’

       I get on my knees, glowering up at her. ‘Spread your legs.’

       With a squeak, she obliges. The fabric of the shorts is pathetic, really. Just one tug to the side would expose her to me. She doesn’t even wear underwear to bed. I dip my head into the gap, finding the valley of her mound and inhale the scent of her pussy, which smells fleshy and with a hint of her fruity sprays and coconut creams.

       She slaps a hand over her mouth.

       I dart my tongue out, tasting the area slowly before growing impatient. She shivers, and I reach a hand to the elastic band of her shorts, pulling them down. Just as they reach her knees, she begins another onslaught of half-word protests.

      I growl. ‘Keep testing my patience, Granger. I have so little of it, and my cock is painfully hard.’

      The shorts pool at her feet, and she stops. Her silence lets me absorb what I'm seeing. I’ve seen her pussy countless times without her knowing, but the sight before me is still disarming. It’s grown a little from her last shave a few days ago. I press my lips to it, guiding the tip of my tongue through her soft folds, making her whimper. I lap slowly at the slit, and her moan is devastatingly loud.

      ‘Shut the fuck up,’ I warn, flicking her clit ever so slightly. ‘Make another sound like that, and you’ll be swallowing your pussy’s taste from my mouth after. Have I made myself clear?’

       She’s silently shuddering, but fuck. Her pussy’s weeping for me. I use my tongue to dip into her little hole, circling the slick wetness before travelling back to her sensitive stop, flicking it firmly. She lifts her leg, offering better access. Her juddering muscles almost make me laugh. Her body is so responsive. I'd be inclined to believe she's always wanted this with me. 

      I eat her, not caring about a rhythm. This part is for me. She's kept me so fucking starved. My obsession, my girl. My little red nightmare.

      Tasting her thoroughly, I repeat the process until she squirms, and I have to grip her thighs to keep her steady. Fuck. She tastes so good. The sound of my wet tongue and desperate mouth feasting on her hot flesh breaks the silence of the night.

      I'm fucking her with my tongue, dipping in and out of her entrance, teasing and tasting. I taste and taste, drawing out her sweet flavour until I decide on a languid rhythm against her sensitive bud. She clenches her thighs and cries out louder than before, and I smile into her slick flesh, my lips soaked from her arousal. I hope you’ll like tasting your pussy on my tongue after you're finished.

      My god. I could punish her forever. She would be a fool to think she could ever escape me.

      Her moans drown out the darkness; she’s stopped suppressing it. Her hand sits lazily on her mouth, but she may as well drop it. The gulps of air and squeals are priceless. I’m circling every corner of her pretty cunt. She likes a slow rhythm, one that is torturous and steady. My girl wants to be eaten alive and, at the same time, worshipped with careful consideration.

      ‘D-d-draco,’ she moans. ‘I think…I think—’ Hmm. So soon?

      She will need to build up more experience and practice to handle what I want to do to her and for how long. But for now, I suck slowly on her clit, and she screams, trembling in my hold. Her orgasm is music to my ears. My tongue starts frantically tasting all her wetness, taking it all for myself. My mouth is soaked with it, and with one final lick, suck and kiss, I get to my feet. Her eyes are unsteady as I obstruct her vision. Tilting her head, she tries to focus loosely over my shoulder as if embarrassed to meet my eyes.

      ‘I told you to shut the fuck up, didn't I?'

      She drops down shakily to pick up her shorts.

      ‘I couldn't help it,’ her voice is husky as she lifts the fabric to cover herself. ‘Just a kiss, right? No tricks or...’ Her eyes meet mine when she says, ‘Manipulating me.’

      You haven't seen anything yet, baby, in time. It’s too soon. If her friends and the professors get a waft of what I’m capable of…

      That won't happen. 

      Breaking her resistance and power slowly but carefully will be the sweetest blessing. Just seeing the anxiety in her eyes when she looks at me is enough to give me a glimpse of what’s to come.

      Without a word, I lift her quivering chin to my face. She will know that I am not gentle. That I am not here to reassure her. I can taste her fear as I lean into her big brown eyes, keeping them in line with mine. I want her to see my predatory intent. I capture her lips. 

      She doesn’t move at first as I kiss, taste and claim her, just as I did with her pussy. I expect she doesn’t know how to, and feeding her the taste of her climax before she can grasp my taste is making me twitch in my shorts.

      My clever little witch tastes like redemption. My blood is singing at the effect she has over me. 

      Her power: subtle and graceful and catastrophic.

       Unexpectedly, she begins kissing me back, following my movements, and I’m struck by how receptive she is to my touch and how eagerly she follows my lead. I open her mouth with my lips, letting her feel and taste my tongue, and she laps it up, twisting into me like a vine. I urge her hands above her head, arresting her with a grip on the wrists, keeping them secured. I said that she was fucked, didn’t I?

      Then, I bury my free hand into the roots of her hair and tug until she shrieks. Her cold hand comes to my chest, but it does nothing to hold me back as I devour her mouth, not taking care to be gentle or passive. I take and take and take. All of her is mine.

     This is the second of her firsts, seeing as I claimed a different set of lips first. It fills me with glee to know that she keeps gushing about this with her girlfriends—what she’s giving me, and no one will know about it—her first kiss. But it’s only the beginning of my claim. Because, like a marauder, I will pillage her pretty little soul and render her mine.

     From bones to blood, to heart and soul.

Chapter Text

      The sweet smell of hay being raptured and nibbled on stirs me from my dreadful dreams. I open my eyes to see Misty, the small and friendly mare, enjoying the dry straw that collects around the corners of her mouth. She’s watching me with one big black eye, wondering what I’m doing, gathered in a fetal position in her stall. That was the worst night of my life. It's like staying in the dream you are thrashing and sweating to wake up from but never do.

      I am completely and utterly powerless, and I’ve never been more scared in my life. My wand may as well morph into a bloody child’s toy around him; it offers me no upper hand or protection. How in the world do I get rid of him? And fast! The menace has a video of me sucking his monstrous member, and I'm not rash enough to disregard the fact that he may actually kill Ron, Sofia and Arthur to ruin me further.

      Shit. My eyes are dry and raw from crying. I close them and count to three. When I do, I see a glimpse of white. It’s like the skirt of a spirit, billowing on a balcony overlooking the sea, skimming the slightly rusted rail with its purity. It’s my wedding day. I am looking over the balcony of the seaside venue, realising that the sparkling blue water is breaking my heart. In the distance of my room, voices are floating around me: my mother’s. She’s anxious that the hairdresser won’t arrive on time. That her baby girl’s day will be ruined.

      But it already is. The ocean knows my secrets. It carries the exact colouring of his eyes, promising to drown me. To never let me rest a day, even if he is dead. 

      It made me realise with a heavy heart that I’d always wanted to live by the ocean, even if we settled on Montrose. I think it was because I knew I could never bear to see the blue looking back at me each day. To be reminded of Draco every instant I'm moving on, becoming a wife to another. I don't understand why I feel this way about him. I recall that he was cruel and merciless, and Ron has never failed to remind me about it. I've never spoken to Ron about him, how could I? But he talks a lot about him once he's had a drink, saying precisely what I believe and have been made to think repeatedly. 

      We should have moved closer to the sea, I now realise.

      The dead wizard haunts me regardless of where I am. And since my past, a terror has replaced it. Someone who feels far worse than what Draco was capable of.

      Misty is puffing hot air in my face. She’s so close I can smell the previous day’s grass on her breath. My legs are bare, and I’m wearing a riding fleece zipped up to the neck while covered in one of the horses’ winter coats, wrapped snuggly around me like a duvet. I eventually stopped shaking when the sun finally broke over the horizon. If anyone saw me right now, I’d imagine they would call the muggle police. Maybe I should… I chuckle hoarsely. I can almost hear my stalker laughing at the notion. He would say something like: That’s right, baby. Crowd yourself in a false sense of safety and watch me eradicate them one by one, stacking their heads at your feet.

      God, it’s like he’s always with me. I look at Misty, showing her the fear in my eyes, and she puffs, reaching her nose to my hand. I need her. I didn’t want to return to my lonely house with its wedding, graduation and holiday pictures, where I was smiling while inwardly rapturing next to my husband.

      A ticking sound has me raising my head. The plain white clock on the wall says I have half an hour before Sofia and Arthur start their shifts.

     With a tight knot forming in my stomach, I realise Misty will leave soon. Mr Malefic will pick her up sometime today. It’s the painful burden of rearing horses. Once they become profitable, you have to let them go. Arthur will be happy to see it; he’s proud of the work he’s put into Misty. I, too, have my job to do today. Groaning, I get to my feet and wipe the hay from the fleece, kissing Misty on her brow before abandoning the warmth of her stall. I hear a distant grumble, and I reason that one of the farmers must be passing through to get to their fields.

      The shed door cries open as I step outside and into the blue sky this morning. It’s such a peaceful, almost innocent day. The magpie pecking at the tin roof has taken to cackling, and I watch it fly from the gutter towards—my heart drops.

     There is a black motorbike on my driveway whose rider is pulling off his helmet and shaking his dark hair. He’s wearing a leather jacket, which he pulls off to reveal a dark brown t-shirt hugging a strapping form. It’s…

      No. Oh fuck! I look down at my bare legs and feet. What was his name again? My mind tries to disperse all the recent trauma to focus on the simple task of remembering a bloody name. This is the worst timing in the world. And what the world is he doing on my farm? I tuck my phone and wand in my pocket before stepping out. My feet loudly crunch on the gravel despite how quiet I'm trying to be. He notices, turns, and salutes in my direction with a hand to his brow, military style.

     With a bright, what the fuck is happening, smile, I swallow my anxiety and pretend it’s just another morning, one where I ran out half-nude because I heard a commotion coming from the stables. Yes, that story should work. ' Morning!' I yell. 

     Approaching the road, I sense his eyes lowering to my scathed legs and feet. ‘Good morning...Hermione?’ I pretend not to notice how his greeting sounds like a question. ‘You’re Dainty Darling?’

     'Mr Malefic?’ I clear my gravely throat. ‘How unexpected. Well, good to see you!’ I say, slightly too chirpy. ‘I-I just ran out of bed…small emergency. I should be getting dressed before we begin, though.’ I laugh in a way that makes me internally cringe. ‘Are you okay with waiting a moment?’ 

    He smiles in return, appearing amused at my unlikely state. ‘Mm, sure,’ he leans into the motor, crossing his legs at the feet. ‘I apologise for arriving so early,’ he flicks his head toward the main road, ‘I could only book a trailer for this time.’

     Reaching the path’s end, I am struck by the proximity of his wild beauty. It makes me feel like shit when I've been hounded through a forest, forced on my hands and knees. Looking at him in the light, I think he could almost be related to… ‘That’s fine. I’m usually dressed at this time. Usually.’ I followed the direction of his head to see a distant glint of silver, indicating a pickup truck climbing the ascent towards the house with a large trailer in tow.

     ‘How have you been, pretty girl?’ he says teasingly, pulling my attention back, and I notice his dimples. 'Rough night?'

      My gut wrenches until I realise he’s playing with me from when I called him "pretty boy."          

      Virgil! That's it! I could almost weep at my sanity, returning and forming coherent thoughts that aren't overcast with my stalker's infliction of trauma. ‘I've had a long, long night,’ I admit to him with a huff. ‘Very tired. What about you, Virgil?’ I sense his eyes on my messy hair as the trailer pulls up.

      ‘Did you hurt yourself?’ his thick brows draw in concern as they focus on my forehead.

       Raising a hand, I graze the entire area until I feel the rugged gash. Pulling my hand back, I cringe at the torn skin. ‘It was probably when I tripped on my way to the stalls,’ I say with a sly smile. ‘I forgot to put my shoes on when I ran out.’ Brushing away the strands stuck to it, he watches me as the pickup parks with the trailer. It makes me feel so tense and... giddy.

       Am I smiling too much? My lips feel so dry and torn, and I probably look half-mad. When he says nothing, I comment, ‘Well, I should be going to get dressed before the driver comes out and gets a fright at my state.'

       Walking past, I'm shocked when he darts an arm out, catching me by the waist. ‘Let me help you with the cut.’

       ‘Wa-what?’ I look down at his arm nervously. ‘Don’t worry about it,’ I reach for his strong arm, trying to dislodge him subtly. When he doesn’t budge, I think of the first thing at the top of my head, ‘Um. How about a cup of tea or coffee for you and the trailer man?’

       He remains firm. ‘I can do that, too.’

       Meeting his eyes, I'm struck by their steady softness urging me to relent. ‘Oh. Ok. Thank you. I’ll go and get dressed then?’

       Virgil nods before turning to the trailer driver’s side door, which is opening.

       ‘Mr Wilder!’ a burly man bellows. ‘You flew past me and left me in bloody Caterthuns with the sheep fields!’

       Smiling brighter, I skip towards the house, bypassing the old fellow as quickly as possible. ‘I’ll be out to meet you in just a minute!’ The man looks at me, mouth agape, and I dart quicker towards the front door.

      Good god. Could my life get any worse? I’ve been trying to recall what it was like before my menace of a stalker infiltrated every corner of my peace. It must've felt like a holiday. Thankfully, the front door is still unlocked from when I abandoned its safety for the night's horrors.

      Taking the stairs, I unwillingly evoke the memory of his slick flesh forced into my mouth. How sick do you have to be to record something like that? It’s so bad. It’s so deranged. And what if he…Oh, god. Ron. Reaching the top of the upstairs, I dash to the bathroom and fall to my knees in front of the toilet. What comes up is mostly bile from an empty stomach…and probably his…I start retching at the thought of the salty taste, trying and failing to disperse the memory of the exact moment his hot liquid entered my throat and the way he held my head in place as he watched my face the entire time.

      Once I've dispersed what little contents I kept in my stomach, I rise on unsteady feet, gasping when I see my reflection in the mirror. My hair has taken to homing the forest and all its plant bodies. Dead leaves and elusive florae are tangled in the frizzy, knotted mass, and what I thought was raised skin on my temple is encrusted blood mixed with earth and tiny rocks.

      Washing it out, I see that the skin has scraped off. It must've been from when he forced my face into the harsh ground as he ate my fucking ass. At least brushing my teeth feels like a cleansing ritual, and I close my eyes at the small benediction it offers. 

      When I step into my bedroom, I glance distractedly at the bed, wishing I could collapse into it, hiding from Sofia, Virgil, Arthur, the trailer driver and the rest of my responsibilities. I empty the pockets of the riding fleece with my dreaded phone and useless wand before I begin to untangle my hair, which makes me teary from the pain. Then, I use the brush to guide it back into a firm bun at the base of my neck, and when I dress, it’s in a dark green knitted jumper and tight blue jeans that flare out over my black docs.

      It's more me than who I’ve been the last week. More Ron’s wife. And the Hermione whose heart dropped when the sorting hat started speaking into my head in the first year’s ceremony.

      ‘Mmm…clever. Far too clever for a Gryffindor. And your dreams…you would do well as a Slytherin,’ the sorting hat murmured.  

      ‘No, no, no!’ I screamed in my head. ‘The dreams are nightmares! They will kill me if I can’t escape them! Please! Put me in Gryffindor; I’ll work even harder if you do!’

      ‘Hmm. You may be right…but escaping them is also not the solution...’

       My heart dropped, expecting the worst.

       Gryffindor!’ the hat declared aloud. The cheering was thunderous, and my delight was infectious as my tense shoulders dropped, and I joined the table I had prayed to sit at.

       Harry once admitted that he was about to be sorted into Slytherin. He and I were sitting by the lake in the summer, and I nearly revealed my secrets to him during that rare and heartfelt moment. But I didn’t, and I’m glad I stopped myself when I spotted Draco’s white head in the distance between the trees.

       Bypassing the bed, I notice a pile of papers I must’ve moved from my office—no, not my papers. They are newspaper cutouts, a whole pile of them with moving pictures of the now deceased whose faces are a mystery to me.

      ‘Death Eater Slaughtered’

       I pull it away to see the following page.

      ‘Death Eater Found Mangled’

       And again.

      ‘Assumed Death Eater Found Dead’

       And again...

      ‘Death Eater Drowned’

      ‘Death Eater Executed’

      ‘Presumed Death Eater Found Hanging’

      ‘Death Eater Incinerated’

      ‘Death Eater Crucified’

       There are so many pages, some even in different languages. Where did these come from? I don’t remember seeing these articles during the war.

      ‘Death Eater’s Dropping Dead Like Flies. Who’s Behind The Terror?’

       The sound of the cooker clicking to life downstairs startles me. Virgil.

       Gathering the pile, I hide them in my bedside drawer lest Sofia question it. Taking the stairs, I can hear the sounds of cupboards being opened and closed, and when I reach the kitchen threshold, I'm struck by the sight. From behind, with his tattoos, Virgil could almost be my stalker making us coffee.

       Despite the large kitchen, he occupies the space like the laws of physics adapt to occupy him. His back is to me as he scoops sugar into three cups. ‘One, two?’ he asks. 'Surely not three?'

       I stammer with a chuckle, ‘T-two, please.' Joining his side, I watch him add milk only to two cups with a slight grin.

       ‘Why don’t you wear your wedding ring, Hermione?’ his tone is sombre.

       I’m so struck by the out-of-context question that I open my mouth and close it before attempting to answer him. I chew my bottom lip in thought. ‘I just don’t. I’m not sure why. Perhaps It's because I must take it off so often; I suppose I just get used to not wearing it altogether.’

      Virgil hums while reaching the stove to turn off the grumbling moka pot. It’s nice to see it being used. Sofia prefers the expensive machine Ron picked up on a whim, swearing that the Italian machine is far too complex for her liking.

      He still doesn't look at me when he says, ‘I lied to you.’

      His sudden admission startles me. ‘About what?’ I ask, nervously drumming my fingers on the counter. 

      He swiftly pours the black espresso into the cups before saying, ‘About thinking of living back here.’ He sets the moka back on the stove and stirs the cups. ‘In my defence, I thought about it and then decided I love the warmer weather too much.’ I nod absent-mindedly.

      Why am I focused intently on his tattoed forearms? Struck by what I'm doing, I look up at him, only to realise he's staring back at me, waiting to continue. 'Much to my family’s dismay, I acquired a villa in Italy in a small town near Naples. I'm renovating it. It's really quite lovely.’

     ‘That’s wonderful!’ I almost frighten myself with my shrieking tone. ‘But what about Misty?’ My brows draw together at the bizarre turn of events.

      Pouring his milk, he gives me a sidelong glance, chuckling before saying, ‘Misty? Is that her name?’ he offers me the cup with the same forearm that has a detailed blackbird on it. I accept the steaming cup with a polite nod. 'I’m purchasing Misty on my parent’s behalf. She will be fairly local to you; you can visit her whenever you like. They won’t mind.’

      I swirl the coffee in the cup with my two hands. ‘Does the same courtesy apply to staying in your Italian villa when you’re away?’ My tone is playful before taking a sip and realising with a quick swallow how strange that may sound, and I flush at the notion, turning my gaze to the tea towel neatly folded next to his mug.

      He leans his left hip into the counter with his cup in hand, facing me fully. ‘You’re welcome even when I’m there, all alone. You needn’t ask.’

      The words seize my attention, returning me to meet his grave expression. The outright words make me stop breathing. ‘You’re very kind,’ I recover quickly, sipping the coffee I realise is delightful and exactly how I like it. ‘Perhaps my husband and I will get one of our own if we ever decide to sell the farm.’

      Virgil smiles, both corners curving while lifting a suggestive brow before siping. Is he…? No, Hermione. Relax. Taunting and mocking is what my stalker does, not Virgil, who made us all coffee and offered to clean up the wound inflicted by my sociopath stalker. ‘Why don’t you sit down while I give Arnold his coffee before looking at you.’ He doesn’t wait for a response as he darts out the kitchen with the other cup in hand.

      When he's out of sight, I release a pent-up breath, wanting to shake off all this strange and unfamiliar energy settling in my body. Before sitting down, I retrieve the first aid kit from the sink cupboard and wait at the dining table, hearing Arnold's laughter breaking the silence of the morning. Whatever Virgil is saying is getting him going. It’s a pleasant sound, the liveliness of having men around. I sometimes need to remember how often Ron is absent. He doesn’t bother about the ins and outs of the farm and what happens with the horses when he is here. He doesn’t breathe down my neck at what I do and what I like to invest my energy into. The things that are mine belong only to me. It's how it's always been.

     ‘Why don’t you tell the camera who owns you, Hermione…who gets to fuck this tight little mouth?’ My heart flutters.

      The dark eyes that penetrate my thoughts are evil and possessive. And yet, seeing the monster's unmasked appearance offers me a strange solace. It helps to know I'm not imagining him; he exists in all his menacing glory. God’s, he’s beautiful in a wholly terrible way. Besides the obvious, there’s something wrong and familiar about him. I will have to visit Theodore and—

      ‘Something on your mind?’

       Looking up from musing into the black mirror of my coffee, I offer Virgil a nervous laugh while watching him approach the table. ‘I have a lot to do today. I’ll probably have to leave you with Arthur when he arrives.' I glance at the clock above the stove. ‘Soon.’

      He kneels before me, grabs the red box, and opens the first aid kit on my lap atop my thighs. ‘No worries,’ he mutters, picking out a packet of sterilising wipes. ‘No bandage then? If you'll be going out...’

      ‘Just a small one, please,’ I encourage, and he picks out the brown dressing. Staring at his head bowed in front of me, I nearly drifted back to the previous night.

      ‘When does your husband return?’

       I'm chewing my lip when I reply, ‘I can’t be sure. He reappears when the jobs are finished, mostly by surprise. I’ll probably call him to see how he’s doing later today.’

       He tears the plastic, pulling out the damp wipe and unravelling it. ‘If he’s still busy tomorrow, maybe I could take you somewhere? I know a few spots that would take your breath away, and we could get something to eat.’

       Virgil lifts the wipe to my forehead, our faces a few inches away, and I flush as my expected reply waits on the tip of my tongue.

       ‘It’s just friendly, Hermione. You have nothing to worry about when it comes to me. I’m a good boy,’ he reassures, grinning wolfishly. This close, I smell his overwhelmingly heady cologne and something sweet in his breath underneath the coffee. ‘You seem lonely here. Admittedly, I would like some company. It's a little drab and isolated up here, wouldn't you say?’

       I don’t even feel the cold bite of the wipe as it meets my cut. I’m too hyper-aware of our proximity and his up-close features. His eyes flick to mine, and I quickly avert them. ‘That’s very thoughtful.’ Should I be asking Ron for approval? I don’t think he’d even care. ‘You know what, I’d usually say no, but in this case, I could do with a change of scenery. I'd be happy to take you up on that.’

       Virgil smiles that sinfully dimpled look, discarding the wipe into the empty packet and using small silver scissors to cut the brown dressing.

       'Good girl,' he mutters, almost underneath his breath, shaping the bandage to fit the cut. ‘I’ll pick you up just before lunchtime. Sound good?’

       ‘Good morning everyone!’ Sofia bellows, making me jump. I glance over Virgil’s shoulder and see her waiting by the archway. ‘Did something happen to you? Arthur’s just turned up. He's asking for you.’

       Virgil looks over his shoulder and greets Sofia, who is flustered at perceiving him and his startling beauty. ‘Hermione had a little fall this morning. But it was nothing that I couldn’t take care of, isn’t that right?’

       They both look at me expectantly. ‘Virgil was almost too helpful,’ I tease, sensing my cheeks reddening while flicking my head toward the stove. ‘He made us all coffee, too.’

       Sofia glances at the stove. ‘Oh! What a darling. How kind of you! That old machine terrifies me!’ They begin exchanging polite conversation while Virgil places the bandage on my cut. He fluctuates between focusing on the task and meeting my eyes with an intensity that leaves me winded when he steps away.

       I can tell that Sofia is already falling in love with him. And the realisation hits me like I'm plummeting to my death: a reality I never gave voice to. With Ron, I gave this married life my all. Through all the years of caring for him, I’ve continuously settled for the bare minimum, shrugging off his forgetfulness and excusing that he isn't as romantic as I wished. I've never asked him to grovel for me. Would I like him to? Of course. After last night and the other abrupt realisation I had… this is not a good sign, and I should be worried about what tomorrow with Virgil will prove.

Chapter Text

      ‘Theo! Are you home? I know…’ The dim lamp above his door is flickering ominously. It’s nighttime where he lives, in northernmost Canada, and besides the unfamiliar darkness, I can hear the thunderclouds rolling in. The next burst of lightning is pink, illuminating the giant pines that climb the distant mountains in an ethereal light. 'I'm sorry I'm visiting so late, but I need you desperately!'

       There's a long silence, and I’m gawking at the bright, distant strikes when the door suddenly opens, and I fall into Theodore's front. ‘What are you doing?’ he catches me in his fluffy grey dressing gown. ‘We are all sleeping!’

       I straighten before saying, ‘I’m so sorry! But…we need to talk, Theo. I’m scared for my life.’ I stumble over myself while trying to recover my bearing and sanity. ‘I need your help, and it can't wait.' The landing light to the upstairs flicks on. We both turn at the sound of slippers dragged, and I see a mass of long blonde hair swaying over the mahogany railing shortly after.

      ‘Hermione?’ a sweet voice croaks out. ‘Are you alright?’

       Peering up at Amata, Theo’s wife, I notice she's rubbing her eyes before glancing between us. ‘Hey Amata, it’s so good to see you. I’m so sorry to have woken you. Theodore and I—’

       ‘Will be in my study. Go back to sleep, darling,’ Theo intercedes.

       Amata smiles weakly at me. ‘Ok, grumpy. We’ll catch up soon, Hermione. You are welcome to stay as long as you like, regardless of what he says,’ she assures, suppressing a yawn before shuffling back down the corridor and turning the light off.

      Theo’s looking at me as if he’s battling to decide whether to glare at me for waking his beloved or admit concern at my abrupt arrival. ‘Come,’ he turns, letting the door shut behind me.

      As we travel through the downstairs corridors, the lights come on individually when passing through each area. It’s safe to say that Amata and Theodore live like royalty. Everywhere I glance, rich red and glimmering gold hues decorate the rooms. Some are more lavishly done, while others have a more subtle influence. From what I learned, Theo inherited this home from his parents shortly after he and Amata declared their engagement. I can still recall the disbelief and controversy their coupling caused. Ron said that Theo’s actions perfectly befit those of a Death Eater’s son. It made me want to slap some sense into him, but he doesn't know that we were (dare I admit) friends in the first place.

      All it takes is one glance at the pair to see that fate had meant to bring them together despite Amata being his adopted sister. It makes me want to fight anyone who questions their love. ‘Amata looks well,’ I comment to break the silence when he holds the door open for me to enter the study.

      ‘She is well,’ he retorts bluntly. ‘Tell me what you need so that I can get back to her.’

       I'm tempted to roll my eyes. He's always the charmer. ‘Does The Serpent and The Blackbird have any meaning to you?’ I say, resolving to start with the tattoo I noticed on my stalker’s body.

       Theo clears his throat, releases the door once I’m through it, and dashes towards his private book collection. ‘Actually, it does.’ He pulls out a flowery journal. ‘What does it have to do with your emergency?’

       Oh god. This is it. ‘So,’ I begin before sitting on the plush red armchair before his desk. ‘I have a stalk—book to write, and I came across a discussion about it that concerns a topic I want to cover.' 

       'That includes the serpent and blackbird?' he encourages.

       ‘Tremendously long story short, but yes,' I agree quickly, startled by my sudden lie. Why am I not telling him? 

       Without pressing the topic, he swivels on his chair, giving his back to me and flicking through the book he holds like it’s the most delicate holy thing on earth. ‘This was Amata’s journal from when we lived together as children.' He flicks several pages with thoughtful care. 'She loved the myth of the Serpent and The Blackbird and adapted it in her words because she hated the stuffy tone of the scholar who famously wrote their forgotten story.'.

      ‘Can I read it?’ I ask, half expecting a rejection by how precious it seems. 

       He turns back to me. ‘Sure. I don’t believe Amata would mind. She... loves you. Do you know that? 

      ‘And I love her too,’ I smile earnestly, almost choking on the words while accepting the floral hardback. ‘I promise my next visit will be to spend time with her.’

       Theo nods, taking a seat behind the desk. I find the passage almost immediately. It’s the only one bookmarked with a red ribbon with "Theodore" written in a fancy girlish font on the fabric. But despite the calligraphy on the ribbon, the text in the book is carefully written and precise. I smile at the meticulous care Amata took to make it easily legible.

       ‘It’s supposedly a true story,’ Theo says just as I was about to delve in. ‘From before the wizarding and muggle world as we know it from history. The tale is a fragment of the countless lost from when we all began in this world. I guess you could call it a genesis of sorts.’

          The Serpent and The Blackbird

When the stars still endowed their names to the children of earth and the soil was dredged with rich charcoal from the eruptions that wouldn’t settle, sovereignties emerged on the fresh land, and the few that prospered were reigned by families who could trace their lineage to the divinities. Their idols were animal gods, hawk-faced, serpent-tailed, with taloned feet dipped in pollen that would spread the life-giving gold across all the nascent florae. As a tribute to their gods, the people’s rulers established themselves in their image by decorating their bodies in plant inks and crafting visuals of coiling serpents and birds in flight.

Their settlements were adorned similarly, with pillars of full-fleshed maidens holding the beasts that were symbols of virulence and liberation, illuminated by dusks so red—crimson as a girl’s monthly blood, and by dawns a pale fuchsia—pink as a boy’s cheeks after a brawl.

At the time, the silence between the trees had a voice—Adder.

The spirit, called Adder, was innate to any girl born of the serpent-tailed lineage. This was how Semele knew that she was bound to guide the sovereignty, destined to her adopted brother’s side, Cadmus, the boy who had loathed her since childhood and whose entire body was scoped with visuals from the forest so dark that even Adder squirmed at the sight. With eyes so hungry, Adder feared he could devour the world before settling on his promised bride.

But delicate and poignant, Semele wasn’t frightened of him.

Semele worshipped the earth and all its elusive paradoxes. For all her days, she wore white fabrics when she walked the land, covering the sheer skirts in sticky plants dusted with ochre clay and small petals of all colours. Wandering the mountains without coverings on her feet, her soles were firm, allowing her to dance on the burning coals when the monthly festivals were celebrated. With her long brown hair spiralling with the wind, she did not mind that Cadmus watched grimly as she danced, slitting his deadly eyes when one of the other boys asked her to twirl for them.

In their home, he rarely said more than two words to her. Yet Cadmus was never far behind when she meandered through Adder’s forest realms. He knew the trees would oblige to shelter him; he saw how the shadows favoured him. The people said he had no soul—a king that would harbour no empathy, and from stalking Semele, he believed their whispered derisions. He had watched her for so long; he knew every dip and curve of her naked flesh. When she lifted her face to the sun-streaked canopy above, he anticipated the exact colouring of her eyes: russet and emerald, his favourite hues.  

Semele, bemused to Cadmus, knew he was trailing her.

She swiftly climbed tall trees, waiting to see if he would scale them, hoping to find the nest of leaves that could bed them. She stripped her white robes, yearning for his shadow to discover her beneath the waterfalls that were foamy enough to keep them secreted.

But he never did.

It was in the heat of late summer that their unifying ceremony was celebrated. Semele gathered all the forest’s duskiest shrubs to form a crown on her head—as opaque as his eyes and with flecks of gold that imitated the strands of his blonde curls. When her time came to be inked, before they would recite their promises, she asked her sister priestess to illustrate what Adder had shown her in a dream. It was a serpent forcing its way into a blackbird’s open beak, its rippling body coiling around the modest creature’s innocent bones. It wasn’t like the pleasant and harmless visuals Semele had loved to follow on her mother’s skin with her fingertips. But it was for her and Cadmus, and Adder had assured her it was beautiful.

She desperately wanted Cadmus to see her in all her dark crown and lovely ink glory. But he didn't glance her way, not until, with a smile, Semele repeated aloud her promise to love him for all his days while beholding his cavernous eyes, which had no choice but to see her now in front of all their people, proclaiming their vows.

Cadmus didn’t smile back, and when it was his turn to recite his promise to her, he didn’t state it aloud as he should. He leaned into her ear and whispered, ‘To devour and demolish your loveliness for all your days, little sister.’

It turned her spine as cold as the glaciers from the faraway peaks.

Thinking he was satisfied that he had successfully frightened her, Semele leaned into him and, with a barely suppressed tremor, said, ‘Yes, big brother. You will.' Grasping his cheek, she held him close as she solidified her final vow.

‘And you will continue to worship me in all my woodland lustre from your tenebrous darks among the trees for all your days.’

Her curved lips remained steady with each word, for she felt that Adder was right about him. His unfulfilled heart needed her fear, but she wouldn’t give it to him. Cadmus showed no indication of the impression she left him with. His face had always been perpetually sombre, leering at sweet Semele to the very moment they kissed to bind their union—

And his lips were not kind.

They devoured her like she was the blackbird in her ink that the serpent would not rest until it had swallowed it entirely. She had anticipated it. It equally did not surprise her when, that night, while the celebrations and lanterns were still floating towards the sky realms, their people revelling fervently below, he dragged her to the balcony of their new home that overlooked the dim trees beneath a full and yearning moon. His hold on her arm was firm, but she followed eagerly.

‘Get on your knees before your king,’ he ordered.

Semele obliged, her eyes never leaving his while welcoming the cold bite of stone on her skin. Unable to resist, he finally stroked the dark crown atop her head, grazing the soft skin of her cheekbone on the way down. His hand faintly trembled at the connection, and the tips of his fingers browsed over her breasts, the same ones he had dreamed of caressing, knowing they would feel as velvety as flower petals.

‘Don’t you think this is wrong? You have been given to a wolf. No one can save you from me now that you’re mine.’

Semele held her chin steady. ‘Why speak of right and wrong when the wolf treads the same grasslands that grow the tender flowers?’

He watched her eyes sparkle with the starlight.

‘If you know who I am, why won’t you say it?’ his voice held an ominous quality, but Semele felt warm beneath it. 'Reveal to the light how terrible I am, wanting to taint your dais with my menacing lust and lies.'

‘Adder says you belong to the people of Erebus,’ her voice was gentle, filled with a vernal essence. 'Adder says your family's people are hollow-hearted. Their king—your father, is despicable.'

His smile showed his teeth. ‘And you are of the people of Hemera: verdant-eyed and tranquil. If your parents knew, they would renounce me. I would be executed for my duplicity, and you would be free to love a better man.’

Semele nodded.

‘Why are you not telling them, little sister?’

Semele's lips curved. ‘Because I know I can love you and not be overturned by your darkness.’

He growled, trembling the weak moonlight bathing the tips of the fir trees.

‘Are you certain about that?’

She nodded confidently.

With darkened eyes, he fell to his knees, meeting her unwavering composure before pushing her back so the feminine glow of the moon above obstructed her spine. Swarming above her, his blonde curls formed a halo around his lovely face that Semele received with parted legs. He crawled into her body, the very aspect of her soul, and she expected his biting and roughness when they consummated the beginning of their life together.

Cadmus, despite his loathing, consumed Semele like she was something holy. He had never tasted a sweeter fragility.

Her fierce eyes watched him devour the aspect of her divinity, the flush flesh between her legs, and Cadmus, though sharp-tongued and austere, held her amorously by the throat as he buried into her with a passion made to combust.

Semele was pregnant with Aether by the spring, Eros by the following summer, and Gaea and Caelus over two more winters. Her formidable husband ruled with an iron fist, but Semele was the voice behind his fairness and empathy, and Cadmus would be close behind wherever Semele was.

Adder would often catch a glimpse of white fabric darting between the trees. Surely enough, the wolf that hunted sweet Semele was the one who worshipped the young mother’s altar from full moon to blue moon, bathing her dais in a generous fire. It was evident to all who minded the king and queen that callous Cadmus could not exist without serene Semele and vice versa.

To honour his darkness, Semele had to love it inside of herself.

To worship her light, Cadmus had to feel Semele’s surrender.

The way that she trusted him when he had never known a gentle thing—forever reflecting the forest heart in her eyes when she knew he was watching from the shades. She thought they were always her woodland darks, for Semele was the daughter of life-giving trees and their dancing, dappled shades belonged to her.

      Ping! 'What's that?' Theo asks, glancing at me curiously. 'We don't get a signal here.'

       With a startled breath, I pull out my phone from the wollen coat I put on before leaving Virgil with Arthur. 

       Unknown Number:

       Did you enjoy the story of us, my sweet little sister, Semele?            

Chapter Text

     I've read the myth of Semele and Cadmus before, but when did I? Why can’t I remember knowing it? This forgetfulness reminds me of the dismal reality that I'm confronted with a block whenever I pry into my brain about what occurred before and throughout the war. It's not only that. I'll often forget what I did yesterday and the day before.

     Only this time, and in Theo’s fleeting absence, my fingers curl around my throat before grazing my bandaged temple, almost like my body’s offering me an indication of where my trauma originates.

      I have been haunted for as long as I can remember. And yet, I couldn’t conjure up an image of whom or what was haunting me. From what I can piece together, I have been troubled since I was little. Back then, I called the entity skulking at the end of my bed my stalker. Regardless of how much it traumatised me, I don't remember what he looked like. My mother, who has forgotten all the crucial aspects of my life, once brought him up during one of our monthly coffee dates. The recollection shook me; her words made my body tremble, and I dropped the hot coffee all over my lap as the tenuous entity reemerged in my thoughts after years of absence.

      When I got home that afternoon, I had entirely forgotten about it. I ran to Ron's office with something on the brink of my tongue that vanished. 

      My mother, who writes my birthday on her calendar, told me about an old ghost who caused havoc in her life during my infancy. Strangely, I've become more of an unreachable ghost to her than my childhood phantom. Navigating my memories now, I can only trace the entity so far into the timeline of my fragmented life. From what I recall, the ghost and his dark visions are why I was terrified of being sorted into Slytherin in the first place. Though the stalker stopped visiting me when I started at Hogwarts, I should have felt less haunted, but I didn’t.

      Why didn’t you, Hermione? Why were you so upset on your wedding day? Those same old questions resurface, and more…Draco Malfoy.

      The boy I went to school with whose memory from my past is in utter pieces. He used to send me notes, and I can still remember many of them. But there has to be more: the thought of him alone clenches my throat, and my temples persistently itch. But also my heart. It begins to beat wildly, making my stomach flutter in that girlish way that all of Ginny’s romance novels describe. I've never once felt this throughout my relationship with Ron.

       It makes little sense.

      Draco was callous when I went to him during the war. But even those memories are nebulous and rarely reliable. And what’s worse, our time at school is arguably the most mysterious to me. Whenever I start to evoke him in a way that feels all-consuming—spiralling my depression and anxiety, that little voice in my head reminds me to drink my calming elixirs and to accept my coffee. But I have only taken one tincture recently—my stalkers—that second night when he pretended to dangle Arthur’s livelihood over my head. It didn’t occur to me the following days to reach for my usual alleviants.

     ‘How did Draco die?’ I ask Theo, who returns to the office with two cups of steaming tea.

      ‘The Dark Lord executed him when he discovered his betrayal. You know this already. It was plastered on The Daily Prophet for a week.’

      ‘How did—’ I hesitate when thinking about the name. ‘How did Voldemort find out about his duplicity?’

      He takes a slow and thoughtful sip before replying, ‘Who knows, Granger. There were so many Death Eaters disappearing and remerging deceased that they stopped documenting the hows and whys. No one cared as long as they were dead.’

      The cutouts on my bed! ‘But then who killed all those Death Eaters?’

      Theo sets the cup on the dish before shrugging his shoulder, ‘If I knew the answers, I’d likely be in Azkaban, wouldn’t I? Regardless of what my father was, I didn’t conspire with the Death Eaters or hear about their doings. It was a galling period for my family, and I was only trying to keep Amata safe. That’s all I cared about.’

       Downing the tea, I feel unsteady as I get to my feet. ‘Thank you so much for this, and again, I’m sorry for waking you and your family.’

       'Already?' His sincere, worried eyes almost make me buckle and tell him everything. 'You can stay—'

       'My head is pounding,' I reply sincerely. It really feels like it's about to burst, and the remainder of our interaction leaves me as soon as I step outside, half-dazed and tethered to reality.

       The fireplace whirls around me, and I fall to my knees when the floo network returns me home. I can still feel the thunder and glacial wind from the Canadian landscape prickling the back of my neck. I’m sure an impending panic attack is on the horizon. Every muscle shudders and my heart feels like it’s about to drop. Glancing at the ticking clock for a distraction, I notice it’s just after lunchtime, and the distant sound of shuffling feet drawing nearer startles me back to my feet.

       ‘Hermione, is that you?’ Sofia hollers from the kitchen.  

       ‘I’m back!’ I reply. ‘Hopefully, just in time for lunch. I'm starving.' I glance outside the large window to where Virgil and Arnold parked earlier this morning, noting that they’re gone, and their absence fills me with an inexplicable sadness. I love being lonely, so why am I mourning the dark-haired stranger who made me coffee? The shuffling from the kitchen continues until Sofia stands at the living room archway, holding a tray with a bowl of chicken salad and a cup of coffee in my favourite cat mug.

      I smile brightly. ‘I’ll have the coffee later, thank you. It doesn’t feel like enough time since I had Virgil’s espresso this morning. I’ll get myself a water instead.’

      Her brows knit tightly together before she sways to the table with the tray, her red floral skirt billowing with the movement. ‘Ok. But make sure you drink it later. I’ll leave it in the microwave so you can quickly warm it up before returning to work. It'll help you focus.’

      I’m about to enter the kitchen when her words freeze me: drink your coffee, Hermione. Take your herbs, Hermione. The guilt, shame and hurt will fall away when you do. All the Death Eaters are gone, Hermione. You are safe. You are with Ron now.’

      I’m studying when Sofia and Arthur drive away, absently rereading the same line I typed over an hour ago. I'm growing convinced that I can't think straight at home. Has It always been like this? That inward voice from earlier has wholly drifted away, leaving a bewildered Hermione in her own clutches. What was I toiling about at Theo’s? Was it something about Hogwarts? The bright computer screen reminds me that it will get dark soon, that I should eat dinner and get comfortable in bed, while that bizarre nagging in my immediate thoughts reminds me that I need to drink that coffee.

      Ring! Ring! Ring!

      Thankfully, I took a bath after lunch to distract myself after Ron texted me, asking me to hike up the hill to call him where the signal was better.

      Ring! Ring! Ring! He keeps ringing me. It's so insistent; I'm growing more irritated with each vibration. Clicking the bottom for the lock screen, I silence the irritating sound before massaging my head. The soothing action makes me realise I don’t want to think, talk, or pretend. Instead of returning to my screen, I look down, noticing the writing on my jumper. It’s the same one I wore days ago. Another item of clothing that I buy and hide away from myself. In the deep darkness of my wardrobe, as if I am ashamed of my peculiar tastes.

       Calamus Gladio Fortior—the pen is mightier than the sword. I’m not wearing tights this time, and when I slink into my Crookshanks-looking slippers, I do so with bare feet, not even caring that I’m wearing a baggy jumper over nothing. It doesn’t matter what I wear when I get sexually assaulted. It happens regardless. I might as well walk around my lonely house as I usually would.

      God. The amount of sexual intercourse I’ve had in the last week is far more than I've recently indulged with Ron.

      Walking down the stairs, I’m determined to uncover the mystery of my daily coffee. It’s funny that I barely needed a wand until recently; now, I won’t leave a room without it when I’m alone. I heard Sofia turning the lights off before she left. At least I’m not startled when I reach the foyer painted with dusk's shadows. It’s strangely refreshing to walk into the darkness willingly. I’m going to enjoy my evening. I will ignore my stalker if he taunts me, and I will continue watching a comfort movie until it's finished while eating the Chinese Sofia ordered and received for me before she left. 

      Entering the living room, I find the standing lamp nearest the window, a vintage find I’m in love with, and reach beneath the pink velvet-textured shade to turn it on. It turns on and off. Noticing something at the corner of my eye, I whirl to the window and almost jump out of my skin.

      ‘Really?! Do I not get a fucking break to eat my dinner and watch a movie!’ I mutter at the looming dark figure, knowing I don’t need to raise my voice to be heard. He’s resumed wearing his creepy mask minus the cloak. Instead, his imposing and strapping form is highlighted in a cream linen shirt similar to the one the night before, rolled up to the elbows and with the black leather vest on top of it. He must’ve fallen out of his hell-bound bed and forgot to do up half the buttons; his tatted chest can be glimpsed through a long slit in the fabric.

      Is he trying to seduce me so I’ll be more submissive? It’s not going to work, pal! He only cocks his head in response, taking a long drag with his other hand in his pocket, leaning further into the railing as if he’s getting comfortable.

      Rolling my eyes, I walk to the sofa to retrieve the remote, and thankfully, the screen comes to life in the growing darkness of the room. I pretend he’s not prying into my life as I navigate the options, feeling pressure as if I should be picking something for us both. Would it be strange to watch a romance? I did fancy a little lighthearted fun. I decide on Letters to Juliet, leaving it on the play menu before leering at the window where he remains precisely as I found him, and venture to the kitchen where my dinner awaits.

      I dish the vegetable noodles, egg fried rice, and beef in black bean sauce into my bowl, which is the only sound in the strange silence. I’m half expecting to fight him with my wand and spoon if it comes to it, but he doesn’t materialise. In his place, I hear the sound of a lamp switching on. When I re-emerge into the warmly lit living room, I see that the lamp on the other side is lit, keeping him in the dark by the window, and goodness, is he still smoking?

      ‘Such a creep,’ I comment before settling into the sofa with my legs crossed, adjusting my jumper over my nudity and clicking play. I’m so hungry I don’t even care that I have an audience. I scoop the delicious food into my mouth as if it’s something holy, forgetting about my qualms and ridiculous coffee conspiracy. When I lap up the last grains of rice and juices from the beef, I realise how thirsty I am and watching Amanda Seyfried drinking wine in Italy isn’t helping. Testing my luck, I get up with the empty bowl, meet his eerie presence after a twenty-minute obliviousness, and raise a brow as I pass him to return to the kitchen.

      The faint blue of day quickly vanishes outside, and I can barely make him out. ‘Want one?’ I raise my middle finger, snickering. ‘As if, you psycho!’

      Once in the kitchen, I pour a generous glass of red—and I mean plentiful—before deciding to bring the bottle so I don’t have to keep passing the window for refills. Just before I leave, an idea urges me to pluck my hand into the utensil drawer quietly, and I pull out a small wooden handle. Returning to the living room, I don’t look at him this time as I settle back into the sofa, bringing a thick blanket over my naked legs and my hand that clutches the handle tightly. Looking at the main character's shitty boyfriend, I realise with a heavy heart that he and Ron have much in common. 

      Ron also hates this movie. He usually leaves when I watch anything he deems ‘girly tosh,’ meaning whatever he finds too ‘lovey-dovey.’ It's no surprise, considering Ron is the same man who wouldn’t know my love language even if it slapped him in the face. Booking our honeymoon to Greece was my call; even celebrating birthdays and Valentine's Day means I am organising a dinner date or a weekend away. My throat is taught as I admire the beautiful landscape of Italy. At this point, I’d even take Virgil up on his offer to stay at his villa, uncaring that he may be there, too. Pour another glass down me and give me his phone number, and I’d arrange it—

      Peeping at the window from the sudden intrusion, I see my stalker lighting another cigarette with my freaking old wand! The warm light is illuminating his perfectly chiselled face and devilish grin, observing me with those penetrating eyes. What an asshole! I work my jaw before dramatically refilling my glass, lifting it to him in a mocking salute, taking a long sip and feeling giddy at the fire stirring in my belly. I suddenly realise how bizarre it is to have the same man who forcefully licked my pussy and asshole before planting his dick in my mouth perched calmly outside my window while I enjoy a quiet girl time.

      Studying him longer than I should, I’m increasingly angry at remarking how enigmatic he can be. It should be illegal for stalkers to be that attractive, and that cherry is lighting up way more than any regular cigarette should. My eyes drift down to his open shirt...

      When I realise what I’m doing, I quickly wrench my attention back to the movie, pulling a muscle on my neck. Ping! The sound makes my spine jerk, but I don’t look out the window to confirm who it is. Still, I retrieve my phone from the pillow, relieved Ron—at least—has stopped for the night. Some wizards get the hint.

     Unknown Number:

     Come outside and smoke with me.

      Reading the ridiculous invitation, I audibly scoff before replying. 

      Me:

      I look pretty comfortable, don’t I?

      Unknown Number:

      Do as you’re told.

      Throwing daggers at the window, my fingers type without needing my attention.

      Me:

       I’m still watching my movie, so you can kindly go and fuck yourself. Thank you. BYE.

       Unknown Number:

       I like the thought of fucking you much, much better.

       My heart is hammering out of my chest in anticipation. Ping!

       Unknown Number:

       Move it before I fetch you.

       ‘I’m halfway through the fucking movie!’ I yell at the window, and glancing back at the TV, I see that they are almost at the part of finding Claire’s long-lost love, Lorenzo, which always brings tears to my eyes. ‘It’s the second to the best part!’

       He takes a long drag, showing me his glowering expression. I’m fuming as I slip into my feral cat slippers, trudging sluggishly towards the foyer with my wand and discreet weapon. I wish I’d brought my blanket when I opened the front door. Shit. I’m already shaking outside—probably because of the wine. Looking at him in the corner in all his menacing glory, I realise it’s because he’s effortlessly fear-inducing with his eyes boring into my soul through the semi-darkness.

       I leave the door open. ‘Want to talk?’ I cross my arms over my chest. ‘Delete. The. Video. Blackmailing me won’t work! It’s revolting that you’re dangling such a despicable thing over a married woman’s head.’

       He takes a long, thoughtful drag. Silence.

       He exhales, extending a hand towards me; I notice a cigarette between his thumb and forefinger, and I break the small distance to take it, suppressing my inward good girl who uses her manners when accepting anything.

       Just as quickly, I return to my spot at the door before he tries anything, realising too late that I don’t have a light, but just as the realisation strikes, it abruptly lights itself. ‘Silent game, huh?’ I inhale, watching him with slitted eyes while suppressing a cough. ‘It’s rude,’ I say with a gravelly voice.

       My stalker chuckles.

       The shiver that racks my spine makes me grit my teeth through the exhale. I try for a change of subject, ‘What’s the serpent and the blackbird got to do with anything?’

       In response, he flexes his shoulders, rolling them backwards, and holy hell. I shouldn’t have drank so much wine. He's sexy when he should be as dreadful as his words and actions. His tone is low and inviting, and he says, ‘Like I said. It’s our story.’ He exhales, grinning out, ‘Little sister.’

      ‘We don’t have a story. You terrorise my life and bring me trauma. The. End,’ I point out before inhaling and squirming at how much I absentmindedly took in.

      He laughs in a low way that should condemn him straight to hell, where he rightfully belongs. ‘Is that a no to the tattoo I have planned for you?’

      ‘Are you delusional? There is no way—’ He suddenly straightens and steps towards me.

      ‘No way, what? That I won’t do what I want with my little sister?’

      My mouth is dry from staring at him in horror before virtually slurring, ‘Stop calling me that. It’s disgusting.’

      ‘Hmm?’ he takes another step, all fire and brimstone, summoning the shadows with his intimidating and deadly beauty. That alluring open chest draws nearer and nearer, and I’m suddenly eager to know what other perverse tattoos he harbours—Merlin’s beard. I’m way too past sobriety for this.

      ‘Prove it,’ he declares in that husky tone.

      I take a nervous drag, not even noticing the bite as his darkened face crowds me in. ‘Prove what?’

      He smiles. ‘That you don’t like it.’

      ‘How am I meant to prove the obvious?’ I flick the cigarette, and my fingers tremble when he takes another step, allowing me to see the haunting patterns on his spine-chilling mask rippling with their shimmering light, bringing its savage splendour to life. He takes a drag, eyes unflinching, and he’s so close that I can taste the smoke as it leaves his lips.

     ‘Prove. It.’

      I try not to cringe as I bite out, ‘No. I won’t, big brother. Is that what you want me to say? To play along with your sick fantasies? Because I refuse to be as vile as you are.’

      His smile widens. ‘See?’ The smoke billows and morphs into strange shapes around us: skulls, flying birds, and serpents snaking through the underbrush. ‘I think little sister likes being bad…’ He takes that last step that crowds me in and forces me backwards, straight into the doorframe. ‘She likes being hounded and conquered.’ His free hand reaches for the wall next to my head as he leans into my ear and whispers, ‘Should I check just how much she likes it?’

      My gulp is irritatingly perceptible. The hand holding a cigarette is now lifting something black towards me. ‘My wand!’ I squeal. ‘How did you—’

     ‘Clumsy,’ he begins, using the tip to prompt my chin up so I look directly into his eyes. ‘Keep your eyes on me.’

     ‘NO! I fucking won’t!’ I grate out and turn away, dropping my lit cigarette, but he forces my face back with the wand, painfully imprinting the tip into my chin.

     ‘Be a good girl, or little sister gets punished. Understood?’ The wood tip leaves my chin and trails a downward path from my neck to my chest, settling between my breasts. ‘This again?’ he sneers. ‘I’m starting to think you’re daring me to show you how severely the sword splits.’

     The wand lowers again, finding the end of my jumper and lifting—‘Stop it!’ I say firmly, loathing how intense it feels to look at each other this way. It’s intimidating, and I’m confident it’s exactly what he intended.

     ‘Stop it…what?’ he prompts.

     Oh god. ‘Stop it, big brother—what the fuck is wrong with you. You’re sick! This fantasy of yours is completely FUCKED UP!’ I’m trying to twist my body from his solid hold as my wand keeps lifting until the breeze tickles my bare pussy, making my thighs clench. I wince when the wood touches my skin until I realise it isn’t wood; his fingers are trailing a path straight to my folds.

      ‘My good little Semele, doing as her brother says,’ he purrs, and just as he says it, his fingers find my slit, teasing the area before journeying closer to my entrance that’s slicked with the evidence of my arousal. He dips a finger in, returning to massage my clit, and my eyes feel heavy as they blink slowly at him while I try to suppress any other indication of his influence.

       I release a moan, and when I do, I press the bottom on the small wooden handle, and the blade slides out, cutting my fingers in the process. It all happens so quickly. I stab him in the stomach, burying the metal as far as it will go. He makes no sound, and then I’m spun around with my hands forced together over my head where the steel buries in the back of my hand, trickling thick veins of blood down my arm.

      The scream that ripped out of me was so loud that the birds startled out of the trees.

      ‘I warned you, didn’t I?’ His hand starts kneading my ass. ‘If little sister convinces me she can be good, her hand will get healed once we’re finished,’ he murmurs, pulling his hand away.

      ‘I’ll b-be gu-good.’ A punitive slap landing on my right cheek makes me shriek, clouding my vision. He draws back, slapping the same area again and again. I’m loudly sobbing when his hand stops grazing the raw area, venturing down the valley of my ass and back to my pussy.

      ‘I’ve never seen a slit this wet, ‘ he croons, withdrawing his fingers, and I hear what sounds like raucous sucking happening close to my ear. ‘Does it turn you on to know how many Death Eaters I’ve killed for you, baby?’

       I shudder, and despite the pain, blood and pleasure, I still manage to squeal out, ‘You di-did tha-that?’

       He chuckles, bringing his hand to the blood pouring down my arms. ‘And I’d do it again. But first,’ he drenches the tips in the red-hot liquid. ‘It’s your husband’s head on the spike.’

       I hear the same sucking sound as he did with my pussy’s juices, moaning at the taste or whatever revolting hedonism it gives him to consume my blood.

       ‘Over my de-dead bo-body,’ I assert weakly. I’m shaking so violently from a loss of strength and the cascade pouring down my arrested arms. It makes me feel like a fucking sacrifice, and I'm almost sure he does it to feed and satiate whatever darkness makes him who he is.

      ‘Say that again,’ he orders, finding my pussy and playing with it, teasing the pleasure out of me. 

       ‘Over…Mhmm.’ I can’t manage the rest; I’m lightheaded, and my eyes roll back.

       ‘Mhmm, what?’ his hand is ruthless, massaging my pussy in a devastating way.  

       ‘I’ll—’ his fingers trail the length of my slit to soak in the wetness before returning to my clit and increasing his rhythm. ‘Mhmm...’

       He snickers. ‘Back to Mhmm, are we?’ Something cold near my left breast makes me shrink— his hand. It begins kneading the flesh, cupping the entire thing before deciding to tease my firm nipple, pinching and flicking it. ‘Will hearing me threaten him again help you come?’

       I shake my head in defiance, not bothering to try for words.

       He chuckles. ‘Drench my fingers, and once we’re finished, you’ll go to bed and get up nice and early for your date tomorrow.’ Virgil? Does he know about him? ‘And when you come home, you can expect a punishment for being such a lying whore.’

       ‘Mhmm?’ I try to murmur my question through the blinding pleasure.

       ‘Mhmm, what?’ his fingers leave my clit and plunge straight into my entrance, climbing and curling against my sweet spot. ‘Use your words.’ Fuck my life. I might pass out any moment now! The knife leaves my wrist and thuds somewhere behind us. Then, that familiar warmth begins at my palm, encompassing the entirety of my hand and slowly melting the agony away as it did those other instances when he healed me after inflicting the wound.

       ‘Such a shame to see all this blood go to waste,’ he comments, breathing hot air into the shell of my ear. ‘Next time, we’ll use it to lubricate your ass so I can fuck it after I’ve slapped it redraw if you don’t start using your fucking words. So why don't you try again?’

       Good god. That sounds horrendous. ‘What punishment…’ I’m clenching so hard to suppress the inevitable desire wishing to drown me in its bliss, ‘What will you do?’ I’m fighting an agonising battle against my body. I'm so close—

       ‘You’ll see soon enough.' He bites the soft skin of my ear, 'Now shut the fuck up and come for your big brother,’ his derisive tone brings me to the edge, and I scream through a ground-shattering sensation that brings me to my knees when it’s finished, and he releases me, letting me fall.

       I'm panting and burying my nails into the wooden beams. 'I hate you,' I grit out breathlessly.

       ‘And that was proof that you don't,’ he sneers, making that sucking sound again that suggests he's licking his fingers clean of me until I scent the familiar poisonous air of smoke. There is a long silence before he says, ‘Don’t test me again, Hermione. You like to play games you can't win, but I’m your god now, and you won't get a repose until I’ve attained what is rightfully mine.’

       The sounds of his receding steps are the signal I wait for before getting to my feet and glancing back to the way he left, and I'm not surprised to find him gone. Not a trail of smoke in sight. Instead, the almost full moon above the forest winks at me as a dark cloud passes across it, and all I can think about is why the fuck Semele resolved to love her cruel adopted brother in the first place. 

Chapter Text

     Flashback II :::

     My parents—obliviated.

     My heart—void.

     I’ve been taking Sleeping Draught for months since the dark dreams returned, but this time, featuring my friends and family falling dead at Voldemort’s feet. Ron’s helped me gather its ingredients, and I’m wondering if something is going wrong with it. Even something as little as a decaying valerian sprig can jeopardise the entire thing, transforming it into something else. My brain is perpetually foggy, so much so that I’ve started writing down the things I need to do in a small planner I keep close to hand. Regardless of the terrible consequences of a sleeping aid, I’m seriously considering substituting it for drops of the Draught of Living Death so I can sleep deeper. 

     ‘Are you feeling alright?’ No, Theo, I’m most certainly not okay. I’ve been keeping it together for so long around Harry and Ron. Without them, I’m visibly shuddering now, added to the tension that has suffocated me since I stepped out of the Leaky Cauldron.

     Wiping my sweaty palms on my skirt, I sigh before replying, ‘As good as one can be when Death Eaters harrow the wizarding world, and I could very likely get captured just for being on this street. All is fine and dandy, really.’

      Theo remains silent as we walk past dingy shops with misted glass concealing the creepy peculiarities behind them. After the fall of the Ministry, Diagon Alley feels particularly uninviting, as if it was ever inviting in the first place. His pace is insistent as if he wants to be finished with giving a tour to the half-blood witch that will end at the door of a Death Eater, anyway, and I can’t decide if being captured by another in place of Draco would be any better.

      I’m walking as fast as my brown sandals allow. I wear a long, white cotton dress that grazes my shins when walking. It’s light, flowy, and about as modest as I could go when the scorching temperature is determined to get me in the nude. I’ve left Harry and Ron under the pretence of buying food, and this time, I have my wand. Getting information about the Death Eaters’ objectives is more crucial now than ever. The attack at the wedding prompted us into hiding, and for now, we are aimlessly wandering until we can settle somewhere secretive.

      I could reason with Draco. Indeed, It needn’t go into the realm of sexual favours. Right?

      ‘Hermione Granger?’ A familiar voice declares from behind us. ‘Theodore Nott?’ Our heads turn simultaneously to see Nymphadora Tonks in a short dark dress and black boots staring at us through impenetrable red-framer sunglasses. Her head is turned to me. ‘What are you doing at Diagon Alley with Theodore?’

      Oh no. ‘Hi, Tonks. We were just…’

      Theo clears his throat. ‘Granger was returning a book to me. We are going to drop it off at my grandmother Josephine’s house. She lives nearby.’  

      Tonks lifts her sunglasses to study us both. ‘It’s a dangerous time to be wandering the streets, Hermione. Be extra careful, will you?’

      ‘It’s only a quick trip. I’ll be returning to…’ I did not almost reveal Harry and Ron’s secret hideout! ‘My friends, soon. Don’t worry about me!' My laugh is painfully nervous. 'You know I’m the most sensible of us all.’

       She drops her glasses and gives us a big smile before entering a dark shop. ‘That you are,’ she waves. ‘Anyway, catch you later! And good to see you, Nott. Stay safe, guys.’ Tonks vanishes, and we both release a pent-up sigh.

      ‘That was quick thinking, Theo,’ I comment as we walk. ‘My brain turned into slush.’

      ‘I had it pre-planned,’ he responds curtly, looking back with a worried expression to where Tonks vanished. ‘Right. Well, here we are.’ I glance at the dreaded building with the blood-red door. Oh my god! We were so close to Draco’s house when Tonks found us!

      Theo swipes his arm out as if guiding me to my hell with appropriate chivalry. ‘He instructed me to retrieve you again after you’re finished.’ His black brows draw together. ‘Will you be alright?’

       I can’t tell if Theo has grasped the nature of what ensued with Draco during my last visit. Theo was waiting outside for me when he finally lifted his enchantment on the door, and the red dress reappeared next to it. I sprinted out without another word, dressing as I thundered down the stairs and ignored the rude house elf who asked me if I’d had a pleasant visit with a mocking smile. I didn’t utter a word to Theo as he guided me back to the Leaky Cauldron. How could I? Masturbating at the will of a Death Eater wasn't the outcome I had hoped for.

       My neck suddenly prickles. I feel his eyes on me. I’m tempted to lift my gaze to his window. But I don’t. ‘I’m sure it will be fine,’ I breathe out, taking the first step to the red door with its golden raven caught in a perpetual scream. ‘I’ll see you later, then. Thanks again.’

       When Theo’s steps echo down the cobblestone path, I lift a hand to knock against the wood, but it opens before my skin makes contact. The well-dressed house elf stands in the foyer with a scowl. ‘Master says you're tardy,’ the house elf grinds out. ‘Master says you have to be here on the clock.’ What a rude—‘I’m to check your bag, Miss. Before you are permitted inside,’ He gestures at my shoulder bag. ‘Master says—'

       I grip the bag when I feel it shifting from my shoulder. ‘Your master will have to get used to waiting. He doesn’t pay for my time. And as for my bag, no thank you,’ I say while placing a foot on the doormat, determined to stand my ground. The creature snickers before stepping out of the way and opening the door wider to let me in. ‘Master will not be pleased with your insolence.’

       Oh, dear god. Please give me strength! ‘Quite frankly, I don’t care what your master thinks. I hope you relay to him the exact wording of my sentiment.’ The foyer is eerily chill as I settle both feet on the rug at the bottom of the stairs. ‘Am I to go straight up?’ I gesture my head in the direction of the dark stairwell.

      He bows his head in a nod, and when he lifts it to deliberate me, there is a devilish grin curling his ugly lips as he says, ‘Master will make his toy obedient if she insists on misbehaving. You have been warned, Miss.’

       I swivel on my feet, tempted to march out, when the door swings closed with an ear-splitting crack. I whirl on the elf, ready to fight him if it means my departure. He’s still grinning with his hands behind his back, appearing the perfect little servant when he declares, ‘Master says you aren’t to leave until you’ve concluded the business. His orders, Miss.’

       ‘Miss Granger,’ I correct at his condescending use of my title.

        He lifts a lip to show his pointy teeth, ‘Miss.’

        Instead of replying, I roll my tongue around the inside of my mouth, gripping my wand with a punishing squeeze that makes my teendoms throb. I’ve never struck to kill a creature of the wizarding world, but I certainly feel tempted to break that pattern starting today.

       The elf lifts his face to the ceiling, his sharp ears stirring as if listening despite the uncanny quietness. His head suddenly lowers, eyes unblinking as he says, ‘He’s waiting. Master doesn’t like to be kept waiting.’

       You’re better than this, Hermione. Don’t stoop to the stupid little creature’s bait. ‘How kind of him,’ I bite out through a gritted smile. ‘You’re such a good house elf. I’m sure you’re dying for more work to please your master.’

       Don't stoop...Reaching into my Mary Poppins bag, I pull out a bottle filled with a green smoke-like substance before switching hands and reaching back in. ‘Isn’t that right?’ His expression appears forcibly vacant as he waits for the shoe to drop.

       You're better than petty acts of revenge… ‘Such a good little servant to his Master. Ops!’ Dropping the bottle, it shatters instantly, and the green smoke spreads swiftly around our feet, curling and rising. ‘Oh dear! I’ve always been so clumsy, you see!’

       Not the jar, too!

       I pull out the hand-painted jar I found at a market that violently rattles at being handled. ‘Look at that! What a pretty jar. I wonder what’s inside—’ I throw it at the creature’s feet with a broad smile when it, too, explodes in a thousand pieces, freeing the hundreds of brown bodies that flurry out and scatter across every ingress of the floorplan along with the green mist whose putrid smell is starting to ferment in the open air. ‘Clumsy me,’ I sneer before taking the stairs. ‘I’m sure you’ll be occupied for a while. Your master will certainly be pleased. Anyway, have fun!’ I take the steps quickly before the green mist makes me lurch.

       The termites will undeniably keep him diligent; they are the nastiest nuisance in the wizarding world, borrowing in every nook and cranny, quickly building nests to multiply as they aim to chew through the wooden foundations of the property. Not to mention that once the green mist settles, it will imprint itself into the walls like a sticky sap you have to wash off with water from a very particular and well-hidden stream in the Tibetan Alps. I have to say, I’m pretty proud of myself for wiping the grin off his face.

       Reaching the top of the stairs, I notice the door at the far end is ajar, and before I can stop myself, I utter, ‘Alohomora Immobulus!’ The door to Draco’s room swings open and freezes against the wall. There will be no locking me inside this time. Fucker.

       Wavering at the threshold, it takes me more time than it should to notice he’s moved the wingback chair to the opposite corner, next to the fireplace, where he is lounging with a crystal glass filled with emerald liquid balanced on his knee; the other hand occupied with a cigar that is billowing thick veins of smoke. He’s wearing a similar fitting to the last occasion: a white shirt rolled up at the sleeves, unbuttoned at the chest. His legs adorn thigh-hugging black slacks as if he had just stepped out of a board meeting for some multi-million cooperation.

      And he’s relatively tanned? 

      He’s lazily watching me through heavy, leering eyes while clasping the cigar in a mock grin between his teeth.

       I glare back. ‘Your creature is vulgar and inhospitable,’ I begin, leaning into the doorframe. ‘Oh, and I’m done. This thing between us has proven fruitless. You’ve given me no information after practically forcing me to—’

      ‘What do you want to know?’ he asks, releasing the grin to suck the end of the cigar; the action pinches his cheeks, defining his cheekbones.

       ‘What do you think?’ I counter, rolling my eyes at the obvious. Is he simply playing stupid? ‘Things like…hmn...Voldemort’s future objectives.' I'm tapping my chin in mock contemplation. 'Where the Death Eaters are stationed and patrolling. You know, like places we should avoid and all that.' 

       Draco takes a long drag, releasing a massive cloud of smoke that hangs like a thick curtain between us. I can’t see him as he retorts, ‘Done.’

       My brows pinch together at the proposition of his singular-word reply. ‘Done? Done what?’

       ‘You’ll get your information soon. That’s what done means.’

        I cross my arms. ‘I want it now.’

        He chuckles. ‘Try convincing me, then.’

        My stomach drops, and I utter, ‘Convincing you how?’

        ‘Take your dress off and crawl to me; beg for it.’

        Fuck that!  ‘Are you insane! There is no way that I am entertaining this again!’ With a growl, I go to storm out of the room, but not before the door shuts in my face, grazing my right arm and making me shriek back in pain. Tears begin streaming in my eyes while I try to focus on the gash that is foaming with red at the base of my right shoulder.

       ‘You’ll remember who commands here, Hermione. Because it isn’t you.’ The armchair groans as he gets to his feet, breaking the distance between us in a few long strides, one hand in his pocket as he forces my back to the wall. ‘You can wave your wand and show me your prettiest, most pathetic performance.’ His symphony of scents encapsulates me: rum, smoke, musk. ‘But in the end, you are defenceless. In this room, you’re mine. And what’s mine is always at my mercy.’

      My teeth are clenched so tight I fear I may crack the back ones. ‘I’m not yours.’

      He titters, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear. ‘Leave your bratty act where it belongs, back with your wretched excuse for friends.’

      ‘Don’t t-talk about my friends like that!’ I cry out.

       ‘They aren’t your friends.’

       I swallow a dry moan. The pain is blinding. ‘What are you saying? Of course, they are!’

      ‘They aren’t your friends,’ he echoes. ‘Admit it, and I’ll stop the pain.’

       He's been making it worse?! ‘I won’t! You can’t make me d-do anything! Stop these games!’

       His mocking chuckle echoes through the room, urging me to turn my head from him. But just as swiftly, he commands my chin back with a punishing hold, back to the blurry sight of his dark eyes and tight-lipped grin. ‘Can’t I?’ he taunts, grazing a thumb against my bottom lip. ‘Will skinning Nymphadora from limb to limb inspire you to say it?’

       I clench my fists. ‘Have you gone ma-mad? What are you saying? She was passing by—’

       Draco presses into me with his suffocating intensity and muscular physique. I try to lift the hand with my wand, but his body barricades me so that I can only lift a finger, nearly dropping the sleek wood. His smoky breath is so close I can almost taste it when he whispers against my lips, ‘Will her decapitated head say the same thing when I enchant it to reveal the truth?’

       His shocking words almost startle me into silence. I try to say something, but a sob escapes me in place of words.

       ‘Are you trying to set spies on me, baby?’

       I shudder my head at the absurdity of his paranoid accusation. 

       ‘Are you guaranteeing the execution of your order just as we're starting our agreement?’

       My head moves from side to side again. He starts grazing my cheek at my silence, wiping the tears in his thumb’s path. The act is almost tender in the way that lovers caress each other. It’s a terrifying contrast to how his body detains me, how he ridicules and hurts me. The tears keep coming, and I can’t stop them. His hold on my chin has slackened, and I use the opportunity to focus on the window behind him, seeing only a blinding light that envelopes the water gathering at my tear ducts.

       Draco stops grazing my cheek to force my attention back to him. ‘What do you see when you look at me?’ Through the tears, I see nothing. I shake my head in response. His chuckle is dry, callous and derisive. ‘What you will see is the devil that can kill every member of your pitiful order with my hands tied behind my back.’

       He lifts my chin to his face, but I still can’t see anything. My jaw involuntarily trembles. ‘She saw m-me walking here,’ I stammer through a sob. ‘To you. Tha-that’s all.’

       His hand encloses my neck. ‘If you put anyone in my path to prevent me from you.’ His grip is bruising, and I squeal. ‘I will fuck you in their blood. Do you understand, little bird? I will bury your pretty face in their crimson remains and make you scream my name like I am the god of the highest order.’

       A shiver racks my spine at the sudden chill as if an entity possessed with carnage has passed between us. It’s summer, as hot as coals, yet my skin feels like it’s about to freeze. The sweat coating my neck turns glacially cold. My tears suddenly dry, and I’m desperate to rub my itchy eyes. I was even tempted to ask him to plead for some reprimand or mercy, but the thought of that icy being petrifies me into silence.

      ‘Let’s play a game, shall we? I want to play with you.’ I shake my head before he forces my head to nod. 'Do this when I’m telling the truth, hmn?’ The only thing I can manage is to glare at him. He smiles. ‘See, you can be a good girl,’ his free hand explores the curve of my right hip. ‘First truth: did you know I sent you those notes at school?’

       Despite my resolve to not entertain him, my head bobs in yes.

       ‘That wasn’t so hard, was it?’ He mocks, flicking his gaze up and down my face, focusing intently on where his thumb sits close to my lips. ‘Second truth: you wanted me to hunt you down a dark corridor and to corrupt you against a wall, taking anything I wanted?’

       My head shakes from side to side. No.

       ‘Liar,’ he seethes, pressing his body closer until I feel his insistent erection in the valley of my thighs. ‘Third truth: you loved watching me eat your pussy.’ His grin is wide and cruel, ‘You couldn’t help watching, could you? It made you come to see me on my knees for you.’

      I shake my head for no, knitting my brows together at the evident lie. Perhaps it transpired in the exact way he claims in my dreams, but it has never been enacted outside of my fantasies—but I will certainly not be admitting that truth to him.

      ‘Another lie?’ his thumb dents my bottom lip before his eyes flick back to mine. ‘Admit it.’ The digit suddenly parts my lips, forcing entry into my mouth. ‘You’re a lying slut who’s always wanted the big bad Death Eater to force his way with you so you can reassure yourself that I am the enemy.’

      I still shake my head for no, even when he rests his thumb on my tongue, moving it around. ‘Such a pretty little brat,’ he breathes that smoky scent close to my lips, moving his thumb in and out of the suction before biting out, ‘Tell. Me. The. Fucking. Truth.’

      He’s making it up so he can continue forcing his way into me while convincing himself that I want it. I blow out of my nose in frustration at his ridiculous game.

      His thumb abruptly leaves my mouth with a loud, wet sound. When I think he’s about to pull away, his fingers pinch my cheeks harder than before, lifting my face unnervingly close to his. Dark eyes flick between mine, and I’m panicking at their deadly intensity as he bores into me, inspecting for something I’m not sure what.

       He titters, releasing me before stepping back and returning his hands to his pockets. He’s silent as he approaches the armchair and picks up his tumbler of rum and the cigar from the ashtray, which relights on its own. ‘No more games. Get on the bed.’

      My arm begins to warm at his words—he's healing me. I look down to see the blood gradually vanishing, and I don't hesitate to flick my wand at him, ‘Depulso!’ The repelling spell leaves the top, striking blue lightning at his back. Instead of forcing him into the wall, it bounces against an invisible shield that ripples black when hit. What the—

      He turns back to me slowly, unscathed, watching me through slitted eyes. 

      ‘CONFRINGO!’ I bellow out. The red fire bolt leaves my wand, striking the black shield and waning.

      ‘DIFFINDO!’ Nothing.

      ‘PETRIFICUS TOTALUS!’  Nothing.

      ‘GLACIUS!’

       Draco takes several steps towards me, and I dart to his left, lunging out of grasp. ‘DESCENDO!’ He captures my arm, and I shout, ‘CRUCIO!’

       When nothing happens, I throw my hand holding the wand at him, awkwardly propelling a punch at the side of his face that only makes his jaw clench when it lands on his temple. I keep striking him with my hands, screaming and scratching at his face as he walks me backwards until the backs of my knees press into the bedframe.

      ‘FUCK YOU! YOU’RE A FUCKING RAPIST, DRACO! YOU’VE GONE MAD! THIS AGREEMENT IS BULLSHIT!’ The words leave in a frantic flurry as I fall back into the bed. He’s on top of me before I can kick at him, straddling me and putting his hand on my mouth to stifle the screams before he dips his head into my neck and starts kissing my sensitive spot. I scream into his hand when I feel his teeth graze the skin before biting, and I'm screeching something that sounds like ‘God’ beneath the obstruction of his hand.

       I’m crying out through the pain, wanting to bite the hand that is keeping my mouth shut. He stops devouring my neck to croon, ‘There are no gods here,’ he chuckles sinisterly. ‘Just you, and me, and your screams.’

       I urge my legs to overpower him, to knee his balls or lift him out of the way as his tongue travels the length of my collarbone, growing upwards to my chin. When his mouth advances to mine, I try to repel him like a rabid animal, snapping my teeth and trying to bite at his lips. But the moment he captures them, the brunt of my fight falls away. Holding me hostage with his mouth does not harbour the expected reaction I was hoping for.

      It should feel ghastly. It should make me sick. The heart I had deemed void before coming here begins to echo with something. I try to quiet the strange sensation thawing my struggle. It doesn’t make sense, and yet my body is responding to its assurance as his kiss becomes tender and adamant, waiting for me to drop my resistance and give in to the warm sensation that makes my thighs clench. The suppleness of his full lips opens me up, lapping into me and making me moan when he groans. It’s certainly nothing like the chaste kisses of my childhood dreams.

      There is nothing remotely innocent about it—it's wholly unholy. His lips become greedy and impatient, tasting every corner of my lips before settling back to an agonisingly sweet rhythm. This is my first. Right? And yet, opening and closing my mouth to him feels like a flower that wants to bloom with the sun and hide her face with the swiftness of night, eager for dawn to open me up again.

      And the dawn arises with him. 

      His tongue envelopes me, and I know how to receive it regardless of my inexperience. It’s like the curling and uncurling of a vine reaching for the heights of the canopy, needing the sun to cast its benevolent light upon it. Despite his heady darkness, he tastes like smoke and the subtle sweetness of rum, and I want to drown beneath his greediness, whose evidence resounds throughout the room with the slick sound of ravenous tongues and wet lips.

      Oh, God. It should not feel this good to kiss a Death Eater. Instead of struggling, I allow him to taste and claim: to pillage my mouth for whatever he wants, groaning and rocking his hips into me, and at this moment, I could invite him inside me. No! I fucking hate him, and I want to tell him as much when he pulls away, grinning down at me with glistening lips.

     ‘I hate you,’ I grit out with a husky tone.

      His once bright ocean-blue eyes grow darker as he watches me utter each syllable. Were they always this dark? I had the impression they were a vivid blue, and since meeting him again a week ago, they've been morphing in and out like a sea creature diving from the lowest darks to the highest brights in the waters.

     ‘Good.'

      I grimace at his bluntness.

      His lips curve into a slight grin, appearing the boyish, dishevelled lover instead of the demonic leech.  'I want you to keep showing me how much you loathe me.’ His braced arms on either side of my head begin to travel lower as he sinks himself to the floor in front of me until his face is level with my knees. ‘Keep telling me how much you hate this.’ He begins removing my sandals, and I’m captivated by how his strong shoulders move beneath the shirt. My eyes catch on the open fabric, revealing a spattering of blonde chest hair and black ink atop a broadness that makes my body shudder.

     I can't make out the ink. It's just labyrinth-like patterns. Watching him like this, his hair messy and his expression wolfish, my pussy throbs at the prospect of what he may be doing.

     ‘Pretty dress,’ he teases, settling the sandals to the side before lifting the white skirt from my legs.

     ‘Fuck you,’ I mutter, watching transfixed as he bares my knees with unhurried languidness and, finally, my thighs, revealing my lacy white underwear. He bunches the dress at my waist, and I don’t contest him as I should.

      ‘Pretty thong,’ he says, bringing his hand to my pussy and running a forefinger on the slit of the soaked fabric before hooking a finger and lifting the lace to the side. His grin is pure sin as he says, ‘Pretty pussy.’

     ‘Fuck you,’ I echo with less conviction than before, my lids growing heavy. When he dips his head, keeping his eyes on mine, my moan is devastatingly loud when he licks a path from my wet entrance to the tender clit, moving his tongue from left to right on his way back down.

      ‘Such a pretty liar,’ he dips his tongue in my gathering wetness as if to prove a point. 'I’m your worst enemy, and you fucking love this.’ He starts eating my pussy like it’s a feast, and all I can do is arch my back, urging the needy flesh into his mouth. I’m moving feverishly into him, chasing the blinding release I know only he can give me. I fucking hate him. I’m doing this for the order—I parrot to myself. But the notion seems bizarre and ridiculous when I’m willingly allowing my pussy to be eaten. ‘I hate you,’ I murmur in a throaty voice, and a moan slips out with the harsh claim.

      The wet slurping and kissing sounds are dreadfully gaudy when he pulls away to say, ‘Of course you do, sweetheart.’ I feel a finger grazing into my entrance before dipping in.

      My head bows back. ‘I hate you so fucking much. You’re an asshole!’ The finger curls against a spot that is so sweet I start panting.

      ‘And you taste so fucking good.’ He sucks my clit before saying, ‘My girl who's desperate to come undone on Death Eater’s mouth.’

       Her Death Eater. The statement nearly topples me over. He’s careful with his fingers as if wanting to evade my untouched hymen. He grazes the walls, but never deep enough. But I’m too frantic to form a coherent sentence about it. ‘Why. Why are you—'

      Draco chuckles, and the vibration spirals me into a desperate frenzy to ride his mouth more—my goodness.

      ‘Why this?’ he twirls his finger against my walls.

      Glancing down at him, I know I should be pressing him about it. But watching my hips rock into his mouth and his dark eyes unwavering on me like a predator transfixed by its prey send me over the edge. My scream will probably be heard several houses down the semi-detached street. His ugly little fucking elf is perhaps taking notes to goad at me about it later. And yet, at this moment, trapped by my captor, I have never felt more alive, and I couldn’t care less about my pride.

      When my head falls back, and I’m violently panting, I hear him get to his feet, pulling my skirt down over my throbbing pussy. His words are beautifully husky when he says, ‘Our oath means you can never escape me,’ he begins, his voice sounding like it’s travelling from a great distance. ‘Every time you come here, we solidify that bond.’

      My breathing is so loud that I still see stars when I close my eyes.

      ‘It means nothing can come between us. Even death himself.’

      My thighs press together in shame, and I want to ask him the obvious: the reason I’m here. But I need a moment to recover, for fuck’s sake.

       ‘You’ll receive word from me soon. Like I said,’ he assures. Can he read my thoughts? Is that possible? He's certainly proving it could be. Suddenly, a knock from somewhere in the house resounds; somehow, I know it’s for me. It's Theo. ‘You’ve been a good girl for me. So now, you get to leave,’ I sense a smile at his words.

       I should be protesting and bellowing. But all I can think is: what am I doing betraying Harry and Ron? Giving in to this sick game is unforgivable; getting off on his mouth can not be explained away. When I lift my weight onto my elbows, needing to rebalance the playing field, I expect to see him sneering at me with a goading smile from the end of the bed. But it's only me, the painfully white and crumpled sheets and the four-poster bed.

       I'm being used. The enemy is taking advantage of me.  

Chapter Text

    Hermione age 6

     My mummy takes forever to talk—gossiping with her friends, or in this case, Jane. My school friend, Lucy, isn’t with her today, which makes me sad. She’s with her daddy for the weekend in York, where Lucy told me the Vikings landed. I really wanted to show Lucy my new doll. My mummy got it for me at the garden centre when I was a good girl for helping to pick out pink, orange, and yellow flowers for their beds—and mummy says we will put them straight to bed as soon as we get home and shower them with the watering can.

    ‘Can I see the ducks?’ I jump up and down on the spot, pointing to where a line of baby ducks follow behind their mummy.

    ‘Very quickly, but be careful! Stay away from the pond's edge,’ she shouts as I start running, following the babies into a tree with long hair that mummy calls ‘Willow.’

     The ducks start running, but I’m faster! I reach them inside the tree and squat in my yellow dress to show them my doll.

      ‘My mummy got me this! She’s a little girl.’ I stroke her brown curls, which are the same as mine. ‘Like me! I’m going to name her…’ I try to think about a name I like. Maybe one from a cartoon. But I can’t think when the baby ducks are so cute, jumping over the side one by one to get into the water.

     ‘You should name her Birdie.’

      My head turns to see a man leaning against the tree trunk. My brown braid catches on my shoulder, and I swing it over as I say, ‘That’s a pretty name.’ I look down at Birdie. ‘Thank you!’ I remember to say.

      Mummy would be so pleased to hear me using my manners!

      ‘You’re welcome,’ he says in a deep voice before stepping out of the shadow and into a curtain of sunlight. He is the most beautiful man I have ever seen! With his dark hair and lovely face, he is like an angel from the book covers my mummy reads with her glass of wine in the evening, the ones she says I'm not allowed to touch.

      ‘Look over here. This is why I picked it,’ he points with his arm, which has black drawings all over it, to the base of the tree trunk where a bird hops around in the grass. ‘That’s called a blackbird. The brown one is a girl, while the black one with the yellow beak is a boy. If you listen to her song in your garden, she has the most beautiful of all the birds.’

     ‘She does?’ I ask, pulling out the grass to keep my hands busy.

      He nods, smiling. ‘She likes to sing after it’s rained.’ He takes another step towards me, hands in his pockets. ‘And she makes bright blue-green eggs to put in her nest. They are very pretty, like a stone called turquoise. Have you ever seen a stone with that colour?’

     ‘Blue and green…together?’ I search my thoughts. ‘Like the ocean! I love going to the sea. My mummy and daddy take me every year. We are going next week!’

      His smile grows. It’s wonderful. My mummy would think so; he would make her blush like daddy does when he brings her flowers sometimes after work.

      ‘I like the seaside, too.’ I reach over to pull out a daisy with a big face, nearly falling forward when it doesn’t pull out. ‘I’m Hermione. What’s your name?’

      He lifts his lovely face to the tree, where the tiny birds hop on the branches that sparkle with golden light. ‘I have many…’ His face returns to me with an even brighter smile. ‘Too many. Would you like to give me one?’

      A name for a boy?

      ‘Hmn…’ I twirl the daisy around before getting to my feet. This is so hard! I want to give him the perfect name so he will be happy with me. ‘My daddy likes reading a book called The Aeneid.’ I break the distance towards the man in three hops. ‘This is for you; it’s my favourite flower.’

      He pulls out one hand from his pocket to receive my gift. ‘That’s very kind of you. So you want to call me Aeneas?’

      I drop the flower in his open hand, trying to see the doodles on his arms. ‘No, silly! The name of the man who wrote it…it’s a handsome name. I always forget it even though my daddy teaches it to me.’

      ‘Virgil?’ he asks, rolling the flower's stem between his fingers.

      ‘That’s it!’ I turn around when I hear a duck shouting. ‘Oh no! The duck and her babies are all gone.’

      ‘HERMIONE!’

      My mummy’s angry voice is shouting so loud that my spine shivers.

      ‘It was nice to meet you, little Hermione,’ the man says before returning to the tree. ‘Be a good girl for your mummy and take care of yourself, will you? Don’t talk to strangers next time. Even if they are as friendly as me.’

      ‘HERMIONE!’

       I’m about to run when he says, ‘Promise?’

       I bob my head before saying, ‘Promise!’ while darting out of the tree's hair with Birdie in hand. ‘Bye, Virgil!’

       My heart is beating so fast that it might explode. I don’t want my mummy to be angry at me! But when I break out of the tree’s long hair, my eyes burst open, and I’m on the floor, on my back, my mummy and Jane staring down at me with worried faces as if I’ve been here a long time.

      ‘Oh my god! Are you alright, sweetheart?’ Mummy says, and Jane says the same thing. ‘You fell over and didn’t open your eyes for a while.’ Mummy’s voice is loud and panicky. ‘Should we take her to A&E?’

       She and Jane are talking about it, but all I can think about is the tree swaying above me with the beautiful man at its trunk, who I really want to tell my mummy about. I’m convinced he’s an angel, like in her books, but they wouldn't be white if he had wings.

      They’d be as black as night.

    Present day

     My eyes crack open into the impenetrable darkness of our blackout curtains. I’m breathing so severely that my eyes begin to water with the mounting pressure as I stretch a blind hand to my bedside drawer, bursting it open and reaching inside for the familiar-shaped bottles. When I don’t immediately find them, I turn the lamp on to see only the Death Eater cutouts morbidly staring back at me. Where are my calming vials? In all my years of taking them, Sofia has never moved one, even to tidy up my bedside table. Ron is the first to remember to pack them for our getaways and holidays. But even he wouldn't misplace one. I’ve never needed it this bad, even when the stalker first appeared. 

     Instead of panicking and going on a frantic pursuit that will leave me breathless, I press my back flatly into the headboard and try to recover my breathing before it gets out of hand. If I can avoid a panic attack, I have to hold this godforsaken breath and keep the oxygen in—

     A throaty grumble like a motorbike begins somewhere down the road, travelling towards the house. The distraction helps me to even out my breathing until my heart resumes its tranquil rhythm. What a strange dream. I remember vaguely telling my mum about a man I met beneath a tree, whom she called my ‘imaginary friend’ after she found me passed out next to the duck pond somewhere in Central London. However, I don’t recall having a doll named ‘Birdie,’ like the name my stalker gave me.

     Then there’s Virgil. My heart increases for a second.

     Dear god. Have I been manifesting dark-haired, tattoed strangers since childhood? Since my menace of a stalker infiltrated every aspect of my life, nothing has been making sense. Even poor Virgil is seeping into my dreams in bizarre ways.

     Everything is changing. Evidently, my thoughts are not my own; they are not what I'm accustomed to thinking and feeling. I’m beginning to feel unfamiliar sensations like doubt and resentment. Ron is absent all the time. Where in the world is my husband? My stomach drops just as a knock sounds from the main entrance.

     Springing to my feet, I swing the curtains back and crank the old window open by the latch, which could use a good greasing by the sound of it. My eyes take a moment to adjust to the blinding morning, and I’m pleased to discover infinite blue skies as far as the eye can see. Today is going to be beautiful!

    ‘Good morning!’ I call down at the porch roof, obstructing Virgil from view. ‘I’m just about to hop in the shower. You’re welcome to wait inside. The spare key is in the flowerpot!’

      His warm, husky chuckle travels to my core before he exclaims, ‘Take your time.’

      Twirling my wedding ring, I almost convinced myself to wear it, and I'm not sure why. I follow the strong smell of the worryingly contagious espresso, which may become a problem for my mild coffee addiction. I should start using the Moka more, as Virgil has proven why it’s superior. Even the thought of starting the habit of making my coffee in the morning instead of Sofia is making me giddy.

      When I enter the kitchen, dropping my bag by the door, I pause at the sight. Mother of the heavens—save me from my sins. Virgil turns to me just as I wrench my consideration of his form-fitting biker trousers, meeting his keen hazel eyes framed by windswept hair. He extends a cup towards me, and I furtively try to swallow the welling saliva at the sight of his dark brown t-shirt against his sinful form.

      I really, really need to get used to him. His one-dimpled smile should be a crime as he says, ‘Good morning. Slept well?’

      Welcoming the distraction of retrieving the steaming cat mug, I utter, ‘You didn’t have to make coffee again! Although I sincerely appreciate it. Thank you. It's very delicious,’ I smile before taking a sip, murmuring my approval. ‘And no. I don’t often sleep well. I’m used to it, though. I've tried all the methods under the sun, and nothing seems to help. The word for my condition is insomnia.' 

      His lips curve. ‘I’ll make sure you get a good night’s sleep, then.’ And that means?

      ‘Long walks sometimes do the trick,' I say in a chirpy voice while desperately looking for a distraction from my growing nerves and heated face. My eyes lower to my outfit: a short cream puffer jacket above an almost knee-length baby blue floral dress with gym shorts underneath and cream Converse at my feet. ‘Am I dressed appropriately for where we’re going?’

      Virgil gives me a thoughtful and excruciatingly drawn-out once-over before settling on, ‘It will do. Have you got a swimming costume?’

      I pinch my brows together. ‘Swimming?’

      ‘Yes, swimming,’ he retorts teasingly. ‘You’ve never swam in the highlands before?’

      ‘Of course…’ On my own and in the nude. ‘Right. Give me a minute, and I’ll be right back!' Hammering up the stairs, I’m relieved I thought about shaving. I pick a simple two-piece black bikini, a towel from the drying rack, and a hairbrush that won't save my hair from turning into a lion's mane by the end of the trip. When I return to the kitchen, he’s washing the Moka pot at the sink.

      ‘You really don’t have to—’

      He gives me a smile over his shoulder. ‘I really want to, though.’ He sets the Moka on the draining board, drying his hands on the towel before returning to the table. ‘Don’t tell me you let your man off the hook with modest housework?’

      Well… ‘Ron insisted we hired Sofia. He's always tired when he gets back from his job.’

      Virgil snickers, rolling his shoulders. ‘Sure.’

      At the thoughtful silence, I begin packing the bikini and hairbrush in my brown leather backpack, trying to conceal the fact I’m carrying my wand. Just to be safe. Making sure it’s not poking out, I shut the bag and, like a moth to a flame, the coffee beckons to me with a song as old as time, and I heed the call. In front of me, Virgil takes a long sip, watching me over the cup's rim as I drink mine, almost draining the delicious contents.

      He finishes his own, extending a hand, and I allow him my cup to return to the sink with a half smile. When he turns, I’m brooding on his back, needing to understand this man and his generous intentions, but I always come up short. Maybe he’s just polite? A well-bred, well-mannered boy who left gender roles and misogyny where it rightfully belongs: a thing of the past.

     ‘I’ll just rinse these, and we can go. Have you ridden on a motorbike before?’ he asks, making me conscious of my prolonged staring and silence.

     ‘We’re taking your bike?’ I ask with an incredulous tone.

      His shoulders strain beneath the t-shirt as he scrubs the mugs in the running water. ‘Of course. You’ll love it. It’s exceptionally…’ He stops the tap, ‘Liberating. To say the least.’

      I check the clock on the wall. Shit. ‘Shall we get going then? I can’t wait to find out,’ I encourage him with a playful tone while walking towards the hallway to incite him to follow, and thankfully, he does after drying his hands and straightening the towel.

      My goodness. What a gentleman. My mother would weep at the sight of him. On the other hand, Sofia begins work in ten minutes, and I don’t want to explain my and Virgil’s ordeal to her. It's a recent development, and I have no answers. I should be reprimanding myself for riding into the highlands with a stranger. I'm married, responsible and innately sensible, yet I can’t convince myself to feel remorse for my actions. It feels dangerous to admit such a thing when I’ve always been so good and careful, ensuring we all stayed out of trouble at school, and I’ve been nothing short of a considerate and respectful wife to Ron. 

     ‘I’m just going to check on my flowers quick!’ I holler over my shoulder while jogging to the rear of the house to see if they need watering.

      When I return to the driveaway, seeing him settled on his bike, supporting it with his muscular legs, my stomach churns. He watches me through the visor, smilingly, when I’m almost upon him. ‘Don’t ruin that pretty face with worry. You’ll be fine; I’m a good rider. You couldn’t be in safer hands.’

      My unconvincing smile makes him swing his head back and laugh.

      ‘Come here,’ he urges me forward with a hand, and I step closer to him. He hooks an arm around my waist, pressing me between his leg and the bike. His hands smooth down my hair, careful not to brush out any curls. ‘The cut healed well,’ he comments before retrieving the spare helmet. ‘Must be my magic touch.’

       I laugh, letting the joyful sensation overpower the feeling of his gentle fingers brushing the loose strands away from my face before jostling the midnight blue helmet over my head. ‘I’m sure it had nothing to do with simple biology.'

      ‘Nope, nothing at all,’ he teases, slapping my visor down. ‘Climb on.’

      He leans the bike towards me, and I must grasp his shoulders to mount the monstrous machine. When I settle on the seat, jiggling my hips at the unfamiliar sensation, I hesitantly circle my arms around his waist.

      ‘Squeeze here if you need my attention.’ He guides my hand to his solid abs before gripping my forearms and forcing my hips forward until I’m flush against his back. ‘Hold on tight, alright? I don’t want you flying off because you're worried about wrapping your arms around me.’

      The thing roars to life, vibrating beneath me, rattling my bones. Holy fucking fuck! I’ve ridden a bloody Hippogriff, for god's sake! I ride my broom through the highlands in the summer. It’s not like I haven’t had my fair share of risky transport. But this...and with Virgil's body for security. ‘Ok! Ok! I promise I’ll hold on,’ I shout over the thunderous noise, squeezing him tighter for emphasis. I’m pressing the side of my face into his back, smelling the rich scent of his aftershave—the opulent type made for turning heads, making my eyes roll back. Good grief, woman!

       Suddenly, Virgil releases the ground, and we start moving slowly until we are through the gravel and travelling on smooth terrain along the winding lane towards the main road. At the intersection, we turn right, and I spot Sofia’s silver car on the left, drawing nearer in the distance. My anxiety is swiftly released as we start building speed down the empty highway, the strong wind wiping the breath from my lungs. I let my head fall back to watch the scenery passing by in a thousand patterns and colours, one of the most beautiful sights I’ve ever seen.

       I’m enjoying myself so much that it feels like little time has passed when he pulls up at a fuel station twenty miles from my home. When he kicks the stand down in front of the shop, dismounting, I remain straddling the bike when he lifts my visor, and I can finally breathe.

       He’s smiling at me with his eyes as if sensing my delight. ‘Enjoying yourself?’

       I flush. ‘That was incredible.’

       I’m distracted by his dark hair curling around his eyes and how they look at me with a warm fire burning in their woodland colouring. He helps me lift the helmet from my head before approaching his own. ‘I’ll get us a drink. Did you want anything else?’

      Something sweet like chocolate would be fantastic, but I’m too proud to let him splurge on me. ‘Just a cold drink will be fine, thank you.’ I beam at him through my mane of unruly curls that fall on my face from their release. Brushing my hair back with my fingers, I watch him walk away and fuck—

      Scoop my eyes out and throw them in a blender. Mother Nature has to be testing just how well her godly creations capture my attentiveness. I must readjust my seat positioning when he vanishes through the doors. All at once, I’m flustered and strangely relieved; leaving my home like this feels shockingly freeing. I’m so far away from my qualms and tormentors that I could almost pretend they are nonexistent. The sky is so blue. So optimistic. I stare at the shop’s large window, seeing nothing but the landscape reflected in the glass. Is it just me, or do I sense eyes boring into me? It’s warming my face, the tingle travelling the length of my spine, keeping me vigilant.

      Suddenly, Virgil remerges, carrying two drinks and a bar of red chocolate. It’s a Lindor milk bar, which is my favourite. ‘Your drink.’ He extends a cold peach iced tea towards me. ‘And a treat.’

     ‘It’s my favourite,’ I comment, accepting them and placing them on my lap. ‘They are both my favourites. How did you know?’ I tease, reasoning it was probably a wild guess.

      Virgil only grins in response, tousling his slick, short waves before taking a long sip of his drink, which is the same as mine. ‘You can climb down and stretch your legs if you like.’

      I’m still running gentle fingers through my frizzy hair when I say, ‘It’s remarkably comfortable, actually. I may try napping if you leave me a second time.’

      The warming timbre of his chuckle should be illegal. ‘You’d be surprised just how comfortable it can be,’ he says in a low voice before reaching to my lap, retrieving the chocolate bar. ‘Eat up. We’ve got a long way to go. It’s another twenty miles.’

      I watch him unravel the packaging, breaking a square he unexpectedly presses to my mouth. Tentatively, I part my lips to receive it, taking a bite before he brings the rest to his generous lips. There is an odd intimacy about sharing food this way. Maybe it’s how he didn’t hesitate to eat something I touched despite not knowing me so well. It's something so small, and I've only seen it in the movies or read it in books. Ron doesn’t like to share food; he eats the entire thing, or we allocate separate snacks to avoid bickering.

     Virgil sets the chocolate back on my lap, seemingly satisfied with the slight bite. He’s leaning into the bike, staring at the scenery beyond while I try to act coy about stealing glances at him while drinking and eating my fill. In the daylight, his hair isn’t as dark as I assumed. It has a slight brownish tint reminiscent of dusky, ancient trees. He’s cleanly shaven, offering me an appraisal of his impressive facial structure. His nose is that perfect medium shape that doesn’t dominate but amplifies. His thick dark brows give him an air of the Mediterranea and paired with his modest tan; I’m convinced his ancestry belongs to some exotic place.

     I’m suddenly not as interested in the panorama as I was once. I put the rest of the chocolate and the drink in my bag, securing it again to my back. ‘I’m ready if you are?’

     'Just waiting on you, princess.' He straightens his back, retrieving my helmet. ‘It’s a bumpy way after the fifteen-mile point. If you need me to stop for a short break, squeeze me.’ I tuck my hair behind my ears when he leans forward to settle it back over my head, giving me a glimpse down his t-shirt. 

     Jesus. ‘So what you’re saying is I should anticipate a good battering on my inner thigh muscles? Like a friendly warning?’ I give him a playful grin as he pushes the helmet over my eyes.

     ‘I’m sure you can handle it,’ he returns my grin. ‘If not, I know how to soothe the pain. You know, magic touch and all.’ He winks before slapping my visor down.

Chapter Text

     After I squeezed him to stop when the pain became excruciatingly uncomfortable, I fell into the grass next to the bumpy dirt road. My coat has become a pillow for my head, and I can’t convince myself to move. Arms grazing the grass, I’m spread eagle when I open my eyes to see Virgil looking down at me.

     ‘It’s a fifteen-minute ride or a potential quarter of an hour on foot. Did you want to walk instead? I can push the bike. It’s not a problem.’

      I shake my head weakly. ‘Let’s get b-back on.’

      Virgil offers me his arm, snaking our forearms together and lifting me effortlessly to stand on wobbly legs. He catches me when I waver into him, and suddenly, I’m being lifted off the floor, my face grazing the hardness of his chest that smells like heat, sweat, and that insanely intoxicating aftershave. My sore butt is placed back on the bike, and I lift my left leg weakly, which he captures at the thigh and helps me to settle it on the other side.

     ‘Princess treatment, huh?’ I joke in a shaky voice. ‘Thank you, Virgil. I’m sorry for being a nuisance. I promise I won’t hold us up anymore.’

      He titters so close to my ear that I feel it resounding on the sensitive skin of my neck. ‘If you apologise to me again, I may have to resort to punishments.’ He leans down to collect my coat and bag, opening it to stuff the jacket inside.

     ‘I’ll allow it if you go easy on me,’ I retort breathlessly.

      He clips the buckle on the bag and gives me a sidelong glance when he says, ‘I told you I was a good boy, didn’t I?’

      Don’t fucking say it, Hermione. ‘Good boys aren’t always good behind closed doors.’

      The curve of his lips looks like it should belong on the cover of a smutty novel, one that would be in my hand, paid for, and carried to my bed before entertaining the idea of reading the blurb. ‘Clever girl,’ he retorts with a thick voice. ‘No helmets for this part. The fresh air will feel good on your face, and it’s relatively safe if you keep a strong hold on me.’ He walks over to hide the helmets in the bushes.

      ‘Yes, sir,’ I say, glancing to my left at the sloping edge that looks like the forest is sliding towards a rocky valley swollen with pointy pines growing around mossy boulders. Very safe, indeed.

      I encircle my arms around his waist, and when we start moving again, I realise I’m falling in love with every aspect of this ride, even the painful parts. With the crisp wind billowing my hair into a wild mess, I’m distracted from the pain on my thighs by the growing landscape that looks as if it belongs in Middle Earth, as enchanting as Rivendell would be if brought to the muggle world. It's magic within reach, and I can see why people like Virgil require wild places to feel in touch.

      We stop in front of a gate. He turns the engine off, manoeuvring off the bike, and I’m about to follow suit when he puts an arm under my legs, the other on my lower back, lifting me off the seat like I’ve broken a limb. ‘Virgil!’ I squeal. ‘This is too much. You’re doing too much!’ I laugh at the last part of my accusation as he settles me to my feet.

     ‘Maybe I just want an excuse to touch you,’ he teases, lifting the seat to reveal a storage compartment. He plucks out a black backpack and throws a thick chain on the floor. Unzipping the bag, he pulls out two baseball hats: a distressed grey coal and a distressed auburn. ‘Take your pick.’

     ‘What for?’

      He lifts a brow, offering me a matter-of-fact reply, ‘Your head?’

     ‘Why?’ I ask, still bewildered.

      He puts the auburn one over his dark waves, dispersing them to frame his face. ‘Grey one for you, then.’ He steps towards me, slapping the cap playfully onto my head. ‘It goes with your outfit.’

      ‘But why? It’s not—’

      ‘It will be sunny as soon as we step out of the trees,’ he reasons, flicking his head toward the trail while slinging the bag over his shoulders. ‘Ready?’

       My smile gives him all the answers he needs to offer me his back. He guides us towards the gate and holds the rasping door open for me. ‘Thank you,’ I breathe out as I graze past him, noticing the surreal and fresh beauty that greets us. Wildflowers frame the incline before us in a thousand faces turned towards the sun at the top of the rise. Before I know it, I’m skipping to the top, twirling back to Virgil occasionally to find him graciously trailing several feet behind me with a knowing grin.

     ‘It’s beautiful! It’s so special.’ My thoughts wander to the distant mountains over his head. 'Can I live here? Do I have to go home?’ I twirl back to the path.

     ‘I was under the impression you liked the thought of Italy the most,’ he points out.

     ‘Oh, I do,’ I counter absentmindedly. ‘I just wish…’ I stop short, realising I’m about to speak my thoughts out loud.

      ‘You wish what?’

      I turn my face to the side to avoid his keen perceptiveness. ‘I suppose I wish that I wasn’t alone so often.’ Instead of turning back, I squat down to pick a sprig of pineapple weed. Its fragrance is so sweet, like chamomile, and it alleviates my heart enough to admit, ‘This is lovely. Thank you for this, Virgil.’ I don’t wait for his reply as I finally reach the summit, skipping to its utmost part.

      There is something about a mountain that reminds me of strength, resilience, and obstacles conquered. The realisation is strangely assuring. It’s as if the silver birches, oscillating oaks, and the rowans that grow berries with five-pointed stars all assemble to form a different kind of magic. Before me, the panorama is boundless. I’ve seen the land similar to this, close to home, during my summer-time trips on the broom. But here, we are in the middle of nowhere. There isn’t a trace of mundanity in sight. It’s just me, Virgil, the wise trees and the sharp rocks.

     ‘You haven't seen anything yet.’

     Turning to the side, I sense his body drawing close. His rakish essence is intoxicating to look at. The warmth of his russet eyes reflects the rocks while the green mirrors the freshly leafed trees. Dare I admit that he has bedroom eyes, heady and penetrating. Perhaps it’s the cooling breeze making me brave enough to admit such a thing. If not only for the sun, I’m grateful for the hat he thought about giving to me. It’s keeping the strong wind from blanketing my face with my hair.

     ‘Let's go. ‘I’ve got some food in a cooling bag. I don’t want it to go bad before we reach the best spot.’

     The buzzard's shriek makes me swing my head back to the tree canopy. I watch the large-winged predator circling with a companion in tow, dominating the section of the sky like a deity. My dad loves birds of prey and unintentionally gifted me his fascination. It reminds me of childhood trips by the sea, spotting a rare falcon that was making its reemergence in its native land after years of environmental pressure.

     ‘Are we likely to spot a golden eagle?’ I ask, slightly winded from the strain of the trek.

     We’ve hardly spoken about our private lives in the hour we’ve walked. An unspoken line has been drawn that such things are unimportant and somewhat irrelevant. That was until he started talking about his work in wildlife conservation and land management; I stopped walking to look at him with my mouth cracked open, insisting on more details. I’ve been walking ahead at his instruction. He knows the way well, and there shouldn’t be any surprise obstructions in the trail. He prefers to keep behind to listen out for wild cats, red deer and wild boars, which can become aggressive during the breeding season.

     ‘It's possible,’ he assures, sounding unnervingly cool despite the arduous strain of the path. ‘Keep an eye out for red squirrels, too. They’re a rare sight.’

     My eyes dart to the Scots pine around us, looking out for a dashing red body through the branches. ‘There’s something so…’ I pause, struggling to find the right word. ‘Ancient and feral about this place. Do you know what I mean?’

      Virgil chuckles in a gravelly way that’s probably making all the nearby Forest Sprites blush. ‘Many people don’t know that much of Scotland’s desolate landscape is a temperate rainforest. It’s home to native species of ferns and lichens and the world’s rarest bryophytes. Take a look.’ I turn, following his direction, seeing him pointing at a rock covered in a wet green blanket. ‘This type is called Liverwort.’ Fascinated, I step towards it and squat to stroke it, finding it oddly satisfying. ‘All the thick blankets of moss you see on boulders like this...' He lifts his head, gifting me a view of the blank ink at the slender slope of his neck, '...and the trees coated with lichens. It's a result of these unique tropical rainforest conditions.’

      He stops as if for emphasis, and my eyes travel to consider the tree trunks and moss-covered floor. ‘It’s truly remarkable,’ he breathes. ‘Efforts are being made to protect its wildlife and ensure the rainforest’s survival.’

      He lowers his face to me, our eyes connecting, and a burst of butterflies explodes in my stomach. Shit! No! The horror of what I’m feeling makes me wrench my attention from him. I get back on my feet, returning to the trail when I say, ‘What type of efforts are they making?’

      Virgil follows me. ‘One way would be to control the red deer population.' The Buzzard cries above, prompting our attention back to it. 'Their predators have been hunted into extinction, and deer numbers have got worryingly out of hand. They graze on all the small, new trees, interfering with the necessary growth of the forest that protects the smaller species like the moss and lichen.'

     ‘Predators like what?’ I resolve to ask. Despite my desperate need for a distraction to keep my nerves in check, I'm genuinely curious. I don't often encounter someone as willing to talk and as insightful as me. ‘Something large enough like brown bears?’

     ‘Brown bears, Northern Lynx. We will hopefully see wolves returned soon. Their reintroduction is being considered as we speak.’

     Keep showing the big bad wolf how fuckable you look standing in your power. My throat constricts, and I force my thoughts anywhere else but at the assault. Suddenly, thinking about wolves makes me recall Professor Lupin and how he transformed into a werewolf before our eyes, and I can breathe again. ‘As startling as it sounds, I hope it happens. Based on what you’ve told me, it sounds crucial for the survival of this magnificent landscape.’

     ‘As long as they are well-fed, the threat to cattle and humans is minimal. There’s plenty of deer for them to hunt, so it’s not as big of a setback as livestock farmers are making it out to be,’ he assures.

      Dear God, I could believe everything this man tells me—his silky-toned words sound like gospel. If a wolf stepped in front of me right now, and he told me it was alright, I’d probably stroke it like a house pet. ‘You’re very clever, aren’t you?’ I tease over my shoulder with a sly grin. ‘What a pleasant surprise. You could’ve walked me all this way to tell me your only interest is Star Wars.’

      He laughs out loud, prompting me to laugh with him. ‘I’m more Lord of the Rings, myself. The Hobbit, too.’

      Me too. Ron is the sci-fi-loving nerd whose dedication of needing to watch anything with a spaceship could be considered impressive. I find his commitment to our television a considerable waste of time, but who am I to judge what he does in those sparse hours of free time away from his work? Trying to get him outside more, to take long walks with me, or to explore the land as I’m doing now falls on empty promises.

      "When the weather gets warmer," or "next week," and "How about we go away for the weekend to a cabin, and you can walk around the place all you like while I finish up my work?" Yes, Ron. We’ll pay money to visit places filled with nature to keep me quiet even when our home is surrounded by it. You’ve always been so good at keeping me in the dark and perfectly sheltered, right?

       I stop walking. Where did all of that come from?

      ‘You alright?’ Virgil asks, returning me to the forest. ‘Did you want to stop for a minute?’

       We were just talking about movies when I suddenly started thinking about Ron. Freed from its covert dwelling, some unconscious resentment poured into me. I've never uttered such words about my husband before.

      ‘I stepped on something large.’ Lifting my foot, I pretend to inspect for a trapped rock under my shoe. I flick a tiny stone jammed in the ridges of the logo with my nail, trying to keep my fingers from shaking.‘Done. Let’s keep going,’ I say, suppressing a shudder.

     My gasp is audible. ‘Oh my god!’ I climb down the rocks and onto a slope, my excitement choking me for words. ‘It’s—it’s—it’s’

     ‘Incredible?’ he yells back. ‘Spectacular?’

     I turn to look at him, noticing the smug grin he’s wearing. ‘Breathtaking? Sublime? I was thinking earlier that this place could be Rivendell. But this…’ I shout over the roaring sound of the waterfall. ‘This is it! We entered Middle Earth!’

     The enormous cascade of water overlooks a valley of mountains—the vale is so open that you can see where the water feeds for miles. It snakes around more miniature forests, and if I squint, I’m convinced I can spot tiny black dots herded together in the open plains near the water.

     He’s behind me, so close to my ear that I nearly stagger forward when he speaks, ‘Herds of Red Deer.’

     ‘Really?’ I say, returning my attention to them. He was right about the hat. The sun is blinding, and paired with the water, it’s straining to keep them open and focused. ‘God! How I wish I’d brought my binoculars. You never think about these things before—’

      Something nudges my right arm, and I glance at it to see a pair of lenses framed by black leather winking back at me.

      ‘You really are perfect, aren’t you?’ The words leave my mouth before I can consider them. I quickly take the binoculars, inwardly dying from shame and second-hand embarrassment of my open declaration. I resolve to utter a playful, ‘Grazie.’

      ‘Di niente tesoro mio,’ he replies in what sounds like perfect Italian before impishly tapping my head. ‘You’re one lucky girl to spot so many. If we keep going down, we’ll be able to swim in the plunge pool, too.’

      ‘Plunge pool?’ I declare, watching his shoulders ripple as he descends. ‘What if there’s a whirlpool? I’m not a great swimmer!’

      ‘There aren't any whirlpools,’ he says over his shoulder, jumping down onto the next ledge and vanishing. I walk over to the edge, peeking down at him staring up at me. ‘Follow the natural groves of the rock. I’ll be here to catch you if you slip.’

      I roll my eyes dramatically. ‘How gallant of you.’

     ‘It seems I don’t have to try very hard with you.’ His smile is infectious, and I turn my face away to begin descending as he did, realising halfway why he jumped. Thank God I wore those shorts. I’m digging my feet into the rock face, searching for any dent or hollow, but my foot keeps slipping. ‘Virgil! There aren’t any—’ I choke on my dread.

     ‘Let go!’ He hollers over my panic. 'I'm right here beneath you.' I try to glance down, curving my arm to see past my barrier of flesh, and I spot the top of his head. Shit! All these years of writing at my desk haven’t prepared me for using my upper body strength!

     ‘VIRGIL, I CAN’T!’ I scream, losing hold of the rock while trying to hoist myself back up.

     ‘I’m right beneath you. It’s a tiny distance,’ he says softly and reassuringly. ‘If you let go, you’ll fall straight into my arms.’

     ‘Ok! ok, ok, ok!’ I say in a panic, checking once more that he’s still there. ‘I’m letting go! Right now!’ My shriek is short-lived when I land safely in his hold, snuggly pressed against his chest. He’s vibrating with suppressed laughter, and I scramble to my feet, flustered and straightening my dress. ‘Is it like this the whole way down?’

      I sense a smile to his words when he says, ‘Take a look.’

      My question is answered when I edge towards the side, seeing a smaller distance between the ledges. ‘Thank goodness.’ I inhale deeply, gripping my racing heart. 'Do you usually do this alone?’ Anticipating his response, I realise how anxious I am to hear his words. Does he do this with a lot of women? Or is it something he does with his mates that he feels comfortable sharing with me? When we first settled for a break, he pulled out a glass container with fresh-cut fruit, two forks, two small bottles of wine, and two cans of berry gin with lemon mixers, enticing for what's to come.

     ‘Every time.’ I watch him at the corner of my eye, beginning his descent from the rock. ‘You’re the first who’s had the pleasure of accompanying me.’

      My stomach flutters. 

      The mango from the fruit salad is halfway into my mouth when he suddenly gets up. When we first settled, he pulled out a glass container with fresh-cut fruit, two forks, two small bottles of wine, and two cans of berry gin with lemon mixers. We’ve been lounging around the waterfall's stony pool ever since, watching the water crash into a thousand bright crystals, landing on my bare feet and legs. Virgil was lounging in front of me, his shoes and socks discarded, watching me more than the spectacle he’d brought me to see. 

      It's too much. He’s too much.

      My belly is filled with many rarely-enjoyed sensations: the sweetest strawberries, mango, papaya, watermelon, a restless hunger and a symphony of flutters.

      ‘We’ll take the drinks into the waterfall,’ he says, undoing his belt. The mango grazes my lips, and I have to push the fruit inside; the mechanical action is the only sensible thought that’s entered my brain since we've sat down.

       Virgil liberates the buckle. ‘A strip show wasn’t part of the entertainment. Though if you wanted one.’ He releases the bottom and pulls down the zip, ‘All you have to do is ask nicely like a good girl.’

       My eyes abruptly lift to his face, finding him grinning down at me in the hottest way I’ve ever witnessed a person looking at me. Shit! ‘I’m so sorry!’ I batt my hair back before striking the fork more forcefully than intended into the strawberry. ‘I was daydreaming.’ I turn my attention back to the waterfall, my face a bubbling cauldron. 'It's just so pretty here, isn't it?'

      ‘It is,’ he says, and I hear his trousers being pulled away from his legs as I chew shamefully into the strawberry, seeing his hat drop near me at the corner of my eye. ‘There’s no shame in looking, Hermione. You’re a healthy woman.' He kicks the discarded pants to the side. 'It’s a survival instinct. If humans mated for life, you wouldn’t be here today.’

      The statement prompts my attention back to him. His strong legs are parted in an open stance. He stands like a god in the waterfall's shrine, surrounded by what can only be described as the Garden of Eden. He’s pulling his shirt over his head, not noticing my attentiveness. The fabric lifts to reveal the entire expanse of his ripped body. The only remaining material is his tight black swimming shorts, which are doing little to mask the impressive size of his muscular thighs and—

      ‘You’re right,’ I agree hoarsely. Clearing my throat, I put the fork back in the container before rummaging through my bag for the bikini and towel. My wand is at the bottom, thankfully, still hidden. ‘I’ll get changed behind the bushes if that's ok.’

      ‘Sure.’ He’s walking to the edge of the rock in all his sun-kissed divinity, strong curved back and good god, what a great ass. I follow the muscles along his spine to a dainty golden necklace around his neck, the oval charm dangling between his smooth shoulder blades. It looks like it may have a sun engraved on its face.

      He looks over his shoulder, ruffled dark hair billowing in the slight breeze. ‘Scream if you need me, alright?’ I nod bashfully before getting to my feet and darting out of sight without another glance.

      When I’m behind the hidden safety of a bush, I squat down, digging my elbows into my knees while angrily rubbing my eyes. What the fuck are you doing, Hermione?  The image of his body is burned into my thoughts. Arghhhhh! I scream in my head.

      Besides being the best day of my life since childhood, it was the worst idea. Why did he have to be walking eye candy? Would I even have entertained this outlandish idea if he was a middle-aged man with a pot belly? I mean, he’s incredibly charming and enigmatic. He’s surprisingly intelligent and wise—two things I grew up telling myself I needed in a man, which I suppose was the standard before Ron. Maybe I’m just frustrated and confused. My stalker has spiralled my world, and I haven’t been the same. It's virtually impossible to recover from something ongoing. And I'm married!

      I chant the words to myself while I drop my hat, unzipping my dress from the side and letting the fabric pool at my feet. When I shuffle out of my shorts, I hear a rustling sound emanating from the smaller shrub in front of me, like a small animal is passing by.

      I’m about to lower my lacy black underwear when a small feminine voice declares, ‘Hey! Wait! It’s me!’

      I rip them back up, about to run back to Virgil, when a flutter of glittering emerald wings darting between the leaves stops me in my haste. ‘Hello?’ I whisper shout. ‘Are you…what are you? A Forest Sprite?’ The leaves sway where I first spotted the wings, and suddenly, they part from two tiny caramel arms, revealing a lovely little lady wearing a Roman-red toga. The rich fabric wraps around her bust and skirts around her waist, giving her an air of royalty.

      ‘It’s me!’ she waves her arm over her body. ‘Don’t you remember me? I’m Aurora. Princess of the Summer Court,’ her small musical voice rings out with pride. I search her soft face, free of the coiled black hair bound atop her head. She’s looking at me with a curious smile and a somewhat hopeful expression. ‘It is you, isn’t it? Hermione Granger? You used to play with me when you were a little girl. We saw each other last year, too!’

      ‘I'm sorry.’ My forehead wrinkles. ‘But how do you know my name?’

       Her smile drops. ‘We met for the second time just last summer. You asked me to help bury your cat. Crookshanks, was it? You wanted him buried somewhere special.’ She brushes her arm anxiously, the golden bangles singing with the action. ‘You brought him to me, and we buried him together in the meadow on the other side of this mountain.’

      What is she talking about? ‘I buried Crookshanks in my garden with my husband, Ron. I’ve never met you before,’ I whisper a little too loudly.

      Aurora draws her brows together in concern. ‘Has something happened to you?’ She darts from the leaf, coming unnervingly close to my face and almost making me squeal at the sudden nearness. She’s hovering mid-air, her tiny feet suspended and crossed at the ankles. This close, she’s even more lovely, her brown skin glistening, green eyes sparkling, a modest golden tiara shaped like a vine peeking out of her hair. Her full lips form a frown when she says, ‘Has someone hurt you? Why aren't you remembering me?’

     ‘Because we haven’t met before,’ I say, peeking over my shoulder nervously to ensure Virgil isn’t nearby.

     ‘Yes. We have,’ Aurora retorts sternly, crossing her arms. ‘Is it that strange creature swimming in the pool? Is he holding you captive? I can help—’

      ‘Hermione?’

       Virgil’s yelling startles me into a panic, making Aurora take several steps back. Thankfully, it sounds as if he’s still in the water. ‘Just a minute! My costume is all tangled up!’

       Lifting my blue towel, I grip it under my chin while throwing a scowl at Aurora. ‘I need to get changed! Can you…’ I drop my underwear behind the towel, shimming into the bikini pants before I finish. ‘Can we talk another time, perhaps? My friend isn’t from the wizarding world. He’ll find it strange that I’ve been gone so long.’

       Aurora puts her arms behind her lower back, lowering her eyes. ‘Alright.’ She’s observing me intently as if considering something on my face. ‘Will you accept my gift? I want to give you something that will help you remember me. Otherwise, you won’t know how to return to me.’

       I have to turn my back to her to unclasp my bra. It falls at my feet, gathering with the rest of my clothes. ‘What is it?’ Holding my breasts for modesty’s sake, I squat down to pick up the bikini top, keeping my back to her as I tie it around the middle of my back and neck. ‘I don’t want to be indebted to you. I know how these negotiations work—'

      ‘—You only have to pay me a visit,’ she intersects, sounding closer than before. I whirl, finding her waiting for me with her arms outstretched and hands shaped into a bowl. ‘You said we can talk another time. I want to make sure you don’t forget me again.’

     I look down at her cupped hands, watching as a small blue mushroom shimmering with a white powder suddenly materialises. It occupies her entire hands, as big as a jellybean and large enough that I can pick it.

     ‘In my court, we call it Nascent of Night.’ Her cupped hands nudge it towards me. ‘You have to eat it right away. As soon as it leaves my hands, its magical cord is cut.’

      With a sigh, I gather the rest of my clothes from the floor, taking a brief respite to consider what I should do. Reason tells me that accepting her gift is a ludicrous idea, while a nagging curiosity urges my hand forward. She’s lovely, and I feel inexplicably at ease in her presence. Forest Sprite aren't known to be devious. They maintain the well-being of the woodland, caring for its plants and animals.

      Aurora. Princess of the Summer Court. That unfamiliar sensation of self-assurance returns, and before I know it, I feel a chill travelling up my hand as our skin makes contact, and the mushroom is between my thumb and index finger, bound for my parted lips. It tastes like bird food. Like crisp, pollen-covered leaves and upturned earth and…summer.

     ‘It will take full effect once you sleep. For now…’ She wipes her hands of the white powder, ‘…I’m not quite sure how it affects witches and muggles, but I’m confident you’ll be alright.’

      My stomach growls on cue. Aurora gives me a small smile. ‘We’ll see each other soon, sweet Hermione,’ she says before waving her arm and summoning a slight wind that carries her away in a flurry of green and gold. 'I look forward to it!' The last of her voice travels as if from the tail of the breeze that carried her away.

      Looking down at myself, I see my breasts parted generously from the tight top, my nipples erect. My belly is…fine, and at least my legs look strong from all the horse riding and walking I do around the property. Returning quickly to the rock, I hold my stomach beneath the towel, which is stinging as if nipped by stinging nettles. I don’t see Virgil right away. The water is so loud and violent; his clothes are still on the ledge, and I drop mine beside them. Suddenly, I jolt when he breaks through the foamy ripples. He wipes the water and hair from his face, looking around until he spots me. A smile forms beneath the droplets, trickling down his beautiful features and godlike form.

      'I was about to come back there and help you!’ he says, shaking off the rest of the water from his hair.

      ‘No need. I conquered the crafty rascal eventually,’ I tease, gritting my teeth and smiling through the discomfort while sitting on the ledge, taking my wedding ring off to place beside my clothes. To prepare myself, I dip my feet before releasing the towel. ‘Holy shit, Virgil! It’s fucking glacial!’

      ‘It’s a little nippy at first, I will admit,’ he confirms, plunging his upper body beneath the surface and drifting slowly towards me. His eyes briefly dip to my bikini before returning to me. ‘You just have to plunge in. Your body will get used to it.’

      My stomach threatens another grumble of protest, and I push forward from the rock, meeting the ice-cold water that takes me under. My feet meet the rock-strewn floor, and I push upwards to remerge near Virgil, inwardly squirming at the deepness of the pool. I wipe the water frantically, trying to recover my breath.

      ‘Oh my god!’ When my eyes readjust, I find him hoisting himself to the ledge, grabbing the drinks before releasing himself back into the water.

      ‘Feels good, huh?’ he teases, swimming towards me. My hair is sticking to my cheek, and I’m struggling to wipe it away when his fingers replace mine, pulling strands over my forehead and unravelling them from my eyelashes. ‘Magic touch. Works every time.’

      I snort. ‘I’m sure we’ll find their opponent soon enough.’

     ‘Is that a challenge?’ he incites with a wild gleam in his eyes.

      ‘Yes.’ I playfully push his chest to boost me backwards. I start taking off towards the waterfall with long strokes before shouting, ‘Your ego is too inflated for your own good!’

Chapter Text

      The cavern is pleasantly comfortable for such a dark and cool place. Virgil guided us down a passage that opened into a hollow, drowning out the thunderous sound of the colliding water. Strange algae at the base cast a faint, whimsical light that ensures we can still see each other from their faint blue glow. Virgil called it 'bioluminescence' algae, a rare sight in a waterfall. Thankfully, my stomach has stopped hurting enough to join it. In its place, a growing faintness has taken over, and in several instances, I thought orbs and shadows were darting in the corner of my eye. I’m leaning back into a smooth rock, swaying my feet with the waves while downing the last drop of wine.

      ‘Mellow start before the gin,’ I point out, lifting a brow at the curve developing on his lips as he finishes his own. ‘Oh, I know your plan. It’s not as thought out as you hoped. I may not be able to walk back, and then what will happen?’

      Virgil licks his bottom lip before settling the empty bottle on the side. ‘Then I’ll have to carry you back. Or we could camp it out until the morning. I have matches in my bag. We could start a fire, watch the stars.' He settles back on the opposite side of the tiny cave, grazing his legs against mine when he does. ‘There are plenty of ways to keep occupied.’

      ‘Like what?’

       He joins his hands behind his head, giving me a spectacular view of his impressive, corded arms and chest, the thin golden chain glinting, the charm still out of view. ‘Like…’ he draws out the word before settling on, ‘Playing games.’

       I lift a brow. ‘Know of any good ones?’

       His arms flex. ‘A few. But they can only be played at night.’ He drops his arms to crack the cans of gin and mixers open, ‘What about you?’

       ‘Not really. I’ve always been the good girl type,’ I utter, drawing circles with my arms in the water. ‘I don’t do games.’

       ‘No?’ he asks, sounding unconvinced.

       Shaking my head, I mutter, ‘Boring, right? You’re probably wondering why someone wanted to marry me.’

       His eyes darken slightly at my words. ‘The only thing I’m wondering is why someone would abandon their faultless wife for such long bouts.’

       I open my mouth, instantly prepared to come to Ron’s defence. But I don’t.

       ‘You’re right. But I suppose…’ I glance away from him, ‘A special moment like today almost makes it worth it. I wouldn’t be here with you if he weren't away. And being here with you has been incredible,’ I admit. ‘One of the most beautiful days of my entire life.’

       He stares at me with a burning intensity before reaching for the drinks. ‘And we’ll do it again. As many times as you want.’

       I smile at the offer, feeling genuinely overwhelmed by his generosity. ‘Please.’

       He offers me both cans before saying, ‘Ready to find out if I can carry you over my shoulder for a two-hour trek?’

       I laugh, a cheerful sound that echoes throughout the cavern. ‘I’d pay good money to see it. Think you can film it, too? Surely, you don’t need two hands to carry one small woman.’

       Virgil lifts a brow. ‘If this is your boring side, I’m overwrought to find out what your fun side looks like,’ he says, flicking a loose strand from his forehead.

       My thighs clench for some inexplicable reason. With his heavy bedroom eyes never deviating from mine for more than a few seconds, I’ve begun to notice the cavern warming as if our shallow breaths and the intensity of our stares alone could heat it. ‘Get enough gin down me, and we might both be in for a surprise,’ I say, holding up the two cans to him. ‘How do we mix these?’

       He glances at my hands. ‘Any ideas before I show you?’

       Looking down at them, I draw an instant blank. ‘Take a big sip of one and use the other to fill it back?’

       Virgil chuckles, pushing back from the wall. On instinct, I part my legs to give him room. I reason that there really isn’t enough room in this small space for generous legroom. His intense aura envelopes me instantly as he steps in between my parted legs, brushing a thigh against my sensitive core. I’m burning alive in this frigid water as his eyes focus intently on mine; unblinking, he takes the drinks from my hands.

      ‘Lift your face,’ he instructs. I do.

      ‘Open your mouth.’ I nod, encouraging him with a faint head.

       He brings both cans to my mouth, pouring a little from each simultaneously. ‘Swallow for me,’ he says with a gravelly tenor, and I do, almost choking. He drifts back a little, remaining close while I lick my lips when a trickle seeps past my chin. I shake my head at the berry taste with a sour bite.

     ‘It goes straight to the head.’ I wipe my mouth with a wet finger. ‘I don’t want to be a nuisance to you again. If you have to carry me.’ My brain begins thrumming with an unfamiliar sensation. I feel almost wispy, like I’ll float away with the current if I don’t hold on. I’m unsure if it’s the Nascent mushroom or the drinks. Probably both. I’m tethered to my body by a fragile thread, and I'm anticipating it snapping.

      And Virgil isn’t helping. I could melt just looking at him, darkened by the weak light, his penetrating, errant gaze, and his outrageous body. My nipples have been permanently hard, and I know it's not just from the icy water.           

     ‘Stop overthinking it,’ he says firmly. ‘I’ll handle everything, remember? I’ll make it all feel better.’ He breaks the tiny distance, and unlike a minute ago, he grazes his hard front into me, dipping his head close to my ear to say, ‘Just enjoy yourself, hmm?’

     Oh my god! I bob my head so weakly I’m not sure he notices it.

     Virgil pulls back, breathing hot air into my cheekbone. ‘Can you handle it, or do you need me to help you?’

      My heart is thrashing in my chest. I should push him back, but I don’t. I shouldn’t have invited him in with open legs in the first place, but I did. I know what I need to do. I know what I need to say. His intense stare tells me he isn't talking only about the drinks, and the words to repel him are on the brink of my tongue. ‘Can you do it for me?’ I whisper, releasing a shudder that racks my entire spine.

      His smile is pure deviousness, and I’m thrilled and terrified to see it. ‘Of course.’ He presses his body against mine, his hardness pressing against the thin fabric of my bikini, and I let the sensation override any doubts that threaten. Fuck you, self-doubts. My thighs settle beside his hips as if needing to open up more, and I'm nearly straddling him.

      ‘Same as before,’ his voice is hauntingly low as he brings the cans to rest on either side of my lips. Watching me with heavy lids and dilated pupils, he pours both liquids into my mouth, softly beginning to grind himself against my pussy as he does. ‘Swallow quickly this time, understood?’

      I nod, and the cans vanish. I feel the instant the cord of my resistance snaps. A fuse is lit in its place, and I’m far too gone to want to quench it. As soon as I swallow, the minuscule space between our bodies is filled as he grasps my chin, crashing our lips together.

       And…The cosmos has come to a standstill. I moan into the sensation of him: his deliciously heady tongue devouring me, eating me alive for every fucked up thing I want from him. My hips begin swaying into him, and I whimper louder. He captures my sounds with a greedy determination, wolfing my taste, determined to relish every second I give myself to him, every trice I am his. Only the stars know how badly I want to be his.

       I am claiming something forbidden, and it’s the sultriest and most exhilarating thing that has ever happened to me. Relishing this beautiful man feels like spoiling myself with a blessing. His flush lips are persistent on what they need, pleading to me with a devoutness akin to breathing. Our tongues are feverish, and the way his erection is parting the thin slit of my bikini is making me lightheaded. I’ve never wanted a thing more than to feel his hard flesh corrupting the last of my resolve.

      My fingers find his soft hair, shoulders, and necklace, and I tangle myself in it all while the heady, wet, and desperate sounds we are making echo around us with the turbulent waves from our relentless rhythm of wanting to fuck each other into these walls.

      Hearing his throaty groans only makes me more frantic. He breaks the kiss to nip at the corner of my lips before travelling down the expanse of my throat, leaving the taint of our crimes peppered all over my neck, finding my sweet spot and holy mother of everything sinful. He begins demolishing that spot, biting lightly, licking and kissing as he increases his promise against my pussy, trying not to leave marks even though I can sense how badly his teeth want to bite. I moan so loud he recaptures my mouth, grinding against my clit as I continue my senseless appeal against his lips.

      The bikini parts to the side, revealing me to him and the frigid water, and my sounds turn into hysterical whimpers when he escalates me to my release, my soaking and tender pussy being roughly grazed. His hand is still on my chin, cupping it, while the other has rooted itself into my neck and hair. 

      He pulls his mouth away for a moment to groan, ‘Come with my name on your lips.’

      My eyes roll back, knowing he's just sent me over. His mouth returns to mine, capturing my scream as I bellow his name like it’s the holiest word—bound to bring heaven crashing down around us. Every atom in my body is trembling as my head falls back against the rough wall, limp and lifeless in his hold, releasing his lips. Just when I think he's about to satisfy my aching hole, his finger sweeps across my pussy to hook under the fabric, bringing it back to cover me.

       The sounds of our heavy breaths occupy the silence.

       Virgil presses his damp forehead against my own. ‘You are the most beautiful thing I’ve beheld,’ His voice is heavy, brushing his lips lazily against my closed lids and temples. 'A perfect paean of paradise.' He kisses the top of my head, my face pressed into his hard chest. I feel an odd urge to lay my head upon it. The fantasy of being cuddled together, the Tyrrhenian Sea visible from the veranda of his villa, is so fleeting and lovely that it makes me choke. Instead of pulling away, as I should—guilty and indignant—I weakly grip his chin to return his mouth to mine, giving him one last kiss that feels far more chaste and loving than the feast we indulged in.

       ‘Thank you,’ I breathe hoarsely, still recovering my voice and feeling like I’m on a high that won’t return me to earth any time soon. ‘I could do with more of that drink. Maybe less gin this time…’ I chuckle, ‘…did you want yours?’

       He drifts to my side, his hair wildly tousled by my fingers, nodding lazily before letting me drift to his drinks. I reapproach hesitantly, seeing his head tilted to the side with eyes closed, giving me a detailed view of the blackbird tattoo on his neck.

        I clear my throat. ‘Why a blackbird?’ After all the strangeness of my stalker and his obsession with birds, it seems appropriate that I ask. ‘Isn’t it more macho to get a bird of prey?’

        He laughs huskily with eyes still closed, lifting his barb-tatted arm to wipe his eyes. ‘It’s an ode to love; only I know what it means.’ He opens his eyes, viewing me beneath their shadows.

        I extend the cans towards him, gratified that we’ve returned to our effortless ease despite rubbing against each other like fevered rabbits. He accepts them, letting his fingers graze against mine. ‘Now I know what it means, too.’

      ‘Now you do, too.’ 

      ‘And the barb?’ I follow the snaking pattern to see it join into a floral artwork that travels further up his shoulder into something I can’t quite make out in this light.

      ‘An ode to what love feels like.’

      ‘Hmn,’ I murmur, considering his vague and somewhat poetic responses. ‘I think my idea may work better.’ I begin pouring the contents of the gin into the lemonade, giving it a whirl before taking the last sips. 'It is.'

      Virgil drinks his own separately, taking long drags out of each one with a small smile. 'I'd argue that my touch definitely worked better.'

      I flush, squeezing my thighs together while avoiding his gaze.

      ‘You better start swimming back to the rock before I decide to keep you here until nightfall, and you can find out exactly what kind of things my games entail.’

       Choking on my drink, I sputter a bit out. The nerves I thought I had dispersed quickly returned. ‘Jesus, Virgil.’ I dip my hand into the water, bringing it up to clean my chin and chest. ‘Let me have a moment of respite, can I?’

      His lips curve. 'Of course.'

     ‘My wedding ring!’ Fuck!

      We’ve walked back, and somehow, I’ve only just recalled that I left it on the rock before plunging into the water. I start moving on the spot, restless, while Virgil unfastens the chain securing his motorbike to the gate.

      ‘I’ve got it in my bag,’ he says, gathering the metal in his hands. Thank God.

       Based on what we had done, I almost suspected it was a bad omen. After drying off on the rock, I changed back to my dress in the bushes without the intrusion of a sprite, and when we started walking, everything felt strangely…normal. Virgil hasn’t changed at all, and with my mushroom trip wearing off, I’m relieved for it. What happened feels like something that doesn’t need to be brought up in the light of day—belonging solely to dark caverns, icy waters and lustrous algae. While we trekked, tired limbs sluggish, he talked more about the flora and fauna of the land, occasionally bringing up the one surrounding his villa.

       ‘You won't become a stranger once you return to Italy, will you?’ I blurt out suddenly, watching him put the chain back inside the seat's storage. My eyes are so heavy I’m scared of falling asleep at any point on his back once we get moving. 

      His eyes drift to me, warm and sincere, tinted by the golden light of the lowering sun. ‘We still have some time yet,’ he reassures as if sensing the ulterior meaning of my abrupt declaration. ‘And who knows, you may visit me after all.’ He drops his bag and clicks the seat back into place, lifting his head to the tree canopy. ‘Let’s get going before you fall asleep on the spot.’

      By the time we meander the road towards the house, the sunset is in full bloom, and its colours are reflected in Virgil’s visor when I stand beside his bike, holding out my helmet to him. The parking lot of my home is empty, and there are few lights inside, probably what Sofia left on for when I got home.

       He turns the engine off, lifting his helmet while straddling his bike.

       ‘All good?’ he asks, releasing those god-forbidden waves to blow freely atop his head.

       I nod, offering him a wearied smile. ‘Thank you so much for today. It was breathtaking.’ Really? Could you be less subtle? I graze my teeth on my bottom lip, looking for the right words. ‘We should do it again.’

       Virgil brushes his hair from his forehead. ‘We will do it again. Now that I have Dainty Darling’s number, it will be hard to get rid of me.’

       My heart skips. ‘You should—’

       ‘Mione?’  I wrench my gaze away from Virgil to see Ron standing at the front door, still in his work clothes. He abandons the door and starts marching towards us. ‘What’s going on? Sofia told me you disappeared without telling anyone where you’re going! And where the fuck is your phone?’ His outgrown hair is distressed, probably by the Cornish winds, blowing messily over his glowering eyes that are boring into Virgil, sizing him up and down. ‘Who’s this?’

       I open my mouth to come to my defence, my heart plummeting from my chest.

      ‘The elusive husband, right?’ Virgil says calmly and subtly gratingly, appearing unruffled by Ron’s hostility. 

       Ron glares at him and shifts back to me, lowering his eyes to my outfit. ‘What does that mean? Mione? Why are you not saying anything?’

       ‘This is Virgil. My...friend.' I quip. 'He bought Misty from us yesterday, and we decided to go for a walk together in the highlands.’ I recover my calm when I meet Virgil’s poised expression. ‘I’m sorry I haven’t told you about him yet. I haven’t had a chance.’ Walking around the bike, I head straight to my husband, who is staring at me as if I’m a stranger turned mad. I lift a hand to his arm, grazing it before he harshly pulls it back.

       ‘Who the hell is Misty?' 

       Giving him an annoyed look, I can't keep the incredulity from contorting my features. I've gushed countless times about Misty to him. 'The horse we've had for the last four years.' I look back to Virgil, noticing how his eyes have morphed into icy and almost black mirrors while looking at Ron. 'You didn’t tell me when you were coming back, so I went out for a bit,’ I say, not caring to keep the annoyance out of my voice.

       ‘Out?’ Ron retorts bitterly. ‘With him?’

       ‘Yes, with him, Ron. Will you stop being so rude,’ I snap. ‘It was a bloody walk.’ And dry fucking into each other until I came bellowing his name. ‘Be nice to our guests, will you?’

        I try to ignore the feeling of shame that threatens now that Ron is here, flustered between us, my neck still harbouring the remnants of my betrayal. His expression remains sour as he considers Virgil again. He lifts his brow curiously at the enormous black motorbike, his resistance fading at the sight of a muggle curiosity. I roll my eyes while he’s not looking, releasing a sigh.

       ‘Nice to meet you,’ Ron resolves, stepping forward and brushing past me. He offers his hand to Virgil. ‘Thanks for bringing my wife back in one piece.’

       Turning to watch Virgil accept his hand, I notice something gold glinting in his pinky finger. ‘She enjoyed herself,’ he says. The coldness vanished as if it was never there in the first place. He glances over at me with a mischievous curve on his lips before taking his hand back when Ron pulls away first. ‘That’s the important part.’

       ‘That’s good,’ Ron comments, appearing slightly taken aback. ‘That’s really good…’ He looks between us two, struggling for words. ‘Did you want to come inside for a drink? Hermione makes great coffee, don’t you, darling?’

       Ron stares intently at me, and I notice Virgil lifting a brow behind him. 'Maybe next time. I’ve got a long drive back,’ Virgil says before lifting his helmet over his head and shuffling it into place. He turns the key, the engine roaring to life, and Ron is practically salivating while admiring it.

       Virgil opens the visor to look at me, and for fuck's sake, I hope Ron hasn't noticed how devoted his attention is. ‘Oh, I nearly forgot…’ He pulls the golden ring from his pinky—my wedding ring! Holding it out to Ron. ‘Your ring.’ He drops the rarely-worn jewel into my husband's open hand.

      ‘Thanks,’ Ron says, slightly bewildered, holding it out to me. ‘She’s always leaving it about.' He clears his throat. 'Anyway, safe drive.’

      I step to take it, feeling my neck prickle beneath Virgil’s adamant gaze.'Take care, Virgil, ' I mutter with a forced smile, ensuring Ron doesn't notice my nerves. 'Thank you again.'

      ‘Glad you had a good time. Tesoro,’ Virgil says before nodding at Ron with something that looks like a mocking glint shining in his eyes. He shifts his attention to me, fingers to his visor, and subtly winks before slapping the plastic over his eyes and twisting the handle to leave with a roar that disturbs the gravel.

      'We need to talk,' Ron says in a low voice next to me as we watch him leave. 'Inside. Now.'

       Holding the cold metal ring in my palm, I watch Virgil vanish, wishing more than anything that I was vanishing, too.

Chapter Text

      Should we carve our name on her neck?

      ‘Malfoy’

      He’s always too close to our girl. Maybe we ought to remind them all who she belongs to.  Mine. Yours. Ours.

      ‘Malfoy’

      With a long drag, I hold the smoke for one, two, three, four, five…

      ‘Oi!’ Crabbe throws a rock into the lake, making a louder splash than before. ‘What do you think, Malfoy?’

       What do we think about throwing your severed limbs into the lake, one by one—the shadow croons and the shade around me deepens. Sounds like fun. A wicked grin spreads the corner of my lips. ‘What do I think about what?’

       Crabbe snickers, throwing a smaller one into the receding ripples. ‘Pushing the Weasel into the lake? I heard he can’t swim.’

       My grin only intensifies as I watch the red-haired prick make his way to my little red, sat with her legs outstretched on a picnic rug beside Potter. They’ve been talking for some time, just the two of them, beneath the swinging curtain of a willow, too absorbed in their conversation to notice the predator lurking in the forest glooms across the lake from them. We are hidden behind the old boating house, and I’m glimpsing the trio through the broken windows.

      ‘Do it'

       His head swings to me, where I’m leaning into a fallen tree, my hand in my pocket and the other bringing the cigarette to my lips. It’s fucking hot, and my forehead is slicked with sweat. The buttons of my shirt are undone to my chest, revealing a dainty gold necklace that catches the light from the lake. It has the signet of a setting sun with a horned moon resting atop its diminishing form. 

      ‘Do what?’ Crabbe echoes with a shaky undertone.

       Throwing a glare in his direction, I suck the cherry to life while I tilt my head, considering him for several stark-silent heartbeats. ‘Throw him in. Give us a show—do whatever the fuck you like.’

       Zabini shifts against the fallen tree. ‘And if he drowns?’

       I turn my attention to Zabini on my left, his eyes fused in the same direction: on the other end of the shore, where the dog squats on his heels next to Hermione, brushing a dirtied hand on her bare forearm. She’s sweating, and the white school shirt reveals the outline of her lacy black bra that appears racier than it should.

      Gritting my jaw, I rasp, ‘Best case scenario: he does. But do you think she and Potter would let it happen?’

      Goyle cranks a beer open on the rock next to me. ‘He’s weaselled his way so close to Granger; looks as if he’ll get a decent shot down her shirt for the wank bank later.’ He takes a sip. ‘Black bra and all.’

      Before the second sip can meet his lips, the beer breaks against his lip, splashing the piss-coloured liquid all over his face, mixing with a few drops of blood from where the metal has split skin.

      ‘Hey, hey, hey!’ Zabini bellows over Goyel’s gargled protests, cuffing my arm.

      ‘Why don’t you and Crabbe fuck off to do it? Look, he’s heading over here right now…’ I glance toward the trio, seeing that Weasel has reached his feet, pointing towards the trees. ‘So get a fucking move on. You might catch him mid-piss if you’re lucky.’

       I release the spell, and Goyle sputters the beer, wiping it from his face as Crabbe looks between us, brows pinched in fear. He quickly averts his gaze to Zabini when I meet his wretched gaping. I light another fag, placing it between my lips to suck as I readjust my rolled-up sleeves, releasing the smoke from a gap in my lips while I look between Crabbe and Goyle with a deadly glower that promises carnage.

       Crabbe nervously rubs his sweaty hands on his trousers. ‘But—’

      ‘You heard him,’ Zabini counters with sharp impatience. ‘The pair of you always talk a big game and expect us to dirty our hands. Not this time.’

       Goyle swallows profusely, not daring to meet my eye. Crabbe lifts his chin in mock determination. ‘Course,’ he clears his throat, ‘Let’s go, Goyle.’ They step awkwardly around the boathouse like heavy-footed bears.

       We should be doing it… I inhale sharply, ignoring the voice divulging precisely my feelings. Fucking with the trio gives me as much satisfaction as to where Granger is concerned. Although I’m not the boy I once was, and my threats could have been likened to childish taunts at best, it’s when I invited the shadow that my true nature manifested.

      Full of claws, bloodshed, carnal deliberations and a hunger that will not subside. She should know better. Her friends are a liability. What she needs is to kneel at my fucking feet, assuring me her soul so that I may spare every one of her friends once Voldemort comes into power. She is mine, and she is my prey. The heady taste of her pussy and sweet mouth has only solidified my claim. It’s been several months since that instance, and I’m fucking starving.

     ‘Clumsy fuckers. I’m sick of them,’ Zabini breathes out bitterly, pacing. ‘I nearly beat the shit out of them both when Goyle pushed Liana into the wall.’

      I look at his sharp features, firmly set jaw, darkened eyes staring bleakly at the floor where he’s digging a rock into the ground. It’s the first time he’s spoken the name of his Hufflepuff obsession out loud. I’ve spotted him a few times near her. Just a week ago, I watched him storming out of the forest, Liana emerging ten minutes after, her eyes streaked with tears.

      ‘I’ll gladly throw all three of them in,’ I comment, reaching for one of Crabbe’s untouched beers. ‘Just say the word, sweetness.’

      Zabini chuckles at my use of his nickname, which uptight and strict Madam Pomfrey uses only for him. He’s often in the hospital wing with broken bones and ugly gashes from helping his brother, whose illicit group, the Reavers, frequently camp in the farthest borders of the forbidden forest. Though what they get up to, Zabini has never wanted to share.

      ‘It will be much more pleasurable for us both if I did—’ Zabini stops short when the sound of a squawk pierces through the quietness of the forest. Then, Ron's dark body manifests into view like a black boulder being thrown into the lake. The sound of his impact is like music to my ears, and when I lean to the right, glancing beyond the boathouse, I see the scene better; the bubbles and waves are the only indications of the assault.

      He’s gone under, and I crack the can open.

      ‘I can’t believe they pulled it off,’ Zabini comments, obstructing my view as he passes me to get a better look.

      ‘RON!’ Hermione bellows from the other side of the lake. ‘YOU UTTER IDIOTS! HE CAN’T SWIM!’

      I'm taking generous swigs as I watch the scene unfold. My little red is flustered, standing at the water’s edge with her wand pointed to where Weasel suddenly remerges, thrashing for air. Potter’s already levitating a log towards him, and at the realisation, Hermione begins stripping her shoes and socks.

     ‘WE’RE COMING RON!’

      She’s still in her skirt and shirt when she walks into the water, sinking at the muddy bank, her figure submerging quickly at her urgency until she finally plunges in, swimming towards Weasel, who manages to thrash enough to secure his hold on the log. Potter’s in tow behind her, almost in full uniform, though Hermione’s insistent strokes create a considerable distance between them.  

      The log rolls. Weasel’s under again.

      I’m almost finished with the beer, and I spark another fag, lounging into the fallen tree as if I’m thoroughly satisfied with my comfortable front-row seat. Seeing her bobbing head drawing closer and thinking about holding it under until she screams my name and claws at my arms, scarring them with her inscription, sends a tremor through me on a downward path. The urge to pull her out of the water and fuck her senseless in front of her sodden friends is blinding.

      Or even better: fuck each of her holes next to their drowned bodies.

      ‘Let’s have one. I’ve run out.’ Zabini comes to lounge next to me, and I extend him my packet and lighter, letting my shadow’s visual prompt engrain into the darkest fantasies I have planned for her.

      It’s like a list at this point. Filled with all the ways I’m going to ruin her.

     ‘I’M HERE, I’M HERE!’ Hermione cries, breathless, as she reaches the log and pulls his head to the surface. He latches on to the wood, and with Hermione’s help, they start paddling it towards the shore.

      ‘Well, shit. That was a brief interval of fun, hey?’ Zabini puffs out a cloud of smoke. ‘It never lasts long enough.’

      He’s right about that. I would’ve tied several large rocks to the Weasel’s arms if it was me, waiting…waiting…until his last breath disappeared in the bubbles. The thrilling scenario warms my blood, and I blow out a cloud that obstructs my vision, trying to release the itch that wants to unleash carnage. When the smoke settles into the windless summer’s day, I’m met with the scornful brilliance of my girl glaring at us, directing her venom only at me. What a pretty sight.

      I curve my lip slightly, flashing her a lazy wink in response.

      She clenches her jaw, her face inflaming to a boiling point, before recovering and returning to save her unfortunate friend, who still hasn’t regained his breath. I can’t see it beneath the water, but I bet her shirt is soaked through, revealing every fibre of that devastating piece of lingerie. God. She's fucking delicious.

       I can feel her malice, needing to draw blood as it meets my skin. That is until I bury my tongue between her soft flesh, reminding her how her contempt can as swiftly morph into insistent desire. My girl wants to believe she's powerful and can command and sway. But my girl has to realise she doesn’t have to pretend against me. Against us.

      Outside Herbology, I can feel six pairs of eyes boring into my neck. Zabini steals glances over my shoulder, lowering his eyes at the unwanted attention. He’s getting heated, and I’m in two minds about entertaining the ordeal.

      ‘They’re still looking,’ he bites out louder than necessary. ‘Fucking rats.’

      I shrug my shoulder, not caring unless it’s brought to my face. It’s a full moon, and like a fucking werewolf, I had to chain myself to the wall last night lest my shadow decided to eradicate the entire school. It was a restless, relentless and dire night. The hunter inside has turned rampant since tasting her all those months ago.

      It’s all it fucking thinks about. It's all I dream about. My shoulders are so taut from the struggle against the bindings that the thought of a hot soak makes my legs twitch to bunk the lesson.

      Weasel coughs rowdily, and Zabini loses it. ‘Has the swine got something he wants to say?’

      The silence is comical; I’m tempted to give them my attention to see their stunned faces.

      ‘You went too far, Malfoy,’ Potter chirps up. ‘Ron could’ve drowned.’ I can sense when he turns his gaze to Zabini, who is burning beside me, eager to get a punch in if it comes to it. ‘Is this what you do now? Drowning in broad daylight?’

       Zabini snickers. ‘He lives. How unfortunate for us all. You’d have thanked us when you wake up to a dorm infested with fleas tomorrow.’

       Weasel steps forward, pushing Zabini harshly on the shoulder. Before Zabini can react, I whirl from leaning against the wall and immediately find the Weasel’s neck, squeezing ruthlessly against his bobbing throat. Potter and Longbottom step back, frantically searching their robes for their wands.

       ‘Apologies to Zabini,’ I grit out, my lethal scrutiny finding Ron's wide, blue eyes that look at me with so much fear; it only makes me want to inflict more. His pulse is erratic, and I squeeze tighter, nearly lifting him from his feet.

       ‘Let go, Malfoy!’ Potter bellows, pointing his wand at me.

       Cocking my head at him, I can't stop the gleeful smirk forming on my lips. ‘You think I’m scared of your wand, little boy?’ The voice that comes out is half mine and half his. ‘I’ll snap his neck before you can land a spell on me. And if you test me, I’ll come over there and crack yours first.’ I glance at Longbottom, who’s visibly shaking. ‘Do you like your head, Longbottom? Or should I stitch you up a new one?’

       My growing smile must look deranged because even Potter releases his fight.

       ‘S-sorry, Zabini,’ Potter utters tersely. ‘Please, just let him go unharmed.’ Longbottom echoes his words through shuddering breaths; they are almost inaudible, but I’ll accept it in case he pisses himself if I ask him to repeat the apology. I glower back at Weasel, who’s turned bright red, almost purple; his gaze is distant and defeated, and I release my hold so he can parrot the sentiment.

       ‘Sssssorry,’ he sputters. ‘Zzzzabini.’

       When I release him, he drops down like a sack of shit at my feet, and Potter drops down beside him, lifting him from the arm as Weasel clutches his throat. Sprout still hasn’t appeared, and the corridor is silent. Luckily for Zabini and me, we are the only ones here as witnesses. We watch Potter, Weasel and Longbottom scurry down the corridor, running to whatever teacher will listen to their sob story.

       ‘Great. Now we're fucked,’ Zabini utters, shaking his shoulders as if trying to disperse the tension. ‘I just finished three weeks of detention. I was looking forward to finally having a life.'

       ‘Snape will cover for us,’ I reassure, rolling my head to diffuse the pressure. ‘Weasel started on you, and he had a flea on his neck. I was only trying to subdue the situation and flick the pest from sucking him dry.’

       Zabini laughs, swinging his head back. ‘Good one. Thanks for handling him, pal. I saw bloody murder for a second.’

      Slap! Zabini and I look up from our work and see a scowling Hermione standing before our desk with a pile of coursework resting on her arm. She slaps ours down one by one, her force punishing enough to vibrate the table.

      ‘Not. Fucking. Cool. Guys,’ her sneer is directed at me, but she quickly aims it at Zabini. Her tone is deadly but calm, so only we can hear her. ‘What in the world has gotten into you two? It’s despicable cruelty and cold-blooded senselessness! You could be expelled for it!’

       Leaning back on my chair, I spot Sprout bent over a table at the front. Meeting my little red's fury, I reply slowly, strumming the anger on further, ‘You’ll have to remind us of who we’re talking about, baby.’

       Her glare returns to me in multitudes. ‘Baby?! Don’t you fucking dare, Malfoy!’

       Zabini whistles next to me, and I work my jaw, leaning farther into the seat and crossing my arms behind my head, bulging the muscles that I catch her eyes glimpsing, unable to resist. My smile is a promise of sin as I retort, ‘It seems like all that studying is making you tense. Why don’t you wait for me with your back to the tree later tonight? I’ll help release it out of you.’

       The redness rosing her cheeks explodes to the rest of her face. ‘Stop it! Stop it right now! This is serious!’ Hermione slaps another piece of paper before me, grazing my hand. I glance down to see the red slit of a cut and grin at the crimson droplet seeping out of it. Her louder tone makes the tables nearest us turn. She notices her blunder and quickly composes herself by clearing her throat. ‘You know exactly who I’m talking about,’ she grits out, looking between us.

       Zabini remains silent, letting me deal with my girl. I hum as I lift my hand to my face, retaining her eye as I dart my tongue out and gather the blood by the tip with a lazy smile before saying, ‘Who?’

       She lowers her gaze, breathing heavily through her nostrils. ‘I hope you get in big trouble for it.’ Her hand slaps another paper in front of Zabini. ‘You too! And Crabbe and Goyle!’

       When she storms off, I watch her curls billow with the urgency of her power walk and lower my eyes to admire how her hips sway.

      ‘She’s fuming,’ Zabini remarks, turning the paper front side up. ‘Sounds like you won’t get any tree action or whatever that was about.’

       I bite the end of my pencil to keep a smile from revealing my excitement at her flustered antics. Twirling the pencil, I wait. Patient as always. One, two, three, four seconds before she whirls on her seat, meeting my eye with a penetrating glare. Mm. We’ll see.

       My girl is sleeping now. Entirely and utterly zonked out by whatever elixir she’s been mixing. The Gryffindor girls’ dorm is empty; the others celebrate a quidditch victory outside by the lake with a bonfire. I watched the celebrations from the other end, smoking, waiting to see if she would stay or leave earlier as she often does. As if Hermione could sense my anticipation, my pulse quickened when she waved her friends goodbye, darting into the trees.

       This, right here, is how I like it: just me, her, and the cool breeze from the open window. If anyone walked in, they wouldn’t see me through my invisibility charm. But I haven’t decided what I want to do yet, and walking in on her naked could be a give-away. I’m smoking on the ledge, fluctuating between eyeing the scenery and her sleeping body.

      What makes her need to take sleeping draughts? It’s something she’s only been doing recently as if whatever demons haunt her have finally dismantled her resistance. Hermione doesn’t stir much, but tonight, she’s restless. The covers are bunched around her ankles, giving me a picture perfect view of her soft legs. Her petite frame is something holy—worth dying for. It makes me wonder if Helen of Troy looked anything like the girl who captured my undivided attention when nothing in this wretched world could make me feel a thing.

       The fact I’m here, relaxing, which I can only do when I’m near her sleeping body, is absurd.

       She fusses, rolling to face the other side and Christ. Her plump ass is taunting me. The tiny shorts have turned into underwear, hiking up to frame every inch of the sinful flesh that I should not be stroking my dick to. She’s murmuring some incomprehensible nonsense, and I can only focus on talking myself out of touching her. The honourable voice beneath the darkness tells me how too far gone I am for thinking about spreading her cheeks and fucking her tight little asshole.  

      She’s yours. Her body is begging for your touch.

      Ours...

      Yours—Touch her!

      Hermione stirs again, making her cheeks giggle and whimpering something that still doesn’t sound like a word. When she turns back to face me, her tiny vest has rolled up, giving me a slit of her under-boob. My little red calls me evil—but this is pure malice.

      Her lips are pressed together in a pout, brows drawn in a frown, and she murmurs again. This time, I try to listen as I take in a long drag while grazing my dick with my free hand at the thought of pressing the tip to her lips and seeing what she would do. The image of her tongue sleepily licking the precum off, taking me without her clever mouth protesting first, nearly propels me from the ledge.  

      Take. Take. Take. It’s all yours to take. She is mine; she doesn’t know the extent of my claim yet.

      ‘Draaahh’

      I lift my eyes back to her face, watching her mouth form an ‘O’ as she opens her lips to utter whatever word she’s trying to release. In all my nights of watching her sleep, I’ve never witnessed her do anything other than sigh, lightly snore, clear her nose or occasionally moan.

      ‘Drayyyy’

       My entire body tenses, inspecting her eyes to see if they are marginally open. I’ve stopped stroking my cock. Everything is agonisingly still. I feel my heart thrashing in my chest, anticipating what I suspect she’s trying to say.

       Her brows furrow, her lips sluggishly part once more. Her voice is breathy, drawing out each syllable as she says, ‘Drake.’ What the fuck?

       Just as I’m contemplating ransacking the castle for any candidate with that name, she stirs, wiping the curls from her forehead before sighing in frustration, falling dead silent a moment, and then opening her mouth to murmur in a husky tone, ‘Draco.’

       I sigh. Thank fuck. While my heart is leaping at the sleepy confession, my muscles are still clenched in preparation for strangling someone. I take long drags while considering her, reflecting on what the admission says about her lucid state of mind.

      Of course, she thinks about you. She wants you. Hermione Granger has always wanted you.

       The cherry is growing brighter through the dusky light. I’m smoking soundlessly for a while, absorbed in my thoughts, keeping an eye on the lake and the campfire that assures her dormitory's absence. At least I won’t have to chain myself to the cold wall tonight. I look over at the occupied bed, imagining If I could lie beside her until the first light, vanishing before she wakes up.

       My eyebrows shoot up when I glimpse her hand leaving her side, travelling past her tummy, grazing her overlapping thigh, and squeezing between her legs. My girl is full of surprises tonight. Is she thinking about me? Is the mention of my name related to her frustration and dreams?

       Do you see it now? She was always meant to be ours…

       If she parts her legs, there is nothing between me and her bed to keep me from her.

       ‘Mmm,’ she moans, rolling her hips into the hand that’s become more of a rubbing instrument. My hand is back on my cock, pressing punitively against the rough barrier of my boxers and jeans.

       Hermione moans again, and the last of my resolve dissolves with the sound. I abandon the ledge, glancing outside to ensure no one walks towards the courtyard. I see pure and utter stillness: an ideal setting for my crimes, and only my god—my shadow, knows what I plan to indulge in behind closed doors. As I advance to her bed, she encouragingly rolls onto her back, clenching her thighs together to keep her hand in place.

       Her hair is a wild mess plastered across her face, and instead of brushing it away as I feel inclined, I leave it in place in the unlikelihood she opens her eyes. Sitting beside her, the bed only dips slightly; it’s as firm as a fucking rock, and somehow that doesn’t waver me from the prospect of getting a good night’s sleep next to her.

       She’s rubbing her hand against her covered pussy in an inexpert fashion. It’s feverish, desperate, and begging for my help.

       Oh, Birdie, you give us no choice but to oblige you—my shadow purrs with such deafening force, I startle, thinking the words have boomed into the empty room. But it’s only me and her, and my hand reaches for her shorts' black waistband. She has goosebumps all over her legs and stomach, her breathing is shallow, and when I graze my fingers against her pebbled skin, she stops rubbing herself.

       ‘That’s right. I’m here.’ I stroke the inside of her thigh, and she shudders. ‘The big bad wolf has come to watch you…’ my fingers skim along the line of her shorts, ‘to touch you…’ I wet my bottom lip, ‘…to taste you.’ Her legs part slightly, and the feverish hand darts back to her pussy. I snatch it, holding it captive against her belly. ‘Uh-uh-uh. This part is for me.’

        With my free hand, I shuffle the shorts from her thighs a bit at a time so as not to startle her into consciousness. Despite her former insistence, she remains still and compliant, letting the fabric slide down her legs and good fucking god. The sight of her perfect pussy nearly has me coming in my pants. I leave the shorts hooked onto one ankle, so it looks like they just slipped off during the night.

       If I had any sense of right and wrong—a moral compass or a priest looming at my shoulder; I’m sure I’d be guaranteed to hell. But I’d accepted my corruption a long time ago; I’m depraved, tormented, and bloodthirsty. I’d since made my bed in the netherworld, and there’s no looking back.

      When I consider her cherubic face, innocent charisma and tender, sweet-smelling pussy in the faint dusky light, I know that I would traverse the underworld as Orpheus did for Eurydice, except I would not once glance over my shoulder until I’d walked her halfway across the earth, out of Hade’s reach, safely in my hands.

      Suddenly, her thighs rub together. Shit.

      Her pussy looks so inviting, glistening with juices from her unconscious arousal. It’s practically begging to be eaten. My girl would lose her mind if she knew what was happening and who was taking advantage of her in the secrecy of night. The wicked thought only incites the darkest part of my psyche that persuades my fingers to stroke her freshly-shaven lips, making her sensitive bud stand to attention. My free hand instantly finds my throbbing cock when she moans and begins grinding into my subtle touch.

      I unbuckle my trousers, hurriedly pulling them past my thighs. I part the fabric of my boxers, my dick pinging out. I fist my hand around it, watching transfixed as my fingers slide up and down the slit of her soaked pussy; swallowing the tip of my forefinger when it swirls at her entrance.

     It’s pleading to be fucked. Damn right, it is.

     The knowledge has me fisting myself harder, practically fucking my hand to supplicate for her loss. I bring my slick fingers to my tongue, devouring the sample of her, sucking them for all the flavour they are keeping from me, and I groan when the taste explodes in my throat. Jesus Christ. Her pussy is the most delicious, intoxicating substance known to gods, wizards and muggles. It’s the holy fucking grail—my ambrosia. The food of the divinities. The sustenance could keep me going until I drew my last breath.

     I thumb her clit, thinking about its aftertaste while flicking it, summoning a whimper out of her that pleads me to circle it. There is nothing I wouldn’t do for this girl. Give it a few years, and I’ll come in her so deeply; the only other scream she’ll know besides my dick is bringing our child into this world.

     I wet my finger, needing to sully her virtuous altar with my saliva.

     ‘Mmm,’ she moans loudly when I swirl the spit around her clit, swinging her head to the opposite side and arching her back, pressing her pussy into my hand. Her nipples are fully erect, irresistible against the thin fabric, and I’m contemplating pulling her top up. It seems like an added task to worry about if someone unexpectedly takes the stairs to the dormitories. I'll suck them another day, another night.

      I’m rubbing her while fucking myself; it's the second hottest thing I’ve experienced. The first is her pussy in my mouth.

      Eat it— he growls, making the shadows in the room ripple. Only my god knows how badly I want to. I dip my fingers in her wetness again, bringing them to my lips, tasting the juices, making my eyes roll to the back of my head. It’s not enough!

      Hermione whines when I stop rubbing her to reposition myself. I’m straddling the base of the bed, holding my dick, and practically kneeling before her pussy. I start rubbing again, inclining my face to smell her, dipping one finger in and out of the tightest god-forbidding cunt; I could weep at the realisation I can’t fuck it yet.

      ‘Fuck, Hermione,’ I grumble. ‘You’ll kill me. You’re already killing me.’  

       She presses her legs together, keeping my hand in place while wriggling. My girl wants to come, and I’d be damned to refrain this benediction from her. I dip my ring finger, curling it against the inside of her wall while using my thumb to rub her clit.

       She’s so fucking wet, arching her back again to urge me deeper. Such a hungry pussy…

       Her squirming increases until her mouth parts to scream, and my fingers, quickly grazed in my precum, are already covering her mouth, keeping the beautiful sound for myself. ‘That’s it, baby,’ I croon, leaning over her sleeping body. ‘Remember what we taste like.’ I incline my ring finger past her lips. The fact she unconsciously begins to suck it has my god and me internally struggling to keep my dick from replacing it. ‘Remember how good I am for you.’

       The reality of my words summons a laugh that I have to suppress.

       I am good for her—I’m just not a good person. Everything about me contradicts who she is, but my girl was born for me. She can fight me with knives, wands and claws about it, but it will be me that fills her stomach with life. It will be me watching her walking towards me in a white dress. I’ll give her everything she fucking needs and wants.

       When she stops writhing, her sucking turning from desperate to lazy, I look down at my throbbing cock and the pulsing entrance only a breadth away from each other. Fuck it. I’m going to eat her until I come. Bending over her trembling flesh, I close my eyes as I trail my tongue from her entrance to her swollen clit; my breaths come out in shudders against her pussy. I grunt and do it again, slower this time…

      Fuck. I’m going to come right now.

      They’re back!

       Just as I’m about to repeat the sinful deed, the croaky hinges of a heavy door echo through the dormitories. The entrance to the Gryffindor Commons is being opened, and I need to get the fuck out of here before I’m tempted to keep eating her in front of her stupid friends and executing them for intruding after.

      Shoving my cock in my boxers, I quickly lift the jeans over the painful erection, and I throw the blanket over her body, covering the evidence of my worship of her.

      The lessons wrap up early due to the insufferable heat. Most areas inside the castle are like an oven, and loitering students have already occupied the colder spots. I’m in my grey t-shirt and black basketball shorts, ready for my run and workout after Zabini gets the satisfaction of getting me to swim in the lake with him.

      ‘It’s because you want an excuse to show your girl that you’ve been bulking out,’ I say with a snigger, following him through the horde that parts around us with a Slytherin towel draped over my shoulder.

      He gives me a sidelong glance, a ghost of a smirk on his lips. ‘How do you know she’s at the lake?’ I lift a brow at the crowd of students heading in the same direction.

      He chuckles. ‘Fine. Maybe I also want to keep an eye on her.’ His brows draw together. ‘That friend of hers is getting too close for comfort. What I want to do is beat the shit out of him, but I’ll settle with this for now.’

      I grunt in response, knowing precisely what he’s talking about.

      When we reach the pebbled lake, it's crowded, with only a few bodies standing out in the water. We find our usual spot next to the boathouse, and as soon as we start stripping at the water’s edge, it’s as if a wave of silence befalls the frantic chatter. I pull my shirt off, revealing the impressive physique I’ve worked tirelessly for.

      She’s watching—the shadow hums. Straightening my shoulders, I flex a little as I roll them back, running a hand through my hair to brush down the strays. I step out of my shorts and kick them next to my trainers and towel.

      ‘The boys need to start working out if the sight of us two is enough to shut the girls up,’ Zabini comments while stripping his basketball shorts and revealing a pair of green Slytherin swimming trunks identical to mine.

       We don’t fuss around as the others do before sinking in. It’s fucking frigid, but I’ve swam these waters in the dead of winter after a strenuous run through the forest. It’s refreshing, and the darkness humming beneath my skin loves the biting cold.

       I go under for several seconds, remerging close to Zabini and shaking the water from my hair. He wipes the droplets from his eyelashes. ‘Last to the island has to down a bottle of fire whiskey,’ he taunts before going under again and kicking his legs, splashing me as a result.  

       With a grin, I follow his path, bypassing him with my longer strokes, and it’s not long before the muddy shore of the small, forested island is beneath my feet, and I’m walking out of the water. I’m recovering my breath and watching Zabini break out with a breathless laugh.

      He slaps my arm when he joins my side. ‘I wanted the whiskey to myself, anyway.’

       I slap him back. ‘Sure you did, pal.’

      We lounge for a while, watching the short waves vanish at our feet while soaking in the sun. The groups of students are indistinguishable from this distance. I can make out a few red-heads, but my gaze struggles to land on her.

      ‘Let’s head back.’ Zabini gets to his feet. ‘I’ve got a bottle and a packet of fags in my short pockets.’

       I nod, getting to my feet and joining his side in the water as we swim back with less urgency. Stepping out of the water, the voices hush again, but this time, I sense an air of nervous anticipation.

       ‘Where the fuck is my shit?’ Zabini yells.

       Glancing at the floor around us, I notice that my clothes, towel, and shoes have also gone missing. It doesn’t take much thought to narrow down the perpetrator, and Zabini is already looking at me with a burning intensity when the thought crosses my mind.

      ‘They’re fucking dead.’

       You needed an excuse to get rid of them…The prank is so childish it’s almost laughable. Tethering Weasel on the verge of death and choking him wasn’t enough of a warning not to cross me.

       ‘Let’s go,’ I bite out through gritted teeth, already seeing red.

       The Gryffindor swine, despite their supposed attribute, aren’t as clever as they like to think. I can already imagine coming across our items scattered about the forest. It’s the only direction I want to pursue before holding another Gryffindor under the water until they break.

       ‘You think they hid our stuff in here?’ Zabini asks as we step barefoot into the pine-needle-covered floor.

       ‘Hey!’

       We both look over our shoulders, on the verge of hounding the intruder. My vision is so clouded, so hungry for violence, that it takes me a moment to process the halo of curls and frowning expression trampling through ferns to get to us.

       My girl’s wearing a short baby blue dress, revealing a slash of her bouncing cleavage as she navigates the dense underbrush. A damp bikini outlines beneath the fabric, and I almost lose my shit at the thought of her slinking into the water half-nude.

       ‘I need to talk to you!’ she says, followed by a shriek, slipping on something.

       Zabini breathes a curse under his breath. ‘Hurry up, Granger,’ he groans with impatience. ‘I’m about to run down your friends and split them in two.’

       Hermione sighs, dropping her look of horror to the ground before increasing her step. These woods are ruthless; I’m sure I’ve split and punctured my feet in several places just by hammering through moments ago. ‘If I tell you—’ she stops, catching herself on a tree. Zabini huffs loudly, but she’s almost upon us. Pulling a curl from her mouth, she continues, ‘If I tell you where they put your things, can you promise not to unleash carnage?’

       We both chuckle crudely at the notion. ‘That certainly won't be happening,’ I say, finally breaking my seething silence. ‘They’ve been warned already. You should keep your dogs on a smaller leash next time if you don’t want to see them buried.’

      She breaths out loudly again. Her scrutiny lowers briefly to my nude torso, and the pink on her cheeks is priceless when she lifts her eyes to mine, seeing that I’ve sighted her blatant perusal.

      ‘Please, Draco,’ Hermione pleads softly and desperately. Her brows are creased in a perpetual frown. She’s concerned for her friends, as she should be. Her eyes avert to my side. ‘Please, Blaise. I know what you guys are capable of, and even though you undoubtedly warrant the retaliation after almost drowning and smothering Ron, I don’t want to find them in a hospital wing.’

       The urge to tell her to mind her own fucking business is on the tip of my tongue. But after stealing into her dorm only last night and hearing her call my name in the darkness, I can’t bring myself to frighten her away.

       ‘This isn’t a girly bickering, Granger—’ Zabini stops when I step to approach her.

       A flicker of fear crosses over her face as my imposing form intimidates hers. God, she’s so fucking small. The perfect little body to bounce on my dick. Suddenly, the fury thrumming through my body begins to morph. ‘What would you be willing to do to ensure I don’t put your friends on a pike?’ I lower my eyes to her chest, lifting them slowly to her face to emphasise my proposal. ‘Tit for tat.’

       She takes a step back. ‘Urm...’ Her eyes dart to Zabini, clearly uncomfortable. ‘Wha-what are you suggesting?’

       I eat the step she put between us. ‘Tell Zabini where our shit is.’

       Her eyes move frantically between us, and she swallows, keeping them on Zabini when she says, ‘They put them in the Gryffindor closets in the quidditch grounds.’

       My lip curves. ‘Did you catch that, Zabini? Get our shit, and I’ll find you in a bit.’

       He groans in response, leaving my side and patting my shoulder as he walks behind me, heading in a different direction. ‘Have fun,’ he remarks over his shoulder. 

       I watch Hermione the entire time, my hands in my pockets. Her expression drops when she realises what may be happening. ‘Draco—’

       ‘—Shut the fuck up and follow me, or the deal is off,’ I bark, stepping to graze past her. When my arm brushes hers, she startles but trails behind me nonetheless.

       ‘Where are we going?’ I ignore her question. ‘Seriously, Malfoy. Where are you taking me? I don’t want to be your next victim to drown—’

       Whirling on the spot, she bumps harshly into my front. I glare down at her anxious face, looking up at me. ‘Will you learn to be quiet when asked? Or do I have to lay you over my lap and thrash the obedience into you?’ With the ghost of a smile, I turn away from her paling face.

      We walk silently for several minutes, the distant chatter from the busy lake gradually receding until it’s only the sounds of our crunching steps and the skimming birds. I can sense her anxiety radiating in volumes, and my shadow shudders as it drinks it all in. The tremors only increase when the other boathouse comes into view.

      ‘Are you taking me there?’ she asks, trying to suppress a tremble in her voice.

      ‘Clever girl,’ I muse sarcastically, noticing with predatory glee that it’s exceptionally isolated in this part of the lake.

      ‘What exactly are we going to do in there?’

       She’s started again with the fucking questions. I grumble to alleviate the urge to plant her back punitively into a tree, taking what I need right here, right now. But we've just approached the front of the boathouse, which is in far better shape than the one closer to the school grounds.

      ‘You first,’ I hold the shrieking door open for her, lounging my arm over the small frame.

      Her eyes are still plastered to the peeling wooden panels and evident darkness through the cracked windows. Goosebumps pebble the tops of her breasts and along her arms. While she’s apprehensive about the shadows' enclosure, a thrill tickles my spine at being precisely in my element. My prey is here, walking willingly into my snare, and only the black silhouettes will hear her screams.

      ‘Promise that you won’t hurt me?’ her sulking eyes turn to me.

      I smile with a devilish intent. ‘Promise.’

      Hermione puffs out a long breath, fidgeting with her fingers before sparing me a quick glance. Her cheeks begin to flush before she turns away and steps willingly into the boathouse.

     Our girl is an easy prey. Too easy. Too brave. Too trusting and so terribly harmless. I suck my bottom lip between my teeth as I crowd her in, shutting the door behind us. At the sound of the lock turning, she whirls on me, a look of alarm in her eyes, making her lips shudder as she says, ‘So, what do you want?’

      Cocking my head slightly, I pretend to think. I want too many things. I want to bend her over the dusty table in the corner, lift her skirt and drill my dick in before she can utter another word. I want to see on her knees, humbled and naked, looking up at me as I advance my cock to her lips, holding her jaw steady while I plough into her defiant mouth.

      But more than anything, I need to taste her. My god only knows how frustrated I am after being robbed of last night's pleasure. Her anxiety is pulsating in waves, coaxing the monster inside of me to the surface.

     ‘Kiss me’

      Her eyes widen at the invitation. It’s unlike me to request anything; I will take what I want regardless of her refusal, but I’m curious to see what she will do, especially after last night’s admission.

      My girl wants me. My girl dreams about me.

      ‘Only a kiss?’ she prods, subtly wetting her lips.

      ‘Only a kiss,’ I echo, relishing how the lie tastes on my tongue.

      Her resolve crumbles with each minuscule step she takes towards me, and I feel the moment the fear subsides to welcome her yearning—which surprises her. My little red doesn’t know what to do with her desire for me. It rattles her. It unnerves every wall she has carefully built and curated around herself. But my shadow can see it all.

      ‘Promise?’ she repeats, looking up at me, her chest and face a breadth from mine.

      ‘Promise'

      She swallows, kneading her bottom lip before reaching a hand to the back of my neck and slowly pulling me towards her. I let her guide me, leaning into the heavy breaths and the heat radiating between us.

      Her lips are tentative when they press into mine. Her chaste, soft, and innocent kisses reflect everything she is. Her girly perfume clouds around me, keeping me hostage and obsessed. The false sense of control encourages her to move her lips, urging mine to heed her rhythm. I let her bask in a moment’s power, giving her my subtle kisses, keeping my hands to myself, opening up to receive her tongue that nudges naively against mine.

      After a moment, she deepens the kiss, curling her fingers into my hair.

     That’s it. Surrender to the big bad wolf, Little Red.

     One

     Kiss

     At

     A

     Time…I grab the back of her neck, my lips curling as my resistance crumbles, and she whimpers into my mouth as I urge her body flat against mine. My kisses are not chaste, or soft, or innocent. I demolish her tongue, nipping her bottom lip when she tries to pull back. Her gasp is caught in my throat; she has no choice but to open up for me, to allow me to pillage her mouth. I’m rough, I bite, and I’m never, ever satisfied.

     The blood from biting her lip coats my tongue, and I trail a path with it from her mouth along her jawline, and she inclines her head to allow me her neck.

     ‘Drac—’

      I suck on the thin skin, piercing deeply, making her shriek.

      ‘Draco!’

      Covering the area with teeth marks, I'm pleased when bright blooming marks appear that will be hard to hide.

      Her free hand grazes past my stomach, forcing its way to my chest to urge me back. ‘You promised!’

      Once satisfied with the damage, I return to her lips, still grinning at her pitiable tussle. Both of her hands are on my chest, and when she pushes weakly, I groan into her mouth, making her moan in response. Releasing her slightly, I mutter, ‘I’m going to lay down on that bench behind you, and you’re going to be a good girl for me and sit on my face without protest. Understood?’

      I meet her watery eyes desperately searching mine. ‘But—’

      ‘Or get on your knees and swallow my come. Your choice,’ I smirk at the last words, releasing my hold of her and heading straight for the long bench. It creaks as soon as I sit on it and even more so when I lay my spine along it, watching her back for an inclination of her thoughts.

       The anxiousness swirls around her again, but she glances over her shoulder at me. Christ. The tiny dress. The doleful eyes. Her fully erect nipples beneath the layers. All of it paired with the reality that she’s turning her body towards me, giving me exactly what I want—I’m intoxicated by her. Entirely and utterly spellbound.

      ‘You promise not to hurt them after this?’ her voice is croaky and low. She’s fidgeting with the hem of her dress.

      ‘Promise,’ I say, telling her exactly what she wants.

       Her hips sway towards me as soon as she’s satisfied that she still carries the upper hand in our agreement.

      ‘Ho-how exactly am I supposed to do it?’

      The bench should be wide enough to support her legs on either side of my head. ‘Sit.’

      Nervously, she lifts her skirt and reaches for the line of her underwear. ‘Should I remove this—’

      ‘Leave it on'

       Her shaking hands release the fabric, and she slowly gives me her back, lifting a leg over my head that I catch and help her to settle. The pink bikini is right in front of me, inches from my mouth, and my dick twitches at the sight and smell of her heady pussy.

      ‘Is this ok?’ she mumbles.

      ‘Put your other knee next to my head.'

       Hermione obliges without argument. Jesus. We might finally be getting somewhere. It seems I’m getting through to her after all. When the knee finds the side of my head, she lowers herself faintly towards me.

       ‘How—’

       I grab her hips to keep her in place. ‘Stay.’ Securing my hand onto one fleshy hip, I bring the other beneath the dress that curtains all around me. It’s like being encapsulated by her heady aroma. Trapped with only her pussy for sustenance. She’s reticent, shuddering faintly at the thighs when I hook a finger around the fabric to reveal her hot lips. Fuck.

       Her smell encompasses me. It’s hints of body heat, sweet creams that may be strawberries or berries, and an undertone of the lake that has dried itself into the fabric. I urge her lower with my other hand until her lips press a soft kiss against mine. She shudders at the contact, and I return the caress with a stroke of my tongue.

       ‘Mmm,’ the moan slips out of her, so subtle, so quiet, she probably believes I didn’t hear it. I stroke my tongue again and again, keeping my soft pace.

       ‘Mmm,’ she breaths out when I suck her lips into a kiss, making a loud puckering sound. I could feast on her like this all day, only taking nibbles that drive her wild. She starts rocking her hips slightly, pressing her pussy into my tongue and circling it.

       I suck it, and she noisily yelps. My dick is tenting in my shorts in front of her. Just the notion of her warm, wet mouth wrapping around the tip makes me suck harder, flicking the bud from side to side when she moans again. Her noises and panting have increased with each lick, suck, and kiss until I’m eating her out to her whines and almost screams. Shit.

      She’s fucking loving this. Her hips sway greedily, telling me exactly what she needs. I’m working her into a frenzy, slurping and lapping, sweeping the release out of her with each swipe of my tongue. Any minute now, I could come in my pants from all her cries.

     ‘Fuck, Draco!’ she shouts, her whole body tensing at the anticipated climax. I keep my rhythm, and as soon as she’s coming, her ass rocking ruthlessly against my face, and to my surprise, she grabs onto my dick with such force I moan a fuck of my own. I’m practically suffocating under her skirt, and when I sweep it aside for air, I swear I catch a ghost of red hair at the corner of the window, quickly darting out of sight. I smile at the notion, her pussy inches from my face, the echo of my name still vibrating through the forest. I hope the swine saw it all.

      The promise to my little red will have to be broken after all. 

Chapter Text

      My nails are etching half-moons into the skin of my palms. Is it just me, or can I smell stale smoke? It’s as if mine and Ron's house has been abandoned, tidied to precision but lacking the spirit that makes a home. I release the bag limply from my shoulders, letting it thud on the floor as the front door groans to a thundering shut.

     ‘First of all, what the fuck, Hermione?’

      The grandfather clock in the dining room chimes. It’s old, and it needs repairing. I look at it through the archway, at its Czech-crafted reproduction of an angelic nativity. It reminds me of Christmas at Hogwarts, of taking my diary beneath a snow-capped shelter, pulling out one of Draco’s notes I used for a bookmark that read: And a softness came from the starlight and filled me to the bone. W.B. Yeats...

      It snowed so much that year.

      I swiped a loose curl beneath my favourite auburn woollen hat, pressing the red paper to my chest. Several silent tears leaked as I wrote an entry I would rip out and burn after. I cringed at the passages, hating myself, wanting to press the tip of my wand to my temples if it meant subsiding the yearning and ache.

     ‘Always on my mind...’

      I glanced about, feeling someone watching me. Was it him? My gaze frantically darted around the empty courtyard. I could smell smoke. It was him. The toxic aroma wafted all around me like a fog. Daring and defiant: only one person could break every rule at Hogwarts with a flicker of his dark eyes.

      ‘Secondly, who the fuck is Virgil, and where did he come from?’ Ron can barely keep the annoyance from his tone as I momentarily return to the present moment. Shit! What is happening to me? I try to shrug off the persistent memory, but it will not dissolve.

      Ron wipes a red stray from his sweaty forehead. ‘What—'

     ‘What are you writing?’ Draco asked, stepping into the shelter in a grey t-shirt despite the glacial weather, wiping a white stray from his eye.

      I gritted my jaw, slapping the notebook shut. ‘None of your business is what I’m writing!’

      He chuckled darkly. ‘Is that so?’ His lips were sealed in a thin line as he paced the small space while thoughtfully dragging the cigarette. His gaze abruptly flicked to mine. ‘Why don’t you tell me what my business is, then? Last I recalled, you are mine, and what is mine is my business.’

     ‘Don’t you dare refer to me as yours, Malfoy!’ I snapped. ‘You didn’t keep your promise. You don’t deserve the privilege of my amity.’ I pressed the diary close to my chest, keeping the threatening shudder at bay as I glared at him before biting out, ‘Get the fuck away from me before I decide to blast you. I mean it!’

      Draco grinned with an air of nonchalance, straightened his back, and blew smoke towards the vaulted roof of our snowy enclosure. He gave me a sidelong glance, saying, ‘Big threats, baby.’ He took another drag, smirking wider as he continued, ‘But will you deliver on them?’ 

      He smiled at the fury emanating from me. ‘I don’t think you will.’

      Frustrated, I rose to my feet, my nails digging punitively into my palms. ‘Oh really?!’ I frantically dug through the deep pockets of my coat, remembering belatedly that I left my wand on my bedside table. I released a grumble of frustration, thrusting my unwound scarf back over my shoulder as I yelled, ‘I’m sick of the manipulation and mind games! You are twisted and vile, and I’m not giving you a morsel of my goodwill unless you fix this and apologise to—'

      ‘I’m sorry, Ron, but I need to go to the bathroom.’ My voice comes out weak as I clutch a hand to my stomach at the unrelenting burst of nausea that has suddenly struck. Without waiting for a reply, I dart for the stairs.

      A harsh grip on my arm pulls me back. ‘Are you trying to get away from this?’ Ron’s voice has increased a notch. ‘I was sick with worry, Mione! What you’re doing—’

     ‘Is resisting the inevitable. You don’t have a choice.’ Draco growled, boring daggers into my wide eyes as the terror gripped me from how his thumb caressed the erratic pulse at my neck. ‘I’m not giving you a choice. You know what you feel; everything else is your heedless pride. That’s not my problem.’

     ‘Ron, please let me go! I’m going to be sick!’ I try to unclasp his fingers with frenzied desperation. ‘I’ll be back in a minute. Please,’ I plead with a broken voice.  

      I don’t see his expression when he releases my arm. My feet hammer the stairs, determined to outrun this outpouring of recollection, and I slip on the edge of the steps twice before resolving to scramble on all fours the remainder of the way.

      ‘Hurry up!’ Ron shouts sternly from the bottom of the stairs. ‘I’ll be—’

      ‘Skinning him alive,’ Draco said with a wicked gleam in his fire-lit eyes, releasing the smoke in my face. ‘Would you like to watch it, baby?’ The amber that tinted his irises morphed into an all-consuming silver, paralysing me from the core as he leaned into the shell of my ear, grazing it with his lips as he said, ‘Would you like to see the extent of my twisted and vile fixation?’

      I drop to my knees in the bathroom, clutching the toilet’s rim like a crutch. The memory ceases when the acid rises through my throat, sputtering in a grim yellow-like substance that makes me lurch more. I refocus through watery eyes when the worst has receded, seeing the skin of fruits I’d been eating with Virgil painting the white porcelain.

      My chin juts out; I hurl again, but this time, it’s painful and scratchy, as if I’m releasing shards of glass. When my eyes centre on the scene, I watch with horror as a slimy combination of the yellow vomit and splintered pieces of small broken bones with flesh and feathers still attached slides down the sides of the bleach-white porcelain. Throwing myself backwards, I scream and crash into the shower curtain, bringing it down from its metal hoops.

      ‘MIONE!?’ Ron’s muted shout rings out from downstairs. ‘What was that? What happened?’

       I crawl on my hands and knees to the toilet, my heart in my throat. ‘I-I-I-I’, I stammer as I approach it, greeted only by my vomit and the fruit skins and nothing else. ‘I just s-s-slipped!’ I yell back with a feeble voice, holding my chest as another wave of nausea hits me. ‘Give me ahhh minute! I need to take a shower.’

      Flushing the vomit down, I wait for the vertigo to subside before lifting myself to a wobbly standing. Stripping my dress slowly, I have to close my eyes when the day’s events return to me. I unclasp my bra, recalling with a heavy heart how wonderful it felt to be in Virgil’s company. Pulling down my lacy underwear, I swallow the terrible taste in my mouth as the thought of our kiss seeks to override the feeble memory of sealing my vows with a chaste peck against Ron’s lips on our wedding day. Heading for the shower with my toothbrush and toothpaste, I kick the crumpled curtain aside, feeling as if it’s my life that I’m discarding with a heavy, trampling foot.

      What am I supposed to do now?

      I may or may not be creating delusional scenarios about Draco Malfoy. I am most certainly being stalked by some demonic, sinister, and sex-obsessed entity I had almost completely forgotten about while being miles away from my life today. And then there’s Virgil…The hot water beats down my back as I recalibrate my thoughts. As soon as I stopped dosing my sleeping draughts, my existence quickly spiralled to shit.

     What if my stalker is a product of my overactive imagination, like I hallucinated that grim pile of bird residue in the toilet? Is it time to tell Ron about it all? Otherwise, my obituary will be guaranteed in next week’s Daily Prophet admission. Not that I believe my stalker intends to kill me, but what if my apparent insanity throws me to my imminent death?

     I close my eyes to brush my teeth, seeing one face staring austerely back at me through the darkness of my thoughts. Draco.

     I recall that moment, and yet, I don’t. It's like approaching a wall. I can’t recall what happened before or after it; the same way I remember meeting Draco several times during the war, but I can only visualise two of the instances, and even they are prone to change. Or how when I evoke a memory from Hogwarts, it's different every time.

     My lids press firmly together in frustration, and a tiny voice echoes through the darkness, ‘Don’t you remember me? I’m Aurora…We saw each other last year, too! … I want to make sure you don’t forget me again.’

     What does it say about me if I’m also forgetting whole time gaps? Shit…I really am going insane! That’s it! That makes the most sense!

     It’s no wonder no one checks up on me anymore. Everyone is so absorbed in their idyllic lives. Harry and Ginny are expecting their first child, Luna spends most of the year travelling, and Neville, Dean, Seamus, Parvati, and George all live conventional and pleasant lives. And then there’s Ron, who is so content with his work that he abandons me for it. But what about little old and lonely me: bedevilled, mentally unstable, disturbed, betraying Ron with enigmatic men and nighttime predators?

     I spit the toothpaste out, opening my mouth to be cleansed in the direct stream of the shower.

     The tears stream and stream, washed away by the merciful and soothing water that makes me feel vulnerable. I feel stripped, raw, and pathetic. The reality of all my qualms and this ceaseless obscurity that clouds my past makes me fist my hands and strike them into the shower wall repeatedly until I am silently screaming, ‘FUCK!’

      I’m nauseous and wearied when I numbly pick up the shower gel. The scent is reassuring, familiar, and all mine. It reminds me of my years in Hogwarts: the lucid and vague parts. I’ve always liked girly scents: plummy and sickly sweet—the more edible, the better. I used to run long baths in the prefect toilets that were marshmallow-scented...

     ...I can smell the bitterness of a smouldering cigarette beneath the Marshmallow Dreams bath soak. Is he here again? Is he watching me bathing from the shadows…

     God, I hope he is.

     I startle, freezing mid-squirt at the echo of my younger self reverberating through my thoughts. How are the words so clear and vivid? It was precisely what happened earlier with Ron when a floodgate of sensations, visuals, and feelings clouded my imminent reality. I’m staring blankly at the shower wall, trying to dissect my previous words, when a knock at the door sets my heart into frenzied motion.

     ‘Your phone keeps ringing,’ Ron declares, his voice subdued by the running water. ‘It says work on the screen. Do you want me to take it? Or shall I pass it to you?’

     ‘Huh?’ I turn off the shower, unsure if it’s me or all the noise obstructing the meaning of his words. ‘Work? Like my agent, Sarah?’

     ‘It just says work,’ he says, opening the door to a slit. ‘Here.’ He holds the phone out towards me, giving my naked form a once over as I quickly dart towards him to retrieve the vibrating device that is indeed titled Work. But I’ve never saved my work-related contacts as ‘work.’ I frown in confusion, trying to avoid Ron’s eye.

      He clears his throat. ‘I made coffee. Hurry up so we can talk.’

      I give him a small smile as he pulls the door shut. My eyes instantly lower to the flashing screen, which immediately stops vibrating. I thumb the screen, noticing no missed calls from my elusive work contact but only Unknown Number in its place. I unlock the screen, opening up our conversation, which is entirely blank except for my stalker’s most recent messages.

     Unknown Number:

     You don’t look so well…

     Unknown Number:

     Did you need the big bad wolf to take care of you? ;)

     Slapping the shower button on, I step back into the steaming water, keeping my back to it as a few drops land on the waterproof screen. After three deep breaths, I realise I’m not overwrought with the stifling anxiety of receiving his herald of bad omens, and I don’t hesitate to reply.

     Me:

     Does taking care of me entail raping me or making me a soup?

     The reply takes a few seconds.

     Unknown Number:

     Don’t act so sullen, baby. If you come by the lake to smoke with me, I'll give you anything you need.

     I audibly scoff. The lake? And with Ron around? He must be losing the plot. I turn my thoughts for several silent seconds, trying a different angle.

     Me:

     You aren’t even real. I’ve been spiralling more and more since your hallucination began. I'm not playing this game anymore.

     My foot nervously taps against the shower floor while I await the reply. He sure does succeed in making me feel on edge when my phone goes dark, and I'm confident he's drawing out his responses on purpose. Ping!

     The screen lights up.

     Unknown Number:

     Do you want me to show you how real I can be?

      I shudder despite the scorching water trickling down my back.

     Me:

     You don’t even have a name, and Revenant doesn’t count.

      The reply takes a few seconds again, but sure enough, a green bubble appears on my Android.

     Unknown Number:

     I have many. You’ll have to be more specific.

     Me:

      I want ALL of them, and don’t toy with me!

      My body shudders again, this time more violently. The air ripples with laughter as if his amusement echoes through the fissures of time and space. While I wait for his response, which feels more belated than the last, I bring up my notes app and compile a list of his unnerving attributes. If I go to a wizarding library or am granted access to the Hogwarts one, I can find information about him based on his abilities. Although my psychosis appears to be amplifying, this is the most coherent and ingenious my mind has been in a long time.

      I feel a little more like myself, and it’s alarming to consider the implications of what it means. I manage several valuable bullet points…

     Ping!

     Unknown Number:

     You have so few names for me, while I have so many for you…

      I chew my bottom lip, and before I have a chance to ponder on what he’s entailing, the replies appear on my screen consecutively.

      Unknown Number:

       My little bird.

      Unknown Number:

       My girl.

      Unknown Number:

       My little red.

      Unknown Number:

       My nightmare.

      The bubbles abruptly stop, and I sense my heart dropping as an impossible thought begins prodding to the forefront of my mind. My phone goes dark when I remain frozen. Ping!

      Unknown Number:

       Why don’t you guess one of mine? ;)

      My next breath remains in my lungs. My fingers quiver with each outlandish letter, and I almost think about deleting it when I’m finished because the idea is utterly illogical.

      Me:

       Is Draco one?

      I stare at the name for so long without a reply that the phone goes dark again. It’s impossible. He’s dead. The Daily Prophet documented his fatality for weeks. I loosely recall his face being plastered on the front page. The nurses at the hospital were talking about it in hushed tones—wait...the nurses in the hospital?! What in Merlin’s beard—Ping!

      Unknown Number:

      Say it out loud so I can hear you better.

      His evident mockery makes me grumble. I dart my gaze suspiciously about the steamy room before typing back.  

      Me:

      I’m not fucking playing! Is it one of your names or not?

      The reply is instant, and I’m growing increasingly anxious with this unprecedented turn in the conversation. I squint my eyes at the message obstructed by a giant droplet.

      Unknown Number:

      Do you want it to be?

      I hammer the wet keys with a groan.

      Me:

      STOP PLAYING WITH ME!

      That same chilly tendril snakes through my spine, making me shiver again as if the room were suppressing a cruel burst of laughter. Ping!

      Unknown Number:

      Oh, but the fun has only just begun…

       Knock! Knock! I glance at the door, on the verge of collapse, thinking he’s behind it when Ron’s voice follows the thump through a slit in the door. ‘You’ve been in here for fucking ages! The coffee’s getting cold.’

      I throw the phone onto the bathmat. ‘I was replying to work. I’ll finish soaping, and I’ll be right out.’

      The door clicks shut without another word, just as a Ping! sounds. I lean over the phone, not daring to pick it up and resume from where we left. He's playing games with me, and the notion of Draco being involved in... whatever this game is... paralyses me to the core.

      Unknown Number:

      Come to the lake when you’re finished.

       I'm clenching my jaw so tight that my temples begin to throb. I shouldn’t pander to this lunatic and his caveman demands! But instead of following that voice of reason, I pick up the phone, dripping fat droplets on his notification that trickle from my wet hair. I smear them across the screen before unlocking it to reply.

      Me:

      Bad timing, pal. I’m busy. You'll have to find something else to harass.

      Dropping the phone back on the mat, it lights up immediately with a response.

      Unknown Number:

      You will come to the lake, or you can watch me skin your husband from limb to limb. I’ll give you precisely twenty minutes to think of an excuse.

      I glower at the screen, wishing he could see my hatred more than anything. Ping!

      Unknown Number:

      Have I made myself clear, pal? ;)

Chapter Text

      Hermione Age 7 

       I keep turning in my bed, wondering what mummy and daddy were seeing outside. They called it a ‘meteor shower.' It was supposed to be incredible; it was in the news, meaning it was extraordinary. After Daddy tucked me into bed with my favourite ballerina story, they headed for the patio with a bottle of wine.

       It’s too late for me, Daddy argued.

       Even when I sniffled and kicked my bedcovers over with angry feet, mummy came to tell me that I needed to be a good girl, or she’d call Auntie Marie in the morning to say I wouldn’t be allowed to the park tomorrow—and she knows how much I love going to the park with Auntie Marie! But I want to see the red-hot stars falling from the sky so bad! It’s really not fair! 

      I cross my arms over my chest, deciding to kick the covers again. It’s too hot in my room. I want to go outside to the patio covered in our new flowers. I want to see the stars!

      Slipping into my fluffy Barbie slippers, I’m quiet as I leave the bed. It’s super late now; the Hello Kitty clock says it's 23:23. The cartoon on my pink TV is stuck on the Toy Story menu, and I turn it off in case Daddy remembers he put it on for me before leaving with mummy. The house is so dark when I step into the hallway. I can see the light of Daddy’s lamp from underneath their bedroom door, which is shut. It means he’s reading while mummy’s sleeping because she’s always tired first.  

      I know all the quiet steps to get down the stairs, but the darkness is so scary; I want to run back to my bedroom! I breathe in one flower, two, three flowers—I need to be brave! Daddy tells me that all the most daring girls are in the history books, and I want to become one of them when I get older. Holding my breath, I sneak into the darkness until finally, I can breathe again in the kitchen. 

      The oven clock makes a little light, enough for me to see the backdoor keys on the counter and to slide the door open when the lock clicks. I step my fluffy pink foot into the garden, realising how creepy it is when mummy and daddy aren’t around. Looking up, I see so many stars, hundreds, thousands, billions, trillions…I’m not sure what comes after, but I’m sure it’s the numbers that can count space and all the planets. 

      My best friend Lucy will be so excited when I tell her about this!

      When I reach the patio, I spot the telescope mummy and daddy left behind, covered underneath a sheet that keeps it safe from the rain. I pull it away, being careful to be quiet, and press one eye into the tiny hole, seeing only black. I bite my lip. How strange…

      ‘Did you forget your promise of being a good girl for me?’ 

      As I step back from the telescope, my heart leaps out of my chest. It takes me a few seconds to focus on the blackness of the patio. I’m about to sprint back into the house when the silhouette of a tall man stands out.

      The shadow steps forward. ‘It’s only me, little Hermione. But it could’ve been worse if someone else snuck into your garden.’ 

      Oh! That voice… ‘Are you my imaginary friend from the duck pond?’ I ask, stepping back and nearly knocking over the buckets full of flowers. 

      He takes another step. ‘You haven’t already forgotten about me, have you?’ 

      It is him! My mummy would be so angry if she knew I was seeing him again! ‘My mummy says I’m not allowed to talk about you!’ I squeeze my hands. ‘She says I dreamed you when I fell over and hit my head. You aren’t even real!’ The next step brings him into the weak light from our neighbour’s garden lamp. Like my memories, he is still as beautiful, and my tummy sparkles with a lovely, jumpy feeling. 

      ‘And do you believe her?’ he asks, almost smiling. His hands are in the pockets of his trousers. It’s what all the handsome men in mummy’s movies do when they’re being cool next to their shiny cars. 

      I unclench my hands to play with the fabric of my pyjama dress. ‘Of course, I believe my mummy!’ I turn my head to look at the house, seeing that Daddy’s lamp has turned off. ‘I don’t want her to be mad at me, or I won’t be allowed to go to the park with Auntie Marie in the morning.’ 

      My imaginary friend smiles that pretty angel smile. ‘That’s right. You don’t want her to be mad, which is why you need to go back to bed…’ He takes a step that brings him next to the telescope, resting an arm against it. ‘Make sure you lock the door behind you, understood?’

      I scrunch my forehead. ‘But I want to see the falling stars!’

      He lifts a brow at my sulking like my daddy does when he’s secretly laughing at me. ‘If I show you where they are, will you promise to return to bed and never misbehave again?’

      I tuck my messy curls behind my ears and say, ‘I promise! But the telescope isn’t working—’

      He unscrews a lid from the lens, keeping it in his hand as he moves the heavy thing to point in a different direction. ‘Here, ' he pats the big metal body, encouraging me forward. ‘It’s pointing north, where the meteor shower is brightest. Why don’t you take a look and tell me what you see.’

      I step towards it with a big smile. ‘Will they be as bright as diamonds?’

      My imaginary friend chuckles in his low, manly voice. ‘Yes. As bright as diamonds or pearls.’

      My feet are excitedly shaking when my eye finally focuses on the super bright shining stars that streak the night. ‘I’ve counted six!’

      Seven...eight...nine...ten! 

      ‘Good girl,’ he says. ‘And how many bright ones do you see standing still?’  

      I count the big stars, ignoring the other two that fall in front of them. ‘Hmn…there’s too many, and they keep flickering! Maybe twenty?’

      ‘There are sixteen that form that particular constellation.’ I hear his feet walking on the other side of the telescope. ‘Do you know what a constellation is?’ 

      ‘Is it a story?’ 

      He stops walking, and his tone is playful when he says, ‘You’re very clever, little Hermione.’ Then, I hear the sound of a plant being pulled. ‘It is a story. The one you’re looking at is about a dragon who guards a magical place called the Garden of the Hesperides. Its name is Draco.’

      My fingers tighten on the lense. ‘That’s a pretty name!’ I squeal, thumping my foot on the wooden floor as three more shooting stars cross my path. ‘Will you tell me more about it? Like… who lives in the garden? Is the dragon guarding treasure?’

      He begins walking again until suddenly, I feel his body heat to my right. ‘Maybe next time, Birdie. It’s time for you to go to bed.’ I pull away, about to sulk against the idea, when his fingers graze my ear, tucking what feels like a stem behind it. ‘I want you to put this flower under your pillow and check on it when you wake up. That way, you’ll know I was really here.’ He looks down at me with a severe expression. ‘Will you do that for me?’

      I nod quickly, and a smile breaks through his seriousness. 

      He ruffles my hair, flicking his chin toward the house. ‘Now, off to bed, little Semele.’

      ‘Mother FUUUUUUCK!’

      My shin strikes the bedpost with a crack, forcing my attention away from the picture of the constellation of Andromeda on the gallery wall of our bedroom. Clamping my lips against the pain, I hop to the other side of the room, turning my back to it.

      I’ve never given the pretty graphic I bought at a farmer’s market much thought until it caught my eye while I punitively readied myself. I brought it home because it reminded me of my dad and his love of mythology, and now, in my madness, it seeks to acquire a cryptic association with my stalker, who, in a fucked up twist, calls himself Virgil in the vision. I slap my forehead, wanting to strike it until my brain resumes a semblance of normality.

      Focus! Focus! Focus! 

      I’ve never scrambled into a pair of tight, nude-coloured yoga pants with such frantic haste while my legs were still damp from a surface dry. My heart is thrashing through the thick material of the burnt red jumper with a mushroom graphic as I pound the stairs, my wet hair plastered to my back. It took me precisely five minutes to brush and cream it, and the other five were used up drying myself, hallucinating and dressing—the new normal.

      ‘I’m in the kitchen,’ Ron grumbles when I reach the foyer. 

      He’s sitting at our breakfast table, seeming small and defeated in his simple black cargo pants and dark green fleece uniform. He's bent over his coffee for assurance as if he’s about to deliver bad news. My calm and cautious Ron. He’s nothing like the men who hound me day and night, the white and black-haired devils who seek to abolish me.

      ‘You made us coffee?’ I ask when he doesn’t lift his face to acknowledge me.

      ‘Yup,’ he retorts bluntly, grazing his fingers against the white mug that reads ‘Avengers are Wizards.’ It was a Christmas gift from Harry. I consider breaking the silence with a joke about it as I approach the side of the table, ignoring the one sitting across from him, waiting for me.

      ‘I’m done with coffee for a while. I want a glass of water,’ I say, surprising myself with the admission. 

      He lifts his head, staring at me as if I struck him in the face. ‘Why?’

      Because I don’t trust Sofia, and for some reason, that makes me not want to trust you. I sigh, trying to disperse the anxiety as I glance at the clock. Eight minutes... ‘I feel a little unwell, and the thought of coffee makes me want to sprint back to the toilet.’

      He lowers his head again, staring intently at the brown liquid, hoping it will reveal his following words. With a grumble, he raises his eyes, a soft blue gaze searching my face, and asks, ‘Who’s the guy?'—Crack!

      Ron’s features scrunch with concern as he gets to his feet at the sound of the floo network announcing an arrival from the other room. He brushes past me as my eyes dart to the clock, my neck prickling with anxiety that has escalated to unreachable heights. I still have a full seven minutes!

      He can’t be…

      My throat clenches…he can’t be here! 

      The sense of being deceived stabs at my heart, as if I should’ve known better than to trust him as if he wasn’t a ruthless maniac who thrives on my distress. The reality that this may be the day he will finally act on his promise of killing Ron makes me dash to the foyer where I left my backpack. 

      My knees bruise against the floor in my haste as I begin pulling out its contents in search of my wand, my eyes warming with hot tears when a familiar voice reaches through the dark haze of panic. 

      ‘Blimey! It’s been a while since I’ve travelled this far north…’ Harry mutters with a stuffy throat. ‘The wind was relentless! I think I flew through a whirlwind at one point!’

      ‘What are you doing here?’ Ron asks with a brighter tone. ‘You could’ve called me. Ginny needs you—’

      ‘—Ginny’s with Molly at the Burrow,’ Harry interjects quickly, clearing his throat. ‘I thought it would be easier if I came to you to write the review for our recent location. We’ve got so much to review before Pete calls us in to publish our findings.’  

      ‘That’s a good point,’ Ron says in a tone that suggests he’s thoughtfully running a hand through his hair. ‘I suppose we’ll do it in the office. Mione—’

      I’m on my feet, rushing through the archway towards Harry, whose dishevelled state mirrors Ron’s. ‘Harry! It’s so good to see you!’ I descend into his familiar embrace with equal parts relief and delight in seeing our best friend. He squeezes me back, and I bury my face into his neck, which smells of sweat and sea air. 

      ‘Hello, Hermione,’ he says. ‘It’s been a while. You should visit us more often. Ginny misses you.’

      Ron clears his throat. ‘She’s too busy writing, aren’t you, baby?’

       My body involuntarily freezes at the unfamiliar pet name, leaving Ron’s lips just as Harry pulls away. Ron never calls me baby, and the last person who did is now waiting for me by the lake! SHIT! 

      ‘I-I need to go for my running,’ I try to evade their eyes when my flustered excuse pours out, and I’m staring at the fireplace still seeping green dust from Harry’s arrival. ‘I mean, I need to go for my run in the woods. I've been doing it at the same time every day so I don’t forget!’ I chuckle weakly, mustering a cheerful air. ‘I’ll be back soon! I can't wait to catch up and hear about how Ginny’s been doing and...' I swallow dryly. 'And the rest!' 

      My feet are dashing; the world almost turns black when I’m in the kitchen. I realise I have exactly three minutes to make the ten-minute journey to the lake, which could be achieved over half the time if I sprint like Harry and Ron’s life depends on it. 

      A dark silhouette emerges at the door. ‘Since when have you been going out for a run?’ Ron breaks the distance in two steps to hover beside me, keeping his voice low. ‘It’s pitch black outside. What exactly are you doing?’

      I brush my sweaty hands against my yoga pants. ‘Sarah suggested I run after sunset to help me write.’ I glance over his shoulder, noticing Harry waiting in the foyer. I give him an innocent smile before returning to Ron. ‘I’ll be back soon, alright?’ 

      He lowers his eyes at me, casting a judgmental gaze over my outfit. ‘We’ll finish talking later,’ he says before I brush past him with that same amicable smile that feels so forced; it almost makes me sick. 

      Harry’s awfully close to my backpack, and I lean over it, scouring its contents for my wand. Where the fuck is it! ‘I hope you guys enjoy yourselves if you can…’ I stall for something to say. ‘You could stay for dinner if you like, Harry?’ My hands find the bottom of the bag, grazing my small perfume bottle and a lip lamp, but nothing else. ‘Right, Ron? That would be nice, wouldn’t it?’

      ‘Sure,’ Ron says behind me.

      I'm internally screaming when I straighten, keeping my back to them as I pick up my white trainers before opening the front door into the frigid night. Feeling the devil on my heels (which he technically is), I hurry out and pull the door to a click before shoving my trainers on and sprinting towards the garden path to the left. Rounding the side of the house, I’m grateful for the grassy descent that swallows every despairing step. 

      Fuck! Being wandless may mean the death of us all...where in the world did it go? I focus on the flower beds so I don't trip and sprain an ankle. I'm determined to reach them until suddenly, they’re out of sight.

      My vision goes black as a ruthless grip on my neck shoves me back into the house's wall, lifting me from the ground before I can dig my soles into the earth to prevent him.

      ‘You’re late,’ he growls in a menacing timber. The northern winds, moved only by nature's invisible hand, collapse into stillness at his tenebrous beckoning. His eyes shine brilliant silver beneath the raven-black strands, slitted into perfect blades and framed by the caliginous mask whose formidable influence reaches me in multitudes, blazoning a promise of wrath and eternal damnation. 

      I can’t speak; he’s suppressing my voice again, even if his hold on my neck isn’t as punishing as I am used to. My hands are gripping his forearms, trying to release the tension of my escalating pulse and loss of breath. Remarkably, he isn’t a day older than the "imaginary friend" of my childhood delusion, which confirms its unfeasibility. No wizard can evade the gruelling toil of time. Sure, they can live well into their hundreds, retaining a sharp mind, but it would take something otherworldly, ancient, a divinity or, at the very least, something…mythical.

      I glare at him, and he leans his perfect face closer until I can smell his overwhelming headiness and the hot breath that brushes against my skin before he skims his lips against mine. I will my knee to thrust into his groin, but he’s too fast, catching it in a vice-like grip between his muscular thighs. He chuckles sinisterly, the vibration reverberating down to my neck, casting every goosebump to attention on its journey.

      ‘If you want me to spread these insolent thighs.’ His hand travels to stroke the sensitive skin inches away from my pussy. ‘You only have to ask nicely. Ready to use your words?’

      The closure on my throat slackness. ‘Get the fuck away from me!’ I grit out against his mouth, trying to urge him back to no avail. ‘We have a guest. It’s not my fault I was late!’ 

      He seizes my throat again, and I groan in frustration when his lips spread into a grin. ‘Back to this, are we?’ His body moulds into mine, overwhelming, intense and subduing. ‘Do you know what your resistance and struggle do to me?’ Without touching me, the fingers of my right hand holding his forearm begin to unclasp one by one, leaving my line of sight entirely as they lower between us. 

      My other arm is frozen when I try to use it to fight him as the captured hand curls around an imposing hardness...he’s making me touch his fucking dick! I'm gaping at him, and he grins wider at the shock on my face.

      ‘If it makes you feel better, we can keep pretending that your pussy wasn’t dripping while you sucked it for your husband to watch the other night...’ He leans into my ear to whisper, 'You looked so beautiful doing it. My obedient little angel, showing her husband exactly who she belongs to.'

      My throat unclasps. ‘You’re delusional! I may be fucking insane, but you—'

      ‘She’s working hard...same as...you know,’ Ron's low voice makes me freeze.

      ‘Oh! What about the bones we found in the cave?' Harry’s bubblier tone interjects, sounding closer, as if they're—

      ‘They’re right above us,’ my stalker murmurs, grazing our lips again. ‘You’ll have to keep quiet, baby. Unless you want them to watch.’ My grip tightens on the tip of his monstrous cock.

      Oh my fucking god! We are directly underneath the window of Ron’s office! The shock grips me like a vice, and I grit my jaw at the conversation floating above us. I've noticed that he's released his binding on my voice as if testing me to use it, but I dare not speak. 

      ‘Now she’s quiet,’ he mocks, barely keeping his voice to a whisper. ‘Put your hands to the wall; the more you resist, the louder we get.’ His tongue darts out to lick my bottom lip slowly and intently. I watch with heavy eyes as it returns to his open, smiling mouth, curling with mockery.

      ‘Will you resolve to be good, or did you want me to make you scream?’

      ‘…Should we start from…’ Harry’s voice drifts loosely overhead; I barely manage to catch the words.

      ‘I’ll be good,’ I grit back in a whisper, giving him my best impression of a saccharine smile. 

      Staring at me intently, his head slightly cocked to the side, I sense the moment he releases his hold on my hand, and I quickly dart it to my side. His gaze flicks over my face, and for some reason, I’m more curious than ever to know what he’s thinking. His eyes harbour a bottomless intensity that is unnervingly wraithlike. They give nothing away; they tell me nothing about him and what he sees when he looks at me. His fingers around my neck begin gripping in and out as if he’s unsure whether to tighten or let go. I think he’s about to step back when suddenly, his mouth is on mine.

      His kiss is desperate but deliberate, and I’m internally dying at the sounds of our heavy breaths and wet tongues. He feels and tastes too good for someone so despicable. He shouldn’t know how to kiss and what I like; that if he tilts my head to the side, I will yield. And if he tightens his hold on my scalp, I will moan, and if he’s firm, forceful and shameless about his hunger, I will melt.

      Oh god. Didn’t I feel the same about Virgil? 

      ‘Is this what you were doing in the cave?’ His dark voice booms in my thoughts like it did on that first night he took what he wanted when Ron was seconds away from finding us.

      How does he know what I did with Virgil? ‘I think my girl likes being bad.’ He resounds with deafening force, making me suppress a moan when our lips clasp together with a loud puckering sound. ‘I warned you what would happen, didn’t I?’ We repeat the action, and my knees want to buckle when the conversation above suddenly falls quiet. ‘Hands to the wall.’

      He abruptly pulls away, and I clamp a hand to my mouth to release a long sigh.

      Taking two steps back, he begins rolling each sleeve of his black shirt from his corded, tattooed forearms to his elbows, watching me intently as I observe him. He looks the same every time I see him without a hood, except for the darker shirt; last time, it was white. It’s open three buttons down his chest, tucked into his black slacks, a dark leathery waistcoat open to reveal the extent of his strapping form, and black military boots that explain how he manages to hound me down when I’m running barefoot through the forest (unless he uses his powers every time, which is equally likely). 

      He is still the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen, and that’s saying something, considering Virgil is exceptionally striking and Draco, too, could steal the breath from my lungs. His dark hair is short to the sides and hanging longer at the top, stirring occasionally with the breeze. It’s reminiscent of Virgil, who cuts his hair similarly, but his was slightly more wavy and lighter in colour. For some reason, it also evokes the memory of Draco from my earlier vision. After seeing Ron and Harry and their unkempt styles that could do with a cut, I realise it’s not a specific hairstyle that is that common. But the notion of what it all means comes to a standstill, and I’m left watching him as he rolls the last sleeve, bright silver eyes daring me to give him a reason to chastise me. 

      ‘Hands. Wall. Now,’ he barks.

      ‘…But what if it wasn’t…’ Ron speaks before Harry interrupts ‘...It probably was. It had the same characteristics…’ 

      If I alert them for help, can we take him on three to one? It’s possible, though the chances appear exceptionally slim. Something in his silver scrutiny lets me know that he wouldn’t be doing this if he believed we had a chance to overpower him. His dominance stretches beyond comprehension. He is impossible. A wizard of that magnitude has yet to be documented. 

      Slowly and soundlessly, I give him back, dreading what he will do. I place my hands squarely against the brick wall. My spine prickles at the vulnerable position that leaves me at his mercy. At least he isn’t being brutal like the previous instances. It really is that easy when I surrender to him. However, he can crawl back to his sulfureous hell-hole if he thinks my compliance will last.

      ‘Stick your ass out,’ he orders.

      I dart a burning glare over my shoulder, finding him staring intently at my yoga pants and where the jumper ends, just above my cheeks.

      ‘Fuck no—’ An invisible slap lands on my right cheek, ringing through the garden; it’s so fucking loud that the muffled voices above stop, and I’m left biting my bottom lip to keep from shrieking at the prickling sting. I look up at the office window, surprised and relieved that no face is staring back at me. 

      ‘The next one will come from my hand, and it will be so much louder. So, should we try that again? And this time, you do precisely as I ask.’

      ‘…Spiky red tail and a yellow stripe on its back…’ Ron mutters at last, and Harry murmurs something I can’t decipher in return. I curve my back, inwardly reprimanding myself for it, and I jutt my ass in his direction.

      ‘Good girl.’ His groan summons a whole body shiver. ‘That wasn’t so hard, was it?’ I feel his baleful presence as it draws closer, but I don’t feel him yet. There’s a quiet thud against the grass. I peek over my shoulder to see the top of his dark head inches from my lower back. He’s on his knees, directly behind me, putting a hand on either hip, squeezing lightly, and I jolt forward. 

      ‘I love these,’ he grasps my hips tighter, keeping me in place before drifting to stroke my cheeks. ‘I like them a lot. In fact, I’m partial about keeping them on.’ 

      ‘So keep them on, then,' I retort quietly, trying to keep the sarcasm from my voice. 

      He chuckles. The sound is so low and so…alluring. I involuntarily clench at the outlandish admission that his absurdly masculine laugh affects my better judgment. 

      ‘Funny girl,’ he says aloud, running the tip of his finger along the length of my crevice with a slow, repetitive motion. ‘Let’s see how funny you get when begging me to shut you up.’ 

      I clench around his finger, releasing my thoughts before I can stop them, ‘How do you do that?’ 

      He digs a nail in, feeling like he’s about to prick my skin. ‘How do I do what?’ 

      ‘That thing was fucking sharp!...’ Harry raises his voice slightly, and Ron grumbles something in reply. They both laugh at the same time.

      ‘Are you—’ The sharp finger trails a path downward, towards the curve of my pussy. ‘You’re doing some form of Legilimency. Which should be impossible because I trained extensively in Occlumency!’ I clamp a hand over my mouth when I notice my volume has increased slightly. 

      ‘Is that so?’ A faint, warm tickle grazes the back of my head. ‘It looks like all that training was futile against someone like me.’ If he’s prodding through my thoughts, I don’t notice it. The sensation vanishes; whatever he’s doing is effortless and leaves no trace. ‘Are you worried I’ll find out how you think my laugh is sexy?’

      ‘I do not!’ I whisper shout. 

      His laugh is short and husky this time, more of a grumble. ‘Yes, you do. Now, spread your legs a little for me.’ I hear a rip, like torn fabric, and a slight frigid breeze brushes over my cheeks.

      ‘…The thing is…’ Ron’s voice suddenly increases in volume until his following words are as clear as day. ‘Merrow’s are native to Ireland. And they don’t eat Muskrill’s, as far as we know.’ Shit, fuck! He’s directly above us, probably gazing out of the open window! If he lowers his eyes… ‘I’d put it down as a Siren without evidence of their song,’ Ron says, growing disturbingly quiet after.

      ‘One…two…don’t make me count to three,’ the menacing voice reverberates through my skull, and I immediately spread my legs, not doubting for one second that he wouldn’t deliver on his threat. ‘That’s my good girl. You’re so well-behaved when you’re petrified. Maybe we should do it this way more often—a breadth away from your husband and his friends.’ 

      I'm biting my tongue to keep from unleashing a series of curses that could get us found. Without warning, he spreads my cheeks apart. ‘Hey!’ I seethe as quietly as possible. ‘Did you rip—’

      ‘You thought your punishment would be mild?’ A slither accompanies his gravelly voice like a shadow resounding with his words. ‘And that by not putting on underwear and baring your pussy wasn’t an invitation?’ I glance over my shoulder just in time to see the silver light of his eyes vanish as his dark head bows into my spread cheeks.

      I feel the exact instant his hot tongue meets the delicate skin of my pussy, circling the hole. I swallow the whimper before it can leave my lips, my eyes darting skyward to the open window and rolling to the back of my head when he dips the tip of his tongue in.

      'You taste so sweet, gushing with your loathing for me.’ He circles his tongue, making a puckering sound when he sucks the juices. The throaty moan he releases for only me to hear vibrates the ground beneath my feet. ‘Is this what you wanted your little boyfriend to do to you?’

      ‘What was the position of…’ Harry’s voice drifts to me as if in a dream. Oh, God. I might buckle…I’m biting the inside of my mouth so hard to suppress the pleasure, to stifle the sounds, to keep from whirling and slapping him in the face. It's all too much!

      ‘Northwest,’ Ron replies, so painfully clear...

      ‘He’s so close,' he taunts with a tenor practically dripping with depravity. ‘So delightfully near his wife getting her pussy gorged against the wall of his home. It’s laughable.’  

      Gripping the wall, I'm practically clawing it to keep myself tethered to my scorn and horror when his tongue presses flat, pushing upwards against the slit and swivelling around my clit. My face scrunches with a whimper, and I press my forehead punitively against the coarse wall. Make it hurt! God, please! Make it fucking hurt! He’s swirling the bud repeatedly, and the sensation surges to my core, turning my breaths desperate and uneven. 

      ‘The chizpurfle’s were on that creepy ledge,’ Ron begins while my stalker begins raucously slurping. ‘Those massive Blast-ended Skrewts keep darting out from the rock face...’ Slurp! ‘And the clabbert in the forest…’ Slurp! ‘What else? Am I forgetting something?’ Slurp!

      I groan back a wail, gnawing the back of my hand. 

      ‘Just say the word, and I’ll shut you up,’ he goads before feasting on me, greedy and messy. ‘Ask me.’ The slithering increases in volume like a serpent next to my ear. ‘Plead to me.’ I sense a smile when he says, ‘Oh, God, please. Make it fucking hurt.’

      The echo of my former thoughts has me biting the skin harder, and tears begin gathering at the corner of my eyes. This is so fucked up! Slurp! It’s monstrously immoral! Slurp! I need to scream, to release the bittersweet throb escalating to a blinding height. My lip is bruising from how severely I'm sucking on it. 

      ‘Please,’ I breathe out softly, croaky and pathetic. It’s so quiet, and when he doesn’t immediately oblige me, I think he didn’t hear it. Then suddenly, his hands travel upwards, coiling around my waist and chest; the serpent’s hissing is ear-splitting, escalating and increasing until his hands are on my throat like a fastening necklace. My eyes burst open when he gruffly nudges my hand from my mouth, and something thick and dark slithers across my lips; my open, startled mouth clasps around the dense, prying body before I can prevent it.

      A snake has coiled itself around my body! I shout against the unyielding stifler, my face bulging with the pressure, but no sound slips out. Meanwhile, my stalker buries his tongue halfway into my pussy as I try to lift my hands to remove whatever ghastly thing has wound itself around my body. But it's immovable, and the creature tightens its hold on me, forcing the side of my face flush against the rough wall.  

      ‘Bite into it if you need to. It won’t bite back unless you want him to,’ he jeers, and his suppressed laughter resounds through the snake’s trembling body.

      Him?! The serpentine fiend grasps my head to stare at the open window above. I gape at it wide-eyed and at the peep of red hair that emerges as Ron’s chin abruptly materialises, lit by the lamps of his office. He appears to be staring into the forest beyond while the hurried keyboard typing clatters in the background. 

      Holy fuck—all it takes is one tiny rouse to guide his attention below, to us, to me, wrapped by a giant snake that conceals my moans while my yoga pants are sliced open to the elements—to him.

       ‘Keep your eyes open on your husband, baby,’ he croons, trailing a languid path to my ass and teasing the area with carnal deliberation. I feel the exact instant my pussy begins gushing in response, and I close my eyes at the indignity for an instant before they’re wrenched open. ‘Uh-uh-uh. What the fuck did I tell you?’

      I whine into the snake’s body to keep my tongue from accidentally touching it. I can already sense its taste. It’s like brushing your lips against damp earth as if the creature had meandered through a bog before muffling my mouth.

      ‘That’s right.’ His tongue on my aaahole is replaced by a finger that swirls the saliva, dipping hesitantly before sinking in. It’s so thick and painful that I squirm. Is he using his thumb? ‘You’ll have to take it because I won’t be so tame when it’s my dick breaking it open.’

      I wriggle again, the tears obstructing the sight of my husband, who looks as if he’s keeping sentry for me. It’s so dark around us; I should be walking through the front door by now. Instead, I’m tearing at the intrusion until his tongue returns to my clit and…oh… he suctions it, and I’m fucking quaking while his sardonic pet forces me to curve my back more. 

      ‘How does it feel to know I’ll ruin him for you?’ He flicks his tongue from side to side while pumping his thumb in and out. ‘And you’ll be unrecognisable to him when I'm finished.’ The snake hisses in my ear at the same time that I notice my impending climax, darting its forked tongue out to lick the sensitive lobe in rhythm with his master. ‘So take a good look because soon, you’ll only remember an echo of this life.’

      I’m quivering profusely when I finally surrender, letting the sensation spark every nerve ending in its path. I’m gaping at my fucking husband with stars consuming my vision, drowning him out for several seconds until sobering reality hits me in the gut.

      Ron abruptly vanishes, and a muffled conversation resumes. 

      ‘Mm. Like that, baby?’ The snake vanishes in a cloud of dust with his master's taunting murmur. I fall into the wall, panting for lost air. ‘I’ll give you another ten minutes to devise an excuse so you can meet me by the lake.’

      After a moment of recovering myself, I push back on my hands, turning to him with fury, alighting my blood. He’s already lit a cigarette with the snake tatted hand; it’s tucked between his forefinger and middle finger, untouched, while he sucks slowly on the thumb that was—

      ‘Your fury is delectable.’ He releases the thumb with a Pop! His plump lips move, and it takes me a moment to realise he’s speaking aloud again. ‘Want to know what little surprise I brought for you?’

      His free hand dips into his vest, pulling out something slim and red…my phone! One side of his lips curves at the sight of my horror-stricken surprise. Just when I think he's about to tuck it away, he pulls out a long and slender—my fucking wand! 

      He puffs, cheeks pinching with the inhale when he lifts a brow at my soundless gawking before blowing out, ‘Why don’t you come and get them, Birdie? Or is it Semele? Maybe you prefer little Hermione, for old time's sake?'

      The window above us clicks shut, making me jump out of my skin. I lift my attention to it, half-expecting to find someone staring back at me, but instead, I glimpse a waning silhouette that pulls the curtains closed, shutting me out with the devil incarnate.

      ‘What—’ I cut myself short when I follow the cloud of white smoke back to the darkness of a vacant garden whose wilderness darks are laughing at a joke I'm not yet privy to. 

Chapter Text

      Needing to preserve a shred of authority, I whisper-shout into the baren evening. ‘You can wait for me this time! I’ll be ready when I say I’m fucking ready!’ The nothingness retorts with a mocking wind that strokes my goosebump-exposed cheeks.

      This isn’t normal. How have I, Hermione Jean Granger, dwindled to the defencelessness of a muggle? He’s exposed me, laughed in my face, and taken my possessions like they’d been sat on the kitchen counter waiting for him. It’s in how I’ve felt less like Gryffindor Hermione with each day since his appearance. It’s how I recall carrying illogical feelings: that I believed I was not good enough for Ron, that I had done wrong, and that I needed to keep my darkness under draught lest it consume me.  

      It's also in the way that I feel a boiling sense of betrayal that I have yet to place: Ron, who deserves better than me. Me, guilty and wretched. Draco, our enemy, the one I opened my legs for to keep us alive.

       Something doesn’t ring true. A lot of it doesn’t make sense. There must have been something connecting me to Draco… I wouldn’t sincerely have gone along with it. Unless… Oh god. My memories feel more unreliable than ever! They are fickle and capricious, seeping through my fingers like sand. I close my eyes, trying to grasp what little I have to work with, pressing a foot against the wall for support before letting my head fall back.

      ‘Second truth: You wanted me to hunt you down a dark corridor and to corrupt you against a wall, taking anything I wanted?’ My belly unexpectedly warms. I haven’t thought about his words until now. But why hadn’t I? It seems illogical to be so ignorant.

      ‘Third truth: you loved watching me eat your pussy. You couldn’t help watching, could you? It made you come to see me on my knees for you.’ My knees almost give up when I readjust my stance.

      What if those flashbacks from the war sincerely happened? Good god. I need to sit down after the orgasm that was forced on me. What else am I missing? Oh right. Semele. I should’ve asked Theo for a copy of the myth; I can hardly recall it. Oh, and what about little Hermione?! Has this pervert been stalking me my entire life?

      Could it be that he’s simply toying with my thoughts? He’s proven himself far more advanced than your typical Legilimens. He could very well be planting his twisted, perverse narratives. But why? Why would he be altering my already obscure memories? Maybe he’s using them to his advantage, making me believe I have always craved someone maddened and malicious like Draco.

      What’s more, that strange voice speaking up inside me has quietened. What does it mean? Is my insanity beyond recovery? I have so many questions, none of which can be easily satisfied. A few things are certain: I love Ron, and perhaps it’s my misplaced emotions speaking, but I can’t bring my heart to trust him entirely. Something is amiss. Hell, everything is awry. And yet, who can I sincerely trust if I can’t even trust myself?

      A Crack! sounds nearby. ‘MIONE?!’ Ron’s voice bellows, sounding like he’s shouting from the front door. ‘HERMIONE!’ He follows shortly after. I hear the croaking of the porch steps, and I dart towards the back door, keeping to the wall so I don’t accidentally knock over one of the many planters lining the path.

      I’m so relieved that we don’t lock the doors. Even if we did, it wouldn’t keep my stalker at bay. But for times like sneaking into my house—what the fuck am I doing? —it proves that a wand isn't an all-around problem solver. I try the handle.

      Locked. Excuse me?

      Ron is still howling in the distance. Whether it’s from my mounting paranoia or a survival instinct, I’m confident he’s drawing closer to the gardens with each appeal for my whereabouts.

      ‘HERMIONE?!’ Harry’s nearby voice startles me into a panic, and before I know it, I’m sprinting in the opposite direction, still keeping to the perimeter of the house. I’m breathless when I reach the well-lit, revealing porch. Their voices have abruptly stopped, and I momentarily wonder if they’re walking back when I hear my name being yelled from about the exact location I was swarmed into the wall by the horny anaconda.

      The front door is wide open, and I dart inside with an anxious swiftness that carries me up the stairs and into the bedroom, where I kick my shoes off and strip the frayed yoga pants. I throw them under the bed, finding underwear and my trusty pair of mom jeans in a drawer. I’ve never had to think so rapidly—so urgently—with Ron and Harry’s necks and my deceitful detection on the line.

      Grabbing the spare pair of ear-cancelling headphones, I put them over my frizz-dried hair, stomping the stairs with intentional force and landing in the foyer just as Ron and Harry frenziedly rush through the front door. With a wearied, innocent drop of my bemused expression, I remove my headphones when Ron’s gaze lands on me. He’s sweating at the forehead, dripping from the eyes, and his concern makes my stomach churn with guilt. Ron’s looking at me as if he’s witnessing the deceased of a crime scene rise from the dead.

      I step hesitantly towards him, giving Harry an equally mystified look. ‘What’s going on—’

      Ron pulls me into his arms so desperately that my throat clogs with guilt for everything I have done. When did I become this way? Betraying my husband in despicable ways. It can’t only stem from my despair. My internal turmoil. There has to be more to it. Settling into the crook of his neck, my body grows heavy with each breath. Each limb feels so substantial, like a burden to be released.

      He squeezes me, muttering something I’m struggling to decipher. I sink a little into the feeling, trying to tether myself to this world while Ron’s wild outdoor scent consumes me, briny sweat engrained into the fabric. Groaning into my neck, he says, ‘We worried about you from the moment—'

      ‘You set those wide, doe eyes upon me, unknowingly pleading for someone diabolical to degrade you,’ Draco said, the snake tattoo coiling around his neck to where I pierced his skin. It darts its black-ink tongue to claim the trickling blood, lingering instead of returning to his hand. ‘Is that what you wanted to hear? Does it alleviate your pretty pride to believe the villain is forcing his way with you?’

      ‘When did you get back?’ Harry asks over the smothering sensation. My eyes are open, but I can’t see him. I take a breath; it lodges. I take another, releasing it quickly when I feel a presence swarming me—

      ‘How could sweet little Hermione know that by smiling at the wolf, she would invite him into her bed?’ Draco’s smile was one of absolute obsession. I couldn’t shake the feeling that two entities were staring back at me. It was in the way he cocked his head, and a black shadow followed the action lazily, settling back into his body without hurry.

      Harry mumbles several words, but I only catch a few ‘… We thought you—'

      ‘Were prey, remember? A powerless victim. And I’m just so, so bad for you.’ Draco’s black eyes glimmered with a silver light, provoking me, daring me to kick my legs again. ‘Your Death Eater is so evil and depraved. So Heinous and baneful. Do you know what they say about me?’ He lifted a brow, grin widening with deranged pleasure.

      I watched the dried blood coating his lips, mesmerised as they parted, and he said, ‘Omnium animalium vitiosissimus factus est.’

      I open my mouth to parrot the words, a habit I’ve adopted when reading my writing back to myself, anxiously realising that Harry’s staring at me blankly. Pretending to clear my throat, I muster a half-formed excuse that I fight to bring to the forefront of my subconscious. ‘I got a call from—'

      ‘Say. It,‘ Draco growled. ‘Reveal to the light how terrible I am, wanting to taint your dais with my menacing lust and lies.’

      ‘Sarah. My agent. She was asking—’ I pushed back on the bed. ‘I don’t fucking know what it means!’

      Ron pulls me out of his grasp. Oh my god, it feels like I can finally breathe. ‘If I could bring her my latest edit of the chapter. I’ll use the portkey—’

      ‘He has become the most vicious of all animals.’ The snake, brought to terrifying life, began coiling around my leg. My pulse spiked in fear. ‘That’s what it means.’

      The malefic words rattle through my skull, stealing the minuscule breath from my lungs. I immediately dart a hand to the wall to support myself when Ron’s concerned stare morphs into puzzlement. ‘You’re going out tonight?’

      My lip quivers when I nod, willing my chin steady as the murkiness seeps out of my thoughts. Holy shit! There is no way that this can keep happening. When it does, I’m fastened to reality by a thread as thin as a strand of hair.  The dizziness is threatening, and I quickly disperse the visual of the bones I vomited earlier, lest it propel me back to my hands and knees, clutching the white porcelain.  

      I release the wall, finding a feeble footing. My words are remarkably steady when I say, ‘She wasn’t certain when she called me earlier if it would be essential tonight. But my deadline is soon approaching, and we want to get through the first round of editing fast.’

      Ron’s warm gaze lowers briefly. If he knew anything about me, he would immediately sense the lie. I haven’t even finished my first draft. I’ve been forestalling a necessary meeting with Sarah, where I will have to justify my lack of updates by disclosing to her that I’m going through a difficult period, to put it mildly.

      The extended silence tells me he’s thinking of something to ask, probably wishing that Harry wasn’t here so he could press me further. Before I can think about what I’m doing, I break the small distance, grabbing the back of his neck to press a chaste kiss against his lips—this is awful! —knowing I’m doing something terrible to my husband. Even this act of love, virtue and purity has been corrupted by my stalker.

      And by me.  

      I quickly pull away from Ron, who has opened his lips to encourage me further.

      Harry clears his throat, slapping a hand on Ron’s shoulder. ‘We’ll get some food after finishing up. Did you want us to walk you, Hermione? It’s dark out there.’

      I smile at them both. ‘I’ve got a torch. I should be fine; thank you for the offering.’

      ‘What about your wand?’ Ron asks with a remarkably more relaxed expression than before our kiss.

      ‘It’s,’ I croak the words, darting my paling face to focus on the ornament of a ginger cat atop the shoe rack. ‘It’s in my office right now. I’ll get a few bits and then head off.’

      Ron looks over his shoulder at Harry. ‘You should see it. She’s got some new creepy, ugly thing. It’s like something you’d find in the tomb of a Death Eater.’

      Harry’s face perks up. ‘Let’s see it—’

      ‘I have to go,’ I interrupt, my heart hammering with a deafening sound. Any minute now, and they will witness my crumbling façade. My feet begin moving. ‘Oh, and save me some food, will you? I’ll be starving when I get back!’ I say as a means of a jaunty goodbye, speed walking into the dining room and passing the living room in the blink of an eye.

      They playfully reassured me that they would try, in typical Ron and Harry fashion. And I hope they do. I’m wearied from my long day, and I should most definitely eat. But I’m anything but hungry. My stomach is hollow, with anxiety, frustration and fear.

      The door to my office is open, revealing a suffocating darkness, and I slap the light on, gazing intently at the large windows that heralded the beginning of this nightmare. It's been an eternity since that night when the smoke wafted into the room. I feel as if I’ve lived in three different bodies since. Ignorant and blissful Hermione to terrorised and helpless victim to… I knead my bottom lip, releasing that perhaps I’m still all those things.

      This place had once felt like a mighty academic fortress. Now, it hums with a meagre air that affirms how badly equipped it is when confronted with a walking, breathing threat that flouts wizarding nature. One thing is for sure: I can’t keep hallucinating like that! It’s only a matter of time before Ron catches on, and off to St Mongols I go. I’m sure my stalker would love it. I’d be placed in the ward for the maddest, most baffling cases, imploring the nurses that a demon hounds me. He’d probably eat me out every night until I slowly dwindled into his submissive plaything.

      The thought thrums my anger, and I let it mask the dread, if only for a moment.  

      A stack of books I have yet to organise catches my attention in a corner on a small table.

      Not knowing why I’m walking to it, I’m surprised to find a bulky tome at the top whose cover reads ‘Sable’s Encyclopaedia of Mythical Characters.’ It’s peach-coloured, old and faded, and the image beneath the words is severely rubbed, leaving only the golden border that feels like a window into what it had once been.

      I don’t remember acquiring it, but that doesn’t concern me, as I often take a stack of books from the library just because they are in the same genre. I navigate it easily despite the cutouts and endless bookmarks. There are even pressed flowers, several of whom have seeped their colour onto the pages. As I draw nearer to finding the name, the notion of what it all may mean unnerves me, making goosebumps erupt in my arms.

      Ah, there she is.

  Semele

[ sem-uh-lee]

noun, Nascent Wizarding Mythology.

Sovereign Consort to Chieftain Cadmus. Semele was the daughter of Chieftain Olen and Sovereign Consort Sibyl Wren. She married her adopted brother and ruled the people of Hemera, one of the seven founding tribes, alongside Cadmus. She was the mother of Aether, Eros, Gaea, and Caelus.   

      I sigh, reading it over several times. The words evoke more questions than answers. I was hoping for more, but perhaps I must find a different book that isn’t a glossary or Amata’s diary for that. My fingers move again, flicking back towards the start. A strange prickling sensation makes them judder when my index travels the page length, finding his name at the bottom.

  Cadmus

[ kad-muhs]

noun, Nascent Wizarding Mythology.

Chieftain to the people of Hemera, one of the seven founding tribes. Cadmus married his adopted sister, Semele, who ruled alongside him as Sovereign Consort and mother to their children: Aether, Eros, Gaea and Caelus. His birth remains unknown. A theoretical branch of the myth links him to the people of Erebus, a rival tribe, speculating him to be the lost son of King Silver Eban and Queen Aspen.

      I’m about to navigate the entry for Silver Eban when the clock on the wall chimes 21:00. Shit. I wasn’t even keeping track of the time. I told him he’d wait for me, but I only planned to be a few minutes late. I quietly go over to lock the door before returning to my desk and dropping to my hands and knees, looking for the first aid kit I remember kicking under it. When I reach my feet again, I’m shaking when I search the over-stuffed drawers for the foraging blade. It’s tiny, but I find it tucked beneath an old journal.

      The moment I've been dreading is here.

      I’m trembling violently when I approach my armchair, which I haven’t sat in since Crookshanks died because it was his favourite spot. I open the first aid kit, pick out the gauze pad and roll, cut a few pieces of medical tape using the tiny scissors and stick the ends on the edge of a small table beside me. Finding the alcohol wipes, I breathe through the mounting panic as I open the packet.

      I inhale one flower, two, three—the blade clicks. Lifting the hem of my jeans, I expose my ankle. One flower, two, three—I pierce the thick skin around my shin bone. One flower, two, three—the tears pool in my tear ducts as I carve my first rune.

      The blood oozes down to my foot when I’m finished, and I quickly find some tissues in the first aid kit to clean it. Before it gets out of hand or I faint, I breathe one flower, two, three and carve the next rune, followed by a set of Egyptian glyphs that bleed the worst.

      My vision darkens when I straighten to find more tissues, and I hold them on the skin before placing the pad and wrapping it messily with the gauze roll. I’m about to repeat the same on the other ankle when I realise standing on the distressed foot hurts. It hurts a lot.

      Fuck! I didn’t think this through. The one set of defence spells will suffice. Considering the pathetic notion makes me laugh out loud. I have to clamp a hand over my mouth to stifle the insanity threatening to rip out. Why did I think a stupid, old-school trick would protect me against someone like him? But I have nothing else, and I can’t exactly walk into the wolf’s den without a shield.

       I do a circle in the office, wiping the tears and trying to get used to walking normally. It fucking hurts, but if he doesn’t notice it, I might be safe from whatever cruel games or baneful tattoo’s he taunts me about. I tidy up, hiding the bloody evidence, and leave with a slight limp to my step.

      Ron and Harry appear to be upstairs when I return to the foyer. Shit! I left my running trainers upstairs. The only ones here are the Converse, which requires more fiddling. I awkwardly manage to sit on the floor and begin tying the shoes. Harry’s voice drones in the distance. They are probably back in the office.

      Outside, it’s the same as when I left it, but in all sincerity, I am absolutely shitting myself. Not only will my stalker chastise me for being late, but I’m not exactly in the best shape to fight him. Everything I’ve done suddenly hits me in a painful wave of stupidity.

       Keeping an eye on the houses’ windows, I walk the trail to the lake, passing the garden and sighing with relief when the house is out of sight. I cross my arms against my chest. What am I walking into? Why did he take my phone, too? I understand the notion of disarming me, but there’s nothing on the device besides pictures and ongoing conversations.

      It takes me a while to reach the path ascending to the lake. It’s unsteady and rocky, and I take it slowly. The trees and darkness cease to scare me anymore. He is everywhere, oozing his infernal presence in the newly developed flora that sings of spring and its beauty. Even if the myth of Semele and Cadmus doesn’t mean anything, it’s still fitting to consider the parallels in this moment.

      The first breach in the trees opens into a small track that leads directly into the water, where a rocky bank drones with the sound of water brushing up against it. I’m not sure where he wants me to meet him; it’s a big lake, and it could take me over two hours to circle it in my current state.

      But something tells me to go here, and so I do.

      Sitting on a large rock overlooking the water, I shiver at the temperature drop. A mist begins to gather at the edges. It’s painfully still and all at once beautiful. The moon is absent tonight. When it's here, it sets the water and trees alight with a whimsical, milky light. I miss it. I could do with something familiar and lovely to put me at ease. Closing my eyes, I breathe deeply. Cold tendrils begin grazing my flesh and into my bones, spreading all through me until I’m shivering from the inside. I squeal when something—an unyielding hand—fists my hair and forces my head back. Opening my eyes, it takes me a few seconds to process the black mass before me. The face staring back at me has white-blonde hair falling over his bright silver eyes… Draco is glaring back at me.

      Screaming, I flail in his relentless hold to no avail. I shriek again, staring in disbelief at my stalker-turned-ghost. He’s wearing the mask of my stalker and the exact outfit I admired him in not long ago. My hands dart to my head, finding his wrists, and I tug at them to try and alleviate the burning on my scalp, but he doesn’t relent.

     ‘I’d say you're more than a little late,’ he utters, sounding exactly how I remember Draco sounding. ‘Didn’t I warn you about pissing me off?’  

      I’m paralysed in my shock and pain while he’s grinning cruelly, bringing the cigarette I’ve only just noticed to his lips with the snake-tattooed forearm that’s still rolled to the elbow. My gaze drifts desperately to his chest; he has the exact body of my stalker. What the fuck is going on?

      ‘Is this some kind of sick joke?’ I accuse shakily, barely hearing myself over the rushing blood distorting my hearing.

      He exhales with a chuckle, blowing the smoke out in a slow, deliberate cloud that I can taste. I shut my gaping mouth. Good god. Something is so, so wrong here. The boyish severity he harboured is wholly gone. From my unreliable memories, this phantom Draco echoes the man I met during the war, but his face has sunken, defining his jaw and deep, hollow eyes.

      He’s Draco, but he’s not. I know he’s not.

      Draco had blue eyes. And now… ‘Stop whatever this is! It’s one thing to fuck with my life and head, but this—’ I break mid-sentence when he fists my hair to an arresting pain.

      ‘That’s no way to greet an old friend, is it?’ Draco retorts, taking another drag that alights those unholy eyes. He’s blowing smoke in my face again when he speaks, ‘Friends don’t betray each other, do they? But you seem to crave the taste of penance, baby, and I’m all too eager to deliver it.’

      Biting back a yelp, the smoke clears, and he’s staring at me with so much venom that I suppress my body’s plea to avert my eyes.

      ‘Suck. My. Dick,’ I manage out, clenching my jaw after each word.

      His smile is menacing and maddening, belonging to someone so wholly deranged. I watch his lips part as if through a haze, on the brink of losing myself to my anguish. ‘No. But you’ll be sucking mine.’ I see stars when he continues, ‘Friends don’t kiss their husbands with your lips still wet after kissing me, do they?’ he bites out, making me involuntarily shudder.

       ‘We aren’t fucking friends, you lunatic! We were never fucking friends!’ I yell out, shutting him out with my tightly closed lids to make the pain more bearable until he suddenly releases his hold completely, and I fall back, landing on another boulder. The pain shoots through my spine, and I scramble, pricking my hands in the blackberry bushes that line the water’s edge.

       Draco speaks over my wailing. ‘How about this: if you pull some shit like that again, I’ll make you suck his dick with my come still lining your throat.’ He’s standing before me on the other side of the boulder I was sitting on. I can barely make him out through my sniffling as I clench my hands to alleviate the trauma. Fuck him! And fuck these twisted fucking games he forces me to play!

      ‘Mm, fucking sounds like a good idea. Why don’t I hold you up as you ride him before I slice the flesh into little pieces and make you eat them while riding mine? Does that sound like fun?’ I smell the familiar cloud of poison encompassing my senses. ‘Seeing as you so thrive on pissing me off.’

      Trembling, I don’t say anything. I don’t need to. He wants my retaliation, and it only gets him off further to see me fight.

      ‘You know it does unless you want to touch my dick again to confirm it?’ he hums, and I shake my head to try and get him out. He says aloud, ‘But first, I have something I want us to go over. Together.’ My chin is being pried skyward. ‘Open your eyes for me.’  

      I nearly convince myself to keep them shut. But with my back numb against the rock and my palms probably slicked in blood, I want to prevent further casualty. Opening them slowly, I glower at him. He's staring down at me with my phone in his hand. The screen alights his depraved expression. He’s loving this. What kind of sick fuck enjoys torturing women?

      Draco lifts the phone to his face. ‘Let’s see… Can do magic without needing a wand. Highly advanced.’ He grins at my statement, probably seeing it as praise. ‘Can read minds. Possibly a Legilimen.’ His cruel chuckle travels the length of my spine as he continues mocking me in the darkness of my mind. ‘Mm, what else? Extensive dark power. Probably an Obscurial or a Seer?’

      Taking a drag of his cigarette, he looks at me over the crackling cherry as he reads the last bullet point. ‘Can use birds to do bidding. A Metamorphmagi or Parselmouth?' The smoke comes out, forming what looks like bird wings and a serpent's tail.

      'Oh baby, what a pretty list you’ve got here. I’m impressed. And I see you’ve done some research before leaving the house?’ I snicker even though I want to scream at him.

      ‘In fact, I’m so impressed; I think we should get straight to your treat.’ With his last word, I feel those familiar glacial tendrils as my body is elevated, my legs scraping the boulder while I’m being drawn towards him like a magnet. I’m dropped directly in front of him, at his feet, and my throbbing hands catch me against the sharp shingle.

      He chuckles. ‘Right where you belong, on your knees before your king. Eyes up.' Still glaring, I indulge him. I have no choice but to do as he instructs. The stupid sigils didn’t work. I meet his imposing presence towering over me. My stalker—Draco—whatever the fuck he is; is looking down at me with burning silver eyes.

      ‘Next time you cut sigils into your flesh, remember it will be futile.’ The injury pulses in response to his painfully obvious statement. ‘See how your body responds to me? Do you know why that is?’

      I swallow, never leaving his eyes. ‘Because you fucking manipulate it to do so.’

      His laugh is deranged. ‘True,’ Draco sneers, throwing the finished cigarette beside my feet before reaching into his pocket to retrieve another. He lights it with my wand, which he really doesn’t fucking need, his lips curving at my deadly expression. ‘To devour and demolish your loveliness for all your days, little sister. That’s why your body responds to me, and only me.’

      My jaw clenches until my back teeth throb. ‘Is this what all of this is about? You’re fixated on a fucking myth and ruining my life over it!’ I try to get to my feet, to square up to him, but he’s preventing me. 'I hope your evident insanity guides you off a cliff. Or even better, into my hands when I find a way to kill you.'

      Something terrible erupts with a raspy, deep laugh in the distance, and I turn my head to find its origin, expecting to see a demon behind him. But it's only us.

      Instead of replying, he’s silently smoking, never averting his silver scrutiny from my face. The mask only accentuates the diabolic aura he carries. I can’t see the visuals, but silently staring at it gives one the impression that they can hear it. Maybe that's what was laughing at me. I can make out what sounds like growling and shrieking beasts. I imagine talons ripping into flesh and grizzly-furred monsters tearing and cleaving limbs.

      Draco—my stalker—is only emphasised by it. Why do I get the impression that he is a hundred things? A bottomless symphony of toil and trouble.

      ‘They’re almost here.’ Draco holds the cigarette in between his lips before reaching for his trousers. ‘Ready to have some fun, Birdie?’ His smile suggests that what he has planned will be anything but fun. I shake my head when he unbuckles his belt.

      ‘Don’t you fucking dare—’ My throat seizes, and my hands are reaching to retrieve his dick as it springs out, crowding me, cornering me. He's taken over me. 

      ‘Get it nice and slick before I bend you over their dead bodies,’ he instructs, pumping it once before letting my hands latch onto it.

      Who? Who is coming? I parrot his movement, wishing I had knives for fingers, and he groans. ‘Just like that.’ His hand buries into the crown of my head, tugging with less force than earlier. ‘Now, open up.’

      Parting my lips, I realise too late that he wasn’t controlling my actions. Draco urges my head on his cock, and I suction around it. I try to bite, to graze my teeth at the very least, but my mouth receives him with all the desperate and eager sucking from someone who wants to suck it. I start slow and deliberate until I’m taking it to the back of my throat in a rhythmic motion that’s making him growl. I’m so absorbed by what’s happening that I don't give it any attention when a pair of familiar voices speak somewhere nearby. I’m so lost in my thoughts, disoriented in the darkness.

      ‘Hermione?’ Ron announces. He’s so close, so, so close. ‘What the fuck—’

      ‘Ah, here they are,’ Draco proclaims, holding my head firmly in place when I try to turn in the direction of my worst nightmare come to life. ‘Don’t stop, baby. You were getting into it.' My tongue darts out to lap the underside. 'That’s it. Keep going and show your husband and his friend how good you are at sucking my cock.’

      My insides collapse, the warming sensation gathering in my legs vanishing completely. I’m staring wide-eyed at the bird tattoo on his abdomen—it’s all he will let me fucking see! My mouth keeps sucking and slurping. Oh my fucking god! How do I stop?!

      ‘HERMIONE!?’ Ron bellows. ‘What the fuck is going on?’ Footsteps approach down the trail. ‘Who the fuck is this? Is that...’

      ‘Draco,’ Harry reveals. ‘How are you…What? Hermione? What's going on?!’

      ‘As much as I’d enjoy you two watching me come down her throat, this is between me and my girl,’ Draco murmurs. He releases my eyes from his abdomen, and I dart them to his face. He’s staring down at me with something akin to affection just as his fingers begin tenderly stroking my cheek. ‘Isn’t that right, baby? Should we get rid of them so it's just us two again?’

      I find myself nodding fervently without wanting to. He smiles at my encouragement. Split! The violent shriek thunders from nearby, sounding like a tree has fallen or wood being split in half. Oh, my fuck! I need to stop! I need to see! This can’t be fucking happening! 

      ‘Harry! HARRY!’ Ron yells frantically. ‘HARRY!!!’

      His tormented voice makes my insides shrivel. My horror is a living thing clawing at my insides. No, no, nooooooo! I try to convey my question to Draco’s face, but he’s just looking at me, stroking me softly, while Ron begins screaming and bawling.

      ‘WHAT DID YOU DO?!’ Ron bellows, drawing nearer. 'Draco... MIONE? What the fuck is going on?!' 

      Draco swings his head back, groaning as I take him to the back of my throat. I feel it in my mouth when he starts trembling with laughter. ‘Isn’t she such a good girl? Always so obedient for her Death Eater, aren’t you?’ He looks down at me again, grinning from ear to ear, still caressing me. ‘Should we kill your husband, too?’

      I nod eagerly again. My eyes fill with tears that I can’t wipe.

      ‘A little birdie told me that your husband can't swim. Shall I throw him into the water, and you can watch him drown while I take you from behind?’ My head bobs obediently, tears trailing down my cheek as my tongue begins lapping the precum seeping out.

      ‘Good girl,’ Draco says darkly before I hear a deafening scream, followed by a splash.  My heart crumples, and the world around me collapses.

      I only see darkness. Pitch, raven-black nothingness, my husband's screams following me into the abyss.

      The cold tendrils evaporate, flesh to muscle, bone to blood until I’m warm again. When I regain consciousness, I realise I’m sitting on the boulder, precisely as I did when I first arrived, staring at the lake, a perfect, untouched mirror to the starry night above it. The mist is upon me now, tickling my feet and swirling around me in bitter clouds.

      No, not clouds. My head turns toward the smoke, and I find my raven-haired stalker lounging on a rock behind me. His legs are spread, and he’s got one hoisted up on a rock to support his smoking arm, elbow balancing on his knee. When he finds me staring, he gives me a lazy grin. ‘Did you enjoy the show?’

      My voice comes out unusually calm as I retort, ‘You were fucking with me.’

      He’s taking a thoughtful drag, lifting a brow at my crass observation. When he releases it, he blows a grey cloud out and says, ‘Yes. Yes, I was. It’s called teaching you a lesson for pissing me off. Don’t you doubt for a second that I couldn’t bring it to life, and so much worse if I wish it.’

      I stare at him blankly, waiting. He senses my anticipation and gets to his feet, approaching me with one hand in his pocket. ‘Do you understand?’ I nod, reflecting on the phantom screaming of my husband and the splitting sound that startled it.

      ‘At least one thing that happened was real. I’ll let you ponder what it was,’ he says, boring his intense silver eyes at me while throwing the cigarette into the water. I involuntarily lick my lips. Have I only just noticed that my jaw feels tender? My tongue detects a slight undertone of saltiness. 

      His expression is unreadable, but the mask echoes everything he is capable of and more. The free hand finds the other pocket, and he looks at me a moment longer before saying, ‘Go home. You get your surprise tomorrow.’

      When he gives me his back, ascending the track back to the forest, I notice my phone and wand have both been left atop the boulder he was sitting on—an unfamiliar sensation coils in the pit of my stomach at his receding form. But I haven't got the heart or words to place it yet.

     ‘And what about Draco?’ I declare abruptly.

      When he halts briefly to gaze over his shoulder, I realise I needn’t explain what I’m asking. Still grinning lazily, he responds, ‘Better open up that notes app, sweetheart. We’ll review your bullet points again. Soon.’ 

      He takes the shadows with him, and I notice a waning yellow moon is about to descend behind the trees. It turns orange and red until it vanishes—like a lunar sunset. I'm curious if he summoned it or if I'm giving him too much power by assuming it.

      I only leave the lake when the moon's memory has faded, and the darkness returns in multitudes. Ah. There it is. Peace. At last.

Chapter Text

      I don’t sleep for a long time. The green neon light from Ron’s watch signals a passage of time I wish to halt. The night is long and altogether short. The only sounds keeping me company are Harry’s distant snoring and the faint song of a barn owl.

      Right before bed, Ron and I bickered briefly about my heedlessness and choice of friends. I had little will to fight with him, and he was too tired to express the extent of his displeasure. We turned away from each other, returning to a state of limbo. At some point in the night, he turned to me, and I watched his sleeping face for a long time, features contorted in a semblance of blissfulness. I wondered, yet again, why I was the way I was.

      Before bed, he brought me a glass of water, and I have yet to drink it. I’m not sure why I don’t. I’m thirsty. But I resolve to accept the discomfort. With a chapped mouth, I spend most of the night drifting in and out of strange visions. I wanted to conjure memories of the actual beginnings of this nightmare. But my younger self does not come to me like she does during the day when not asked.

      When my eyes finally relinquish their hold, I’m thrust back into Hogwarts, aimlessly meandering through its endless corridors. Its walls have never felt darker. The grey, dreary stone is leaking something from its fissures. Rain, maybe? I hear a deluge pelting the roof and rattling the windows in repetitive wind bursts.

      I pass a window of stained glass. It startles me because of how red it is—brought to radiant life by a flash of lightning. The thunder that follows makes my spine prickle. The visual is mostly red-tinted glass except for a mass of black at the bottom that I can’t decipher until another burst of lightning brings the dead blackbird to life—several silver needles splintering its chest.  

      I turn away from it, and when the thunder rolls again, I try to move down the corridor, but something holds me prisoner to the spot. I’m staring intently at where I want to go, but the black passage beyond is impenetrable.

      A terrible feminine wailing passes over my head in a flash of white, and I incline my head to it, seeing an apparition that is only a flurry of white fabric. She has no head, and she has no limbs. When I think she’s about to turn a corner, her wailing receding, the phantom halts—the drapery swaying slowly as if moving in a currentless body of water.

      ‘Once upon a time…’ a low, guttural male voice thrums behind me. I quickly turn back; the corridor is still unnervingly dark; the red stained glass is lifeless; the absence of light appears to be increasing.

      ‘There was a girl who fancied herself clever and wise…’ the voice booms.

      Something that sounds like a frenzied pattering of footsteps echoes behind me, drawing nearer, and I whirl back on the corridor bearing the spectre; the footfalls abruptly stop.

      The fabric still sways as if suspended in the murkiest depths of the ocean. It takes me a moment to realise I’m not staring at its back, but its front. Despite not having any limbs, she has a chest that moves in and out slowly with each breath.

      ‘And there was a boy, violent and abhorrent, who pulled and pulled…’ I watch as a long needle spears forth from her chest, still moving with breath. No blood follows the assault. ‘And pulled at her heart…’ the dark echo continues while she remains silent as it settles, half inside of her and half poking out and glistening beneath the weak light. ‘Until she wasn’t so clever, and she wasn’t so wise…’   

      The phantom starts shuddering with a cruel chuckle as another long, silver needle pulls itself out of her, settling like a mirror to the other.

      A gust of hot air brushes against the back of my neck, like a beast has just exhaled from its nose. I try to turn it but can’t move as I watch another needle draw out of the ghost in the centre of her chest.

      The hot, wet breath exhales again against my neck. ‘Her longing drew taut, and the first blood she gave…’ I feel every word like a damp balm settling over my skin. ‘She belongs to the lord of the abyss now, the one and most high…’

      The needle stops pulling through her lifeless and somewhat alive chest, flanked by the other two. I feel a long claw grazing the back of my neck, drawing a pattern I can’t grasp. The wind and storming rain outside suddenly break as if in anticipation, and the abrupt quiet of the castle is gut-wrenching. Something tickles my ear. I try to lift my hand to it as it begins borrowing deeper until I feel its claws grazing the recess of my mind.

      Two silver lights flicker, and I realise I am not alone in the darkness of my thoughts. An entity is here, and he has always been here. His voice is as smooth as silk and wispy as smoke when he rumbles, ‘Legio mihi nomen est, quia multi sumus.’

      The thunder cracks, and with an infernal screech, the white fabric entity starts rushing towards me.

      I don’t fall back into my body supported by a mattress and cushions. There is no Ron besides me. When my eyes adjust to the early morning light, I realise it’s soft grass I’m clawing beneath my fingers. With a thrashing heart, I’m lying in my garden like a startled doe, my tailbone throbbing with the impact of a fall I don’t remember experiencing. Perching on my elbows, I’m staring at the darkened windows of my home.

      Did I sleepwalk?

      Somewhere inside, Ron is still oblivious to my absence.

      Somewhere inside, Harry is still snoring in the guest room.

      Hiss! I stare at my feet, sensing something that makes me dart my legs out in panic. I don’t see the shiny black body until it’s too late. It wasn’t at my feet in the first place. I’m thrust backwards with immense pressure on my neck, tightening like a rope. I’m looking at the morning sky on my back, thrashing for breath, when suddenly, the serpent’s head materialises above me.  

      It’s sneering down at me with a sentinel, human-like expression.

      I open my mouth to scream, and its immense obsidian presence crowds me, burrowing into my mouth until I feel I feel it expanding my throat.

The Flashback // First Blood

      Red. Red, red rose. It’s always the same paper. I twirl the nefarious note between my thumb and index finger, his summoning, before setting it on fire with a flick of my wand. This is the third time I have accepted his bidding. When he told me of his intentions on the first day, I bit my pride while I was bound to the bed, agreeing to his terms with a shriek, a hot black substance being poured in a pattern on my back and belly.

      The evidence still scabs my flesh in obscene patterns. I wish I could see them better, but the tiny mirror I brought offers little disclosure. The second visit wasn't the worst. It was the quickest of the two and ended with my back still on the bed after an intense interval of being eaten out. Still, I have been shuddering ever since, like a glacial entity that has permanently resided in my spine.

      It's this strange pattern; I know it! 

      Harry was jubilant the night an unexpected payoff arrived that disclosed what the Death Eaters were devising for the foreseeable days. It was brought by a bird whose feathers moved the night and drowned its stars when it came down. It was a massive raven, and the ink on the scroll was so black that I could feel the eyes boring into me from the cursive font. 

      In the second meeting, he was relatively charming until the end. His eyes continuously morphed colour, and his hair peculiarly alternated between opposite shades. In a way, he's a different person with each visit. At first, he still had white hair. Unfortunately, the magnetism is always there. I'm still drawn to him helplessly and pathetically, like a moth to a flame. 

      I’ve tampered with the memories of our meetings in case I'm ever exposed. I’ve done such an effective job that I’ve started to dream my illusions. But something is wrong. I’m forgetting or mixing up a lot more than I intended. Ron discovered my secret stack of red rose notes, and he’s been glaring, scowling, reprimanding me at every turn, threatening to expose me to the Order.

      I think it’s the heat of the betrayal and the bite of rejection talking. A few days prior, he confessed how he would like us to date after all of this was over. My heart grew heavy and confused when he mentioned marriage and children.

      Do I want that?

      If my past with Draco were any indication, I’ve never longed for what is good for me. When I told myself I would move on, he approached me, offering his help, persuading and ensnaring, which should be more evidence of why things turned out as they did in our previous meetings.

      My hand aches from crushing the pestle into the mortar for a quarter of an hour. I’ve been grinding the white bird bones behind a giant oak until they are pulverised, telling Harry and Ron I’d gone to fetch water from the river after bathing.

      I'm almost out of time.

      I drip some water from my water bottle and mix it with the powder to get a thick but spreadable paste. Little do my best friends know I’m brewing an ancient spell to disguise the evidence of Draco’s dark assaults.

      They are a balm to everything but the darkness residing in my heart.

      I have to lie down to apply it. My back settles awkwardly over the stone pine needles that litter the forest floor. The poultice smells terrible when it settles on my skin. I’m staring at the blackbirds flitting through the tree canopy for a distraction, wondering if I should take up a hermit’s life after this war.

      The mixture cracks when it dries. I graze my hands over my stomach to crumble it and swipe it off. I stir up a cloud of dust that smells so grim—I’m heaving by the time I dart to the water’s edge.

      I strip my clothes and thoroughly wash myself, preparing for the inevitable.

      Draco sent Blaise to escort me instead of Theo.

      I wonder if it’s because of how Theo was acting before. He seemed nervous, more on edge than I was, considering the target on my head. Draco told me to go to Theo at first, to pretend that I needed him for the favour of arranging my meeting with Draco. Now, his sudden banishment raises a series of questions.

      Blaise has barely said a word to me on my walk. I look at him, his jaw taut, and notice how his dark eyes are slitted. He’s wearing a perpetual glower, staring down anyone who looks at me with an inkling of malice on their expression. I don’t miss their stolen stares loaded with hatred and scorn. If I weren’t with Blaise, I’d surely be in one of their basements by now.

      I lick my lips. ‘What happened to Theo?’

      His jaw clicks. Shrugging his shoulders, he inclines his face ever so fleetingly in my direction. ‘Don’t ask questions you don’t want to hear the answer to, Granger.’

      ‘Why wouldn’t I want to hear the answer?’

      ‘MUD-BLOOD!’

      He abruptly darts his gaze in the opposite direction, sneering at a passing pair of Slytherin students from the year below. It’s not the first time it’s happened. It was more frequent with Theo escorting me.

      Biting back a snappy retort, I stare at my simple blue jeans and vintage Wham! jumper. It’s my dad’s Christmas one, now my most prized possession. Thanks to my mum’s sense of humour, an ugly Yuletide frame surrounds the duo, mimicking something you’d find at the bottom of a festive crate in a charity shop.

      ‘Trust me…’ Blaise looks over his shoulder. ‘Save the questions for Malfoy. It’s not my business to tell you.’

      I lower my eyes from him, noticing he’s wearing a uniform. The buttoned-up coat with silver buttons is auburn, and a patch on his left arm is stitched with the emblem of a silver-thread-cloaked figure holding something I can’t decipher. The initials G.K. are engraved beneath the picture.

      ‘So…’ I breathe out. ‘What have you been up to lately?’

      He gives me a curious glance, lifting a brow before saying, ‘That’s the last thing I expected you to ask me.’

      ‘Doom and gloom will only get us so far in a conversation, and I’m sincerely curious about you. Your uniform looks interesting. Can you at least tell me what the initials mean?’ I point to the emblem, grazing it with the tip of my finger.

      He sighs, giving me an inkling of a defeated air before straightening. ‘Just this and that; my brother keeps me busy. As to the initial…’ He directs another glare to an older witch who sweeps the dirt she gathered from the entrance of her shop in our direction. ‘It’s a rank. It stands for God Killer.’

      My brows shoot up involuntarily at the statement. ‘Oh. Should I be scared?’

      The slight smile curving his generous lips is gone before I can even appreciate it. ‘No. I’m here to keep you safe. Anyhow, I’ll leave you here. The house elf is already at the door for you.’

      I stare ahead, my eyes latching on to the little demon. He waves at us, smiling with his tiny pointy teeth on show.

      ‘You're friendly with Mango?’ Blaise asks in disbelief.

      ‘Mango?!’ I glare at the rodent with newfound interest. ‘He has a name? As in, Draco gave him a name? And out of all names, he chose Mango!?’

      Blaise looks at me with a puzzled expression. ‘Urm, yeah? The elf is obsessed with eating dried mango. If you bring him some, he’ll be nice to you. Extra nice, in fact.’

      My mouth opens and closes in incredulity. ‘Right. Well. Thank you for escorting me.’ I give Blaise a friendly smile before speed walking towards the house, where Mango continues to wave. I’m a few feet from the door when he stops flapping his little hand. Still smiling, he looks at his watch, tittering at whatever he finds.

      ‘You’re—'

      I brush past him with a sly smile. ‘How cute. Your smile is as ugly as your wicked tongue, Mango.’ I say his name mockingly, taking the first few steps of the opulent staircase.

      ‘I was about to congratulate you for your punctuality, Miss Granger.’

      Peering over my shoulder, I shoot him a suspicious glare. ‘What?’

      He folds his arms behind his back. ‘You heard me, Miss. Well done. The master will be pleased.’  

      That seedy little! ‘You’ll excuse me for being wary that this isn’t a part of your devious little schemes.’

      He’s stoic as he replies, ‘Mango isn’t scheming, Miss.’

      I must bite my bottom lip to suppress howling in laughter at his use of the outlandish name. Whipping a wayward clump of hair over my shoulder, I say, ‘Alright. Well, thank you.’ With nothing else to say, I resume the stairs, my heart drumming an irregular song. The strange events with Mango have equally rattled and lightened my spirit.

       I know what to expect with Draco. He's rough and mean—a bully at heart. He takes immense pleasure in rattling me and getting his way by empty promises or force. He's a sadist, shrouded in a menacing aura that has only grown darker with time. Right now, I sincerely think I don’t know him at all. Perhaps I never did. 

      The long corridor heralds the beginning of the darkness to greet me. It’s pitch black except for a faint orange glow. When I push against the slightly open door, I’m welcomed by a prosperous fire that crackles the wood it’s been recently fed.

      When I see him leaning against a far wall, I startle.

      He’s wearing an all-black waistcoat and shirt with steel-grey slacks that define his abundantly muscular legs. It’s not the Death Eater mask sitting next to him on a table or the tattoos moving on his exposed forearms that astonishes me. The last I saw him, his hair was half white and black. Now, it’s as bottomless black as a crow's wing. 

      The scar is still absent.  

      He’s beginning to look like the shadow of my childhood—eyes as silver as starlight. They were blue two weeks ago. Now, they watch me with heavy-lidded and penetrating devotion akin to a predator regarding their next meal. There’s no point asking him about it. He doesn’t answer my questions. Instead, I retain his stare while I discard my wand to the table, flanking the door.

      I need to be brave. I need to show him I can handle whatever this is.

     ‘Busy day?’ I incline my chin to the mask.

      His lips are set in a firm, steadfast line until he lifts the tumbler with the amber liquid to his lips and takes a generous swig. The liquid glows golden from the light of the fireplace.

      I couldn’t tell you what entirely transpired in our last meetings. Though the memory is fresh, and I can still find it, I remember it in bits and pieces, some reliable and some unreliable. In a few months, they will all become a dreamy haze that I flit in and out of, not knowing which is a nightmare or real. One must pay this penalty when dabbling with herbs that shouldn’t be touched for prolonged periods. 

      When he doesn’t answer, I kick off my trainers and lean down to tug my socks off. I straighten before reaching for the bottoms of my jeans and dragging them down, shuffling the tight fabric around my thighs and letting them drop at my feet before stepping out of the discarded fabric and bowing forward to retrieve them. Folding them, I put the jeans beside my wand, suppressing a shiver against that strange chill that crowds the room.

      I feel it is mocking the bird bone powder I've been putting atop the scar he left me with. Its fingers tickle the assaulted skin beneath my jumper.

      I look up at him, his eyes already on my red lacy underwear. Sucking in a breath, I reach for the string and shuffle out of them, too. In truth, I’m not as self-conscious as I once was about him seeing my pussy. Now, it’s like stripping in front of a lover. However, I would never call him such a thing. 

      ‘What happened to Theo?’ I ask, feeling like I’m speaking to him and the sentinel frigid air.

      His eyes are on my bare pussy when he says, ‘Nott was being tested. He failed.’

      ‘What does that entail?’

      His eyes lift to my face. ‘It means he failed. As simply as that.’

      ‘Are you going to kill him too?’

      My mind reels with all the headlines from the past two weeks documenting the bizarre massacres plaguing death eater numbers. They are dropping like flies, and no one has been connected to the incursions, but I know it’s him.

      ‘Why? Don’t you like Zabini? I thought you two got along rather well.’ His tone is dry.

      ‘I do like him.’ My right hip juts to the side, and I lean into it. ‘But I wonder if your killing spree involves Theo or any other student. It seems unfair to not be given a second chance when they have yet to experience the brunt of life.’

      He cocks his head at me, a sly grin forming on his lips. ‘Is my girl offering to give me something in exchange for his welfare?’

      I swallow. ‘I’m already giving you everything you could want from me.’

     His expression suggests he disagrees with my observation. ‘And yet, I consider using old magic to disguise my mark on your body duplicitous, wouldn’t you?’ his words are clipped, concealing the magnitude of annoyance I can sense pulsing from him in volumes.

      ‘My friends will notice it, and then what? Moreover, I didn’t agree to it in the first place.’

      Still leaning on the wall, he places the tumbler on the table next to the mask before retrieving a smoke from his waistcoat and lighting it without an inkling of a spell leaving his lips. His long drag appears thoughtful and teeming with displeasure pointed my way. I try not to shrink beneath his fire-lit gaze.

      ‘Take the rest off,’ he retorts cooly.

      ‘What are we doing today?’ I counter sharply, crossing my arms.

      He chuckles while taking a drag. ‘Getting on the bed is what you're doing.’

      ‘And then what?’

      The snake on his arm hisses loudly as if irritated. He blows out the smoke. ‘Should we get on with it? Or did you want to keep opposing me?’ A small smile overrides the mocking curve of his velvety lips. ‘You know how I live for the chase, baby.’

      I suck in a breath, straightening my stance. I will my words to be clear when I declare, ‘You won’t kill Theo. Promise me, Draco?' And before I know it, I’m crossing the room to approach him, ignoring my shuddering spine and survival instinct insisting I return to a safer distance.

      He watches me, waiting, and I pluck the cigarette from the hand where the snake tattoo coils and uncoils itself. Keeping his eyes, I bring it to my lips and take a generous drag before saying, ‘You won’t kill him. Alright?’

      I’m about to release the smoke when something pushes my back, and I fall into him. Or more like into his waiting hand gripping my jawline and chin as he takes what he wants. Our lips mould into each other with the intoxicating force of a benediction while belonging to an influence altogether perverse and addictive. He is fire and brimstone, staling the smoke from my lungs while pressing his insatiable tongue against mine.   

      He pulls away to murmur against my lips, ‘Mm…you taste so sweet, don’t you, Granger?’ He licks my bottom lip, enticing a growl that makes me tremble. ‘Is my girl trying to make demands, hmn?’ Kissing me ravenously again, he whispers in between kisses, ‘Is little sister pleading to the Lord of the Abyss to spare another of her friends?’

      The cigarette is dropping ash on my fingers. I’m momentarily perplexed by his bizarre reference. I can’t decide if I’m more shaken to hear him refer to me as his little sister or the obscure title that threatens to wrench the soul from my body. I shake the hand before searching his eyes.

      I need answers he isn’t willing to give.

      Trembling like a leaf, I open my mouth, determined to challenge him, but he captures the words before they can leave with such a violent kiss that I shriek into his throat. I’m being urged backwards, my feet moving swiftly to keep up with him as I try to pry away from his apprehending assault.

      ‘And the magicians did so with their enchantments and brought up frogs on the land of Egypt,' a beastly, guttural voice rattles in my head.

      I try to open my mouth when an echo of maniacal laughter follows the menacing words, sounding as if a crowd of goblins are teeming to be heard. I’m suddenly so cold; my skin prickles like ice buried in my pores.

      The dreadful voice continues, ‘Baal the blight, wretched in the holy lands, the fire inside the flesh. Diablus in carne mea habitat!’

      The backs of my knees fold when they hit the wood of the bed frame. I fall back, landing on the familiar mattress, when he finally releases me.

      ‘Draco! What the fuck is happening?’

      His eyes are molten silver, shining brightly as the room darkens with a suffocating, herding shadow. He pries my legs apart, and I try to shut them. This feels different regardless of how forceful and dominant he can be and how harsh our last instances have been.

      Lowering to his knees, he keeps my thighs parted in place with a heavy grip that indents the soft skin.

      This is all he wants. Right? A little oral here and there to keep his tenacious darkness in check. But something is wrong. Oh, God. Something is so wrong!

      My bare pussy is an inch from his mouth when I hear, ‘Apollyon, born with blinding radiance, the host in disguise, casting his locusts in destructive hordes to feast on man's flesh. Purgantur scapulis infernalibus!’

      ‘Draco… Draco!’ I yell when he circles his tongue in my wet hole. ‘Who is here? Who is talking in my fucking head?!’ He starts eating me hungrily to shut me up, and I cry into the mounting blackness when I feel something sharp grazing my ear. I swipe my hand to it, but nothing is there for it to catch.

      ‘Hêlēl. Anointed by the throes of sin,’ It grazes me again, a long, pointed claw that flicks my lobe. My insides shrivel as it booms, 'Veritas in bestia es!' 

      I close my eyes to disperse the voice, the feeling, the sensation of the pleasure Draco is forcing out of me. My body is screaming in terror—made more evident when I’m confronted with jarring visions of horrific things; silhouettes of silver-eyed shadows horde around me, threatening and growling, wanting to snatch my consciousness.

     The terrible laughter increases, and it doesn’t cease until I finally open my eyes, finding a silver-eyed demon in the flesh hovering above me. My arms are pinned over my head with one hand, and my legs are captured beneath him as he straddles me.

      Sobbing, I yell, ‘What are you doing?!' 

      Draco cocks his head at me, a black mass following the action. He swipes a hot tear from my cheek with a soft scrape. Leaning into me with his lips glistening with my juices, he takes a long inhale of my hair, his nose bypassing my temple. I try to move my hips, to judder my thighs to remove his weight. But it’s useless.

      ‘The whore of Babylon who spreads her legs for the harbinger—the stain and the scar of mutiny. She eagerly lays beneath the mightiest lion, who evades the flaming sword of reckoning.’ The despicable voice continues.

      I shake my head. ‘What is happening? This isn’t what we agreed to! You promised me it would just be a casual arrangement!’ I whine, trying desperately to keep my emotions in check. He licks my lobe, drawing a path to my jawline. The suppressed laughter trembling his body makes me want to scream my lungs out.

      Is this funny to him!? I'm losing my fucking mind, and he's laughing about it. Noticing his neck is directly in front of me; I lean in to bite the skin with all my might to force him off me.

      'That's right. Fight me. You know it only makes me harder.' He lifts himself from me, still keeping me trapped while wearing a cruel smile, clearly finding my despairing torment amusing. I taste the tang of his blood tainting my tongue, and I spit it back at him, but it lands pathetically somewhere around my chest.

      'Close, but not quite,' he mocks.

      My voice breaks when I bellow, ‘Why are you doing this to me? WHY ME?! This is despicable, Draco! You're fucking possessed!'

      Draco shrugs a shoulder playfully as if I'm asking him when his Lego obsession began.

      ‘It's a very long story, Birdie. I suppose the short version begins from the moment you set those wide, doe eyes upon me, unknowingly pleading for someone diabolical to degrade you,’ he says in a low, chafed tone. Hiss! I glance away from his face to observe the snake tattoo coiling around his neck to where I pierced the skin. It darts its black-ink tongue to claim the trickling blood, lingering instead of returning to his hand. I meet his eyes again, and he continues, ‘Is that what you wanted to hear? Does it alleviate your pretty pride to believe the villain is forcing his way with you?’

      After what transpired between us in school, I didn’t want anything to do with him. He knows this, and still, he won’t let me live. For me, to crave him has been a grim twist of fate from the very beginning. I tell myself I'm here because I dreamed about Voldemort winning. But there must be other ways around it! Why did I believe Draco when he told me there weren't? Why did I never stop to realise I'd never spoken my qualms aloud? 

     My dreams have never been spoken into the light of day or under the shadow of night.

     'You tricked me!' I accuse weakly. 'This thing in my head saw my fears and presented them to you on a silver fucking platter, and you used them to lure me here!'

      Draco’s eyes glimmer. 'Aren't you grateful for the work I've done to keep you safe?' 

      My retort comes out with flying spit, 'Safe?! You call this keeping me safe!' 

      His free hand brushes a hair tangled in my lashes. 'Everything I do, I do for you. You've always feared me. Yet, here you are. Resisting this is futile. There is no end to us.'

      I grit my teeth. 'I shouldn't have ever provoked you with my kindness! You didn't fucking deserve it!'

      His smile is one of absolute obsession. I can’t shake the feeling that two entities are staring back at me. It’s in the way he cocks his head again, and this time, a black shadow follows the action lazily, settling back into his body without hurry. ‘Mm, perhaps you're right. How could sweet little Hermione know that by smiling at the wolf, she would invite him into her bed?’ 

      I glower instead of replying. 

      ‘You played along with my games, calling for me in your thoughts day and night, and I obliged you. Does that make me bad for keeping my promise?’ The shadows vibrate with a menacing chill. ‘Rest assured, baby, for I will hunt you down until every star crowns your pretty head because you are prey, remember? A powerless victim,’ he croons as if reciting a promise borne of love and honesty.

      I try to kick my legs, failing; I shudder with frustration. 'And I’m just so, so bad for you.’ Draco’s silver eyes provoke me, daring me to kick my legs again. ‘Your Death Eater is so evil and depraved…so heinous and baneful. Do you know what they say about me?’ 

      ‘Abominable. Son of perdition,’ the dark voice answers, but I dare not repeat it.

      I shake my head.

      I think back to the game.

      I think back to the promise.

      That Halloween that changed us. His smile grows as if sensing the sudden epiphany. 

      ‘Tainting all that belongs to the sacred, drinking the wine of indignation. The lamb trembles inside the walls of the golden city,’ the voice disturbs.

      He lifts a brow, grin widening with deranged pleasure just as I feel something firm pressing against my pussy.

      The protest is on the brink of my tongue when a considerable fleshy mass clamps over my mouth, and I look beyond the bridge of my nose to find deathly charred skin ensnaring half of my face. Its nails are so long they scratch the side of my head. Draco’s tomblike eyes watch me with glee, and he pushes against my entrance.

      My stomach turns hollow. I realise he’s about to fuck me, and I try to scream.

      ‘Fuck,’ he moans, rearing back to plummet a little deeper. ‘I knew you’d be tight, baby. But holy fuck.’

      My ears stream tears into the diabolical hand clamping me. I can’t see through the pooling liquid in my tear ducts. I shut my eyes and feel it when Draco rears back, smashing into me a lot deeper than before. I think it, too, when he raptures my hymen on impact.

      I scream into my body, feeling the pressure pressing into the backs of my eyes.

      ‘There she is.’ He stops a moment. I see him a fraction clearer than before when I refocus on him. 

      ‘Mistress of Baal! Leviathan! Semen malum sepelitur!’ the nefarious voices chant.

      He’s lifting his red-tainted fingertips to his lips, sucking them clean with a throaty groan, sounding frighteningly animalistic. 'Shit.' His eyes shine brighter than before. 'How have you kept this devastating sweetness from me? I could die a thousand agonising deaths to taste your blood again.'

      I bite the inside of my mouth as his hips begin rocking into me slowly, building until it doesn’t hurt me as much. I’m staring at the ceiling, pleading for something good that perhaps doesn’t answer to someone like me. There is nothing remotely benevolent within this room.

      Just me and the devil. 

      ‘You take me so well, little sister,’ he says with a long thrust that fills me.

      He groans, echoing the pleasure I’m refraining, my eyes lower to his. That same obsessive and twisted light occupies the once-blue eyes. I remember their oceanic-like vibrancy. They were freezing and yet thawing. Now, they are cloaked with night, the moonless kind.

      Draco thrusts, and he thrusts, eyes always on each other. I’m glaring at his enjoyment, at the fact I’m rocking back and forth to the rhythm of our pleasure. His eyes are heavy and bottomless when he grinds himself to orgasm, filling me with a warm liquid, quaking slightly with a husky moan.

      When he’s finished, he nods at the devilish hand, holding my mouth shut, which departs with a final scrape of my cheek. Pulling away from him, I try to scramble to the headboard.

      ‘What the fuck are you!’ I bark, kicking my free leg at his stomach, which he catches with a supernatural reflex.

      I watch the dried blood coating his lips, mesmerised as they part, and he says, ‘Omnium animalium vitiosissimus factus est.’

      My mind reels over my countless reading and lessons in Latin. My lips part a moment, used to reciting the dead language aloud, but I quickly shut it.

      He breaks the small distance to capture my chin, keeping me in place as he growls, ‘Say. It. Reveal to the light how terrible I am, wanting to taint your dais with my menacing lust and lies.’

      His words jog something in my memory. I can see the line written out in a fine, dark pen. Was it something I read? I’ll have to be away from him to gather enough of my thoughts to draw a conclusion. I push back on the bed, practically clawing at the sheets. ‘I don’t fucking know what it means!’

      The hellish voice inside me chants the words; they echo from the walls of my mind as if they are made of a cavernous stone.

      ‘He has become the most vicious of all animals,’ Draco and a hundred other voices proclaim. There is a Hiss! near my captured foot. The snake, brought to terrifying life, begins coiling around my leg. My pulse spikes in fear. 

      ‘That’s what it means,’ he says before licking his lips clean of my stolen virginity.

      The darkness dissipates, and I find myself breathless and digging my heels into the dirt. I blink my life back—mine and Ron’s home, the rising sun casting the side of the house aglow.

      SLURP! 

      I want to get up, but my bones are heavy, and something damp is rubbing between my legs. I try to look down, but I can’t lift my head. There is a sucking sound, and my thighs want to press together. The intoxicating sensation makes me plummet back to earth.

      ‘Hermione? Is that you? It’s Sofia and...is that a dog on your lap?’ The familiar voice draws nearer, startling me in my daze, and suddenly, the spell breaks, and I lift on my elbows to discover a crow-dark head kneeling before me, his face buried between my legs.

      I involuntarily moan when he sucks on my clit, realising belatedly that a yellow dress is bounding towards us.

      ‘Hermione? Oh my god! Who—’

      My eyes widen in horror when I meet Sofia’s stricken expression. Is this real? It can't be real! She stops metres away, holding her backpack in one hand while the other covers her mouth. I can’t even utter a single word to explain myself.

      'I—This,' I croak.

      My stalker is still latched on my pussy, and it’s only when I push back that he finally breaks away with a loud, wet, puckering sound.

      ‘What’s wrong, baby?’ He straightens, adjusting his shirt and brushing the wayward strands on his forehead. 

      Good god. I’ve never seen him in the daylight before. It’s almost like beholding a divinity, and when he turns to look over his shoulder at Sofia, even she shrieks and reddens at the sight.

      ‘Ah, good morning,’ he exclaims casually, his voice dripping with charm as he brushes his black trousers free of grass and dirt. ‘I was just indulging in my first meal of the day.’

      Sofia remains dead quiet, darting her eyes between us.

      ‘In fact, now that I think about it…’ A sudden Hiss! makes me glance over my left shoulder, where the terrifying black serpent is meandering its way from the tall grass bordering the forest, heading straight towards us.

      This has to be one of his illusions! 

      He continues with that same silky voice, ‘My friend hasn’t had a satisfying meal for a while. I'm sure you can sympathise.'

      It takes me several seconds of brainlessly watching the snake bypass us to realise the intention of his words. Sofia squeals and cries, something I can’t immediately process. I’m not sure if I’m watching an illusion anymore. It must be. I look at him, trying to perceive any indication of manipulation. But when my stalker parts his lips again, giving me a playful wink, I watch his beautiful mouth condemn Sofia as he did to my husband and Harry the previous night.

      ‘Ready for your surprise?’

      My fingers plant themselves into the earth to contain the horror of watching the snake dart its open mouth towards Sofia’s head, taking her whole. 

Note: Please, PLEASE, pleaseeee do not use/recite any of the creepy verses I wrote. Yes, they feature REAL references & names like something straight out of a S@tanic bible. On another note, I edited my story summary and added a triggers list at the beginning of Chapter One. Feel free to give me a shout with any I may have missed! XO

Chapter Text

      ‘What’s the plan?’

      The tobacco crackles, its amber glow waning beneath the waxing moon. As I release the smoke, I let my head fall against the rugged stone wall of the castle. The stars are thousands, like the influences in my head. What will it feel like to let this baneful blight swallow me whole?

      The cherry cracks as my lips curve into a smile. Embracing it would mean unleashing the gates of purgatory... and yet, they call me the Son of Perdition.

      ‘The plan is called waiting,’ I reply while exhaling a grey cloud. My patience is becoming as thin as a fucking thread these days, but it’s become apparent the only person I can stand to keep in my company is Blaise.

      He paces on the spot, releasing a puff that obstructs his face. ‘And then what? We jump him?’

      I chuckle, momentarily closing my eyes to bask in the currents of this relentless anticipation. ‘Something like that,' I murmur.

      Wring him, drain him, and put his head on a spike for our girl to see—one voice dictates above the others, quietening them all as it speaks. I feel its timber of malicious excitement alighting my blood. It senses his nearness, and I dart my eyes to the trees to watch for a flicker of the Weasel’s wand.

      ‘Take a walk, Zabini. Unless you swear to keep your hands to yourself,’ I groan, inhaling deeply while straightening my back when the growing light emerges through the trees.

      Zabini stops pacing. ‘He fucking pushed me and hid my shit. I’m dying to—’

      My jaw clenches threateningly with a growl that startles him into silence. ‘You’re going to watch and keep quiet, do you understand? He is my problem, and I will deal with him my way. Get it?’

      We silently watch each other, eyes slit, while the footsteps draw closer. I sense the moment my eyes flicker in colour; I see it in how Zabini sneers in response, wrenching his gaze from mine, and continues smoking with his back to the wall, arms crossed to his chest. He’s pissed. But he isn’t stupid. While he doesn’t ask about my evident changes, his uneasiness overrides the need for an argument.

      I throw him my packets of cigarettes with the lighter. ‘Smoke as many as you like,’ I say with a playful edge that reveals how fucking excited I am for this. Christ. My nerves are thrumming with anticipation. I only get this electrified when my girl looks at me with fear, marring her pretty face.

      Zabini catches the packet of fags with a rapid reflex that makes me believe my closest friend may be keeping a secret of his own.

      Suddenly, my attention steals to the emerging blotch of shit beneath my shoe. The Weasley in question glares at the back of my head when he thinks I’m not looking, clutches his wand with white fingers, blowing out heavy breaths from his open mouth.

      ‘What are you doing here?’ Ron asks trembly; his eyes are on me, but they widen when they finally settle on Zabini, who’s glowering at him. ‘And you... what’s this about?’ He’s trying to keep his voice steady in the face of his worst nightmare.

      Fuck. The taste of his fear is delectable. My eyes nearly roll to the back of my head at the heady essence emanating from him in waves.

      ‘I think it’s time we had a little chat. What do you say?’ I retort with mock amity, taking a step towards him that makes him shudder.

      ‘A chat about what?’ He nervously wipes his dog-stray hair from his eyes.

      I take another step. ‘About how’re going to kill me? Isn’t that what you’ve been telling your friends?’ My next step makes him backtrack. ‘About how you intruded on my girl riding her pretty ass on my face in the boat house.’ I grin when his lids drop into slits at the mention. ‘Hmn, what else? Oh, what about how you’ll expose me for the Death Eater I am?’

      I stop short when he may bolt with my next step. ‘It seems you have a lot to say for someone who shits in their pants when I glance your way.’

      ‘Your humiliating Hermione to get back at us.’ His voice breaks when I resume my lethal advance. He squeezes the wand tighter; I can see his half-focused eyes reeling with the spells he could use to prevent me. ‘Why would she be interested in someone like you? Wait until Harry finds out what you’ve been making her do. We'll all come after you.’

      I take a thoughtful drag of my cigarette, casting my gaze up and down his pitiful appearance, then swinging my head to the side to blow out the smoke. I say, ‘Do you hear that, Zabini? It seems I’m a dead man when the chosen one hears about how I like eating my girl’s pussy.’

      Zabini sniggers. ‘It appears so.’

      I cast my gaze back to Ron, lowering my voice to a lethal timbre, ‘But what are you going to do about it?’

      His brows draw together. ‘I already said—’

      I flick the end of the cigarette at his face, the tiny embers scattering as he wipes them in a frenzy. ‘I said, what will you do about it, hmn?’ My grin widens as I watch one of the embers sizzling a strand of hair before vanishing, leaving its faint burning scent behind. ‘Jealousy burns like a bitch. Do you want to hear what I did to the last guy who almost made a move on my girl? Or maybe you’d like to know how you ended up with a fork buried in your hand?’

      Anger flashes in his eyes. ‘You—’

      ‘Yes, me. The same me that is giving you an opportunity at retribution. So why don’t you drop the wand and retaliate like a man?’ Placing my hands in my pockets, I stand up straighter. ‘I’ll let you hit me as often as you want, for fairness sake.’ Cocking my head at him, I lick my lips before saying, ‘Zabini is only allowed to watch.’

      His puzzled expression is priceless.

      ‘Is this a trick? Aren’t you just going to beat the shit out of me after?’ he says, side-eyeing Blaise. ‘And…’ He readjusts his awkward stance. ‘Why would you willingly let me punch you?’

      ‘Why?’ I take a small step towards him, coming almost face to face; I look down at him as I lean in to say, ‘Because any mark you make will only intensify my already wicked good looks. And we know how my girl likes her men flawed and brutal.’

      The Weasel glowers in response.

      Almost there… I’m about to open my mouth to provoke him some more when the first hit lands on my right cheek; sloppy and weak, I have to keep from laughing. ‘Don’t stop,’ I taunt, inclining my face to encourage him. ‘Go for it.’

      He does it repeatedly, roaring like an exasperated animal when he lands the fourth. I stand deathly still while his confidence bolsters, and he manages to land one that punctures the inside of my cheek when it hits a tooth. He stops, lamenting something about a bruised knuckle while my mouth fills up with blood. I lick my teeth to taste it, and instantly, my nerves tremble.

     That’s it… When I graze my lips for the blood escaping through my grin, I sense the forked tongue lashing out to capture it. Finally, the thousands of voices howling a storm in my thoughts quieten.

      I let my head fall back to glimpse the stars. They are brighter than ever, and when I close my eyes to inhale the sharp, woodsy-tainted air, I hear and feel each mighty and minuscule influence of the land.

      Above us, a bat has been flying circles while to my left, Blaise prickles with restlessness. His mind toils with questions, and I see myself through his eyes. My stoic repose disturbs him. He suspects something has been up with me, but he has no name for it.

      Meanwhile, another voice parrots his fears and pains in an endless cycle. Before me, the Weasel worries he’s damaged a tendon. Rubbing the knuckle, he’s thinking about sprinting off while I’m not looking, and Blaise wonders what I'm doing.

      His inward chatter is chaotic, but I listen: how is Draco taking my punches without so much as a flinch? Is he a lunatic, grinning like that? Why did Hermione choose him? Has she lost her fucking mind? I’ve been there for her from the beginning…

      At the mention of Hermione, my senses immediately tune into her. Somewhere in the distance—in the library, my girl is dropping a pile of scrolls onto an empty table, worried that she didn’t pick everything up. Biting her lip, she gazes out the window, considering returning to her dorm.

      A pattering of feet catches my attention. To my right, a fox stops in its tracks, hidden in the ferns; it watches me, sensing how my presence trembles the night. It skitters out of sight when the ageless roots of darkness rush towards me like hungry children. I called them, and yet, I didn't. 

      Finally... the silky voice croons.

      I open my eyes, snapping my head back to face the Weasel again. My lips part without my beckoning, and the voice isn’t mine. It’s deeper and silkier. 'Is that all you got?' I chuckle darkly. 'Couldn’t your little bitch of a father at the very least teach you how to throw a decent punch?’ Both corners of my lips curve, and I continue, ‘I guess he was too busy spreading your wretched mother’s insistent legs.'

      Ron’s pink face reddens to a boiling point. He stutters, ‘What—’

      The air gets knocked out of him when a black mass suddenly rushes him, and he lands on his ass. I’m walking towards him without instructing my feet. I don’t even feel it as each step lands.

      I crack my neck, licking my bottom. ‘And no matter how deeply your father buries his filthy seed in that slut, she still couldn’t push out a child that doesn’t resemble a soiled mutt.’

      Ron shuffles backwards on the grass. ‘Zabini...' He looks over my shoulder, features contorted in terror. ‘Blaise! Don’t let him come anywhere near me! His eyes are glowing fucking silver!’

      I titter, stalking him with the languid ease of a predator. ‘I think it’s time we played a game. What do you say, Blaise? Should we muffle the mongrel before he can run his tongue about shit that doesn’t concern him?’

      Zabini remains silent and shocked, and I await his reply.

      The black mass rushes the Weasel again, pulling shapes of scraggly legs from the ground. A host of spiders flurry out from every fissure, climbing the startled body in their path. He thrashes and moans in terror as their tiny bodies climb higher, swallowing the petrified scream that never leaves his lips.

      Kneading my frayed bottom lip, I look down at the paper before me. Printed out with painstakingly thoughtful detail is a presentation titled ‘Middle-Eastern Magic and its Influence on the Western World.’

      Glancing up, I see the swirls and curves of neat calligraphy covering every corner of the blackboard. Incense wafts around the departing students as Hermione thanks each one for joining her weekly gatherings on ‘Comprehensive Magic’ in the library.

       I stare at the lukewarm coffee in front of me. Despite turning up twenty minutes into the presentation, she still poured me a drink from a flask with a silent judgement at my scrapes and split lip.

      Little does my girl know that I’ve been traumatising the soul out of her best friend. Her bewilderment means no one has found him yet. Good. Let him agonise in the cold and lonely darkness a while longer. 

      Scrunching my face, I quickly down the watery brown liquid, and somehow, the granules still clog the back of my throat. Jesus Christ. She couldn’t make a decent coffee to save her life. It’s the second worst shit I’ve had to drink, the first being some of the stuff they give out in the infirmary. Every other cup in the room is either full or a few sips in, and while I’ve thought about forcing it down their throats, I can hardly blame them.

      Hermione begins jotting in her notebook once the last person has left. She’s wearing a tight, long-sleeve black t-shirt that makes her tits look incredible. I’ve fantasised about throttling every male watching her for the way her blue jeans hug her hips. It’s a good thing I can’t hear their thoughts. My girl is the only individual I can listen to when I’m not using his influence. Otherwise, I can only discern concentrated emotions like sorrow, terror or excitement.

      She stops writing, chews the end of her pen, and glances at where I’m sitting, rolling an unlit cigarette between my thumb and forefinger.

      Looking down at it, she lifts her eyes to mine as her lips part with a blunt, ‘No.’

      I lean back in the chair, accepting the challenge. Without a word, I pull the lighter from my pocket and flick the flame to life. Bringing the fag to my lips, I watch her with unblinking devotion as I spark it to life, blowing out smoke with a smug expression.

      My girl rolls her eyes, shutting the notebook loudly before stepping away from the door, which closes with a thud. Heading straight for the window, she cranks it open before beginning her task of tidying up. Getting to my feet, I slowly approach the window, taking my sweet time, which rattles her flustered nerves.

      Leaning out with my elbows resting on the windowsill, I smoke with the pretence of contemplating the nighttime scenery. In reality, I’m listening and absorbing everything she thinks and feels.

      My girl wants me, and she wants me badly.

      Her thoughts are a delicious combination of toiling and pleading. She’s gathering the cups behind me, pouring the liquid back into the flask. It’s so innocent, such a harmless task. And yet, she keeps stealing glances at my back, admiring its stout curve and how broad my shoulders are.

      The white rolled-up shirts I wear make her exceptionally flustered. When her eyes lower to my strong legs and ass, I smile, throwing the finished fag into the night before turning around and wiping the knowledge from my face. 

      Her attention swiftly resumes on the last few mugs. I would have missed it if I hadn’t heard her thinking. But I know everything. I see it all—her nightmares, longings and woes. I plan to exploit every little thing that makes my girl who she is—the suppressed darkness that will fill her with solace when she finally gives in to my evil.

      I stroll to the double doors with my hands in my pockets. 

      ‘Draco,’ she declares abruptly.

      Suppressing a self-satisfied grin, I stop short and glance over my shoulder. She almost buckles under my penetrating stare. Swallowing, she says, ‘Wou-would you like a copy of my Arithmancy revision notes?’

      Waiting for my reply, she nervously fiddles with her fingers. It’s so unlike her, a quality only I bring out. ‘We have a test on Friday,’ she adds quickly.

      Licking the dried blood from my raptured lip, I reply a considerably smooth, ‘Sure.’

      Her beaming throws me as much as her fear of me, and fuck if I’m not willing to play disgustingly dirty to see that smile directed towards me for the remainder of my bleak existence.

      ‘I’ll have it ready for you tomorrow,’ she says, growing anxious with the pressure to say the right thing. ‘Well, good night, then.’

      My eyes gloss over her face: delicate, plump lips and wide, doe eyes. Her pulse thrashes at my silent perusal, and I lower my eyes to her chest, lingering a moment, before returning to her face to behold the most delectable pink flush that will have her stuttering if I encourage a conversation.

      I lick my tender lip again, briefly considering pinning her down on the table and finger fucking her with the faint speckles of her friend's blood still coating my skin. Instead, I leave her alone in the library, wondering how she’s going to come out alive once I’ve run her through the depths of my hell.

      I’m definitely not done with him yet.

      The Weasel is hopping around on a crutch, alleging he got toppled by a centaur on his way back from Hagrid’s Hut after taking a short detour along the forest’s edge, and everyone believes it.

      I grit my jaw to keep from snorting. He really looks like shit. Not only did I run him through the maze for a quarter of an hour, but on the way, he got repeatedly tackled by giant spiders, running him into every dead end. He has ugly scabs and bruises all over his body to show that I was having the time of my life. I would've drawn it out all night if I didn’t have a ‘Comprehensive Magic’ group to attend to.

      ‘Jesus, fucking hell,’ Zabini murmurs. ‘She’ll—’

      ‘She won’t fucking know,’ I intercept with a harsh tone. ‘So be careful what you say, got it?’

      My girl doesn’t need to know what I’m up to. I’m not pretending to be a saint, but in the grand scheme of things, I have to do more, a lot more disclosure and damage control, before she can know the extent of my twisted madness. Altering the Weasel’s memories is only for her benefit. And yet, while he vividly recalls being trampled on by hooves, his nightmares will illustrate to him otherwise.

      I couldn't help it. It has to be me painting his cruellest dreams black and bloodied—my face. I couldn’t let him forget it.

      Even though Hermione was sombre during breakfast, at least she went to sleep smiling before realising her pitiful friend was in the hospital wing. Instead of a goodbye at the library, I left a gift: a crimson red rose. From the shadows, I watched her unfold it quietly, reciting the Latin aloud like a second language. It read:

      Flectere si nequeo superos, Acheronta movebo

      If I cannot bend the will of Heaven, I shall move Hell.

      I’ve always appreciated the Aeneid. Reading Virgil late into the night was my only consolation until she entered my life to replace it. I know she knows it’s me, yet she’s never inquired about it.

      But she's kept every single one. On top of that, my girl has taken to journalling her forbidden thoughts. It's the most tantalising and delicious thing I've read—a whole book about me.

      ‘What if she doesn’t forgive you?’ Zabini mutters while I watch her pretty head climb the stairs of the Astronomy Tower.

      I lower my eyes. ‘I don’t need her forgiveness.’ Turning away from her approaching form, I lean onto the railing, ‘What about you? You’re playing a dirty game with your girl.’ His brows shoot up in shock at the reveal, but he doesn’t have to ask me how I know after what he witnessed last night. ‘What if she doesn’t forgive you?’ I mock.

      Zabini smirks before joining my side. ‘Touché.’ His head whips to the side when Hermione appears. ‘Afternoon, Granger. I hope that flask you're carrying isn’t to share with the class?’

      Slitted eyes land strictly on us, her eyebrows are knitted firmly together, and her cheeks are flushed from tearing up. We are the only three up here, but the thought doesn’t unnerve her like it used to. I hear her thoughts before she has to open her mouth.

      Staring sternly at me, she stops at the top of the stairs and declares, ‘How did you cut your lip, Malfoy?’

      If I’m being honest, I can’t say I remember.

      He flailed too much when we made him eat the rotten spider’s limbs—the silky voice booms.

      Ah, that’s right. I stare her dead in the face as I reply, ‘Sorry, baby. I can’t take the credit for trampling your friend.’

      Her venomous gaze shoots to Zabini. ‘That wasn’t my question.’

      Zabini plucks his hands out of his pockets, holding them up to stress his innocence. ‘I don’t fucking know shit.’

      Taking the last step, she approaches me deathly slow, never taking her eyes off me. ‘You promised me.’

      ‘Hmn, this?’ I dart my tongue out to graze the cut with a smirk. ‘Is called an illegal poker den. Want to find out what else happens there?’  

       The statement reels in her mind, and she doesn’t take long to accept it. It’s such a me answer that her mind resumes the thought of starting a petition to employ sentinels that keep a night watch on the outskirts of the woods in case of another centaur attack.

      ‘I suppose not,’ she admits, dropping her stare. ‘Oh, I have your revision notes.’ Sitting the smaller flask on the floor, she digs into her tote bag and pulls out a pink folder. ‘Here.’ She extends the bound-up papers towards me, shooting Zabini a sneer. ‘Don’t look at me like that. You don’t even try with Arithmancy.’

      He scoffs. ‘What you’re doing for Malfoy is called acts of service—’

      The classroom door swings open, and Zabini stops short as Professor Sinistra encourages us inside with a flick of her hand and a cheerful good evening. Behind us, the chatter of students echoes from the bottom of the stairs, climbing towards us. Hermione is the first to go in, and I follow directly behind her.

      ‘Oh, Miss Granger!’ Professor Sinistra says to our backs.

      Hermione halts to a standstill, turning around; she’s confronted by my tall, imposing figure keeping the professor from view. Trying to look around me, she says, ‘Yes, Professor?’

      The professor's reply comes over my shoulder. ‘I just wanted to say your astronomical chart in the school’s newspaper was excellent. Highly detailed. Talk me through it after class, please!’ 

      Hermione’s eyes lift to mine when she realises I won’t move. Without thinking, I lift a hand to stroke the end of a curl, sitting temptingly against her chest.

      ‘Thank you. I—’ she stumbles when I rub it between my fingers, noticing how soft it is. Her heart thrashes, and the darkness inside me hums, growing exalted at the sound. She swallows a lump, lowering her gaze before finishing, ‘I’ll speak to you after class.’

      The curl slips from my fingers when my girl turns away from me, flustered and breathless; all I can think about is how her thoughts echo the same perverse yearning eating me alive.  

      The old clerk observes me as I peruse the aisles. It’s a decadent shop with expensive props used in theatre and movie productions in the heart of Edinburgh. Its horror section looks as if it’s alive: ghouls and grisly beasts sneer at me in high resolution. The masks are so well made that they feel like a second skin when I try one.

      To my left, a young sales assistant walks tentatively towards me, clearing her throat. ‘Can I be of any help?’

      Despite wandering around the shop for ten minutes, I had already decided from the moment I saw it. Twirling the black-horned mask in one hand, I'm satisfied it will do. Someday, I plan on crafting something all mine: animated with malice. But for now, I’ll have to settle on the half-face ram that exposes the bottom half of my face. 

      I give the girl a bright smile. ‘I’m all done.’ Lifting it towards her, I ask, ‘Do you think my girlfriend will like it?’

      Staring at it momentarily with a flustered expression, she wipes the shock from her face, resuming a professional air when she replies, ‘It was crafted by a local occultist who designs sets for pagan rituals. It’s a great choice.’ She steps towards me to retrieve it, a slight tremble in her fingers. ‘It’s unsettling, not quite as gruesome as most items in our collection; it still manages to disturb and leave an impression. I’ll take it behind the counter for my manager to wrap up if that’s everything for you today?’

      'That's everything,' I confirm, following behind her. 

      Outside, I lift the seat of my bike and place the mask wrapped in blood-red paper inside the compartment. Straddling the bike, I lift the helmet over my head when I notice the mirrors and glinting crystals from a jeweller next to the costume shop.

      I notice my reflection in its windows. I’ve been exceptionally pale lately. My blue eyes are like bright oceans against my lifeless complexion and white hair.  

      Settling the black helmet on my head, I swipe the visor back, and my attention instantly lands on a diamond collection of engagement rings. A few months ago, I would have laughed at the notion. Yet now, I stare longer than I should before finally shutting the visor and starting my bike.

      The notion plagues me like a shadow on my journey. Filtering in and out of traffic, I head to my third home. It’s a temporary location. When I’m not at my parent’s manor or my terraced home in Hogsmeade, I’ll sneak out of school and spend my weekends there, hiking in undisturbed wilderness or frequenting my usual poker spots.

      When my girl accepts her place by my side, I’ll have to find a fourth home or one to discard the other three. 

      One just for her—that she will love and find solace in. I'll have to do some digging for the perfect location. She writes about missing the ocean and experiencing a different country in her diary, and I plan on making all her dreams come true. When she finally grasps that I'm a shadow she can't relinquish, I’ll bring the world to its knees before her. 

       If I cannot bend the will of Heaven, I shall move Hell, and oh, will she love the taste of my hell. 

      The Halloween Fest in the forest is littered with tasteless costumes and cheesy music. There are orange pumpkin-shaped lanterns in the trees and sweet stalls from Honeydukes with the Weasel twins' faces all over the packaging.

      I can’t fucking wait for it to end when a group of Slytherins crash it by running through in Death Eater outfits.

      ‘Shit. It’s fucking cold,’ Zabini says, voice slightly muffled by the skull mask that covers the entirety of his face except for his dark eyes painted a rich charcoal.

      ‘You have no one to blame but yourself,’ I counter dryly.

      My muscles are always taut from the chaos inside of me; hence, I rarely feel the cold. It’s the only reason I let Zabini talk me into painting my naked torso and abdomen with a sheer layer of “blood” to “costume” without our shirts on. The red paint has trickled into the lines of my muscles, defining each line.

      I’m still struggling to grasp its purpose. Perhaps it has something to do with intimidation or how Zabini’s such a cocky prick; it doesn’t surprise me if he wants an excuse to show off his physique. We are receiving far more looks than I would like, and I’m glad I didn’t agree to carry around a scythe to match his cleaver. Feminine sighing and giggles are erupting all around us, and I’m sure Zabini’s grinning like a fucking idiot underneath the mask.

      He spins the handle in his hand. ‘We’ll have our fun when the Death Eaters get here.’ Waving his arm, he pretends to slash the razorblade at a group of first-years who shriek. He laughs at their reaction before continuing, 'After that, I'm gone. I’ve got some shit to see to.’

      ‘Hmn?’ I murmur, scanning the crowd for why I agreed to this whole thing in the first place. ‘What shit?’

      Zabini shrugs a shoulder. ‘The usual stuff: a girl to hound.’ Tapping the cleaver's blade against the chin of his bone-white mask, he looks at me with an impish cock of his head. ‘What do you think of my mask? Will it scare the shit out of her or turn her on?’

      I sneer. ‘I’m sure the latter will follow the first if you play your cards right.’

      Swiping an unopened beer from a tree stump serving as a makeshift table, he extends it to me, and I shake my head. Cranking it open, he says, ‘Speaking about cards, when are you taking me to one of these illegal poker dens you frequent?’

      ‘You got money to play?’ I ask while glaring at the Weasel twins as we pass them.

      He taps his chin again with the cleaver. ‘Maybe a little. I’ve got to keep some stashed—’

      ‘You two shouldn’t be here,’ one of the twins voices to our backs. ‘Leave before you cause trouble.’

       Zabini whirls on them first, twirling the cleaver dangerously. As he opens his mouth, high-pitched screaming begins, and the anticipated calamity is instantaneous.

      'Death Eaters!' Countless voices chime as students turn back on themselves and sprint past us.

      Masked terrors and cloaked Death Eaters jump out from trees on all sides, ramming and hunting down the terrified and shrieking masses. It's pure and utter chaos. Several sweet stalls get pushed, and the lanterns amongst the trees fall to the ground, their lights diminishing. 

      Fred and George vanish quickly, along with everyone else. 

      ‘Let’s go.’ Zabini pushes and trips several people on his way to the bonfire. His stiff shoulders and menacing air tell me he anticipated threatening a particular someone.

      I can tell he’s been a little pissed with me for taking away his opportunity. When I spot his target, a cruel grin curves my lips. Just in time, I spot her, too, and my body flares with the necessity to take her. Zabini hasn’t spotted the Weasel yet; he’s following Ginny’s red hair a few feet away. 

      I stalk towards my girl, and the closer I draw, the tighter my jaw clenches.

      She’s adorned with midnight-black angel wings and a contrasting short white dress. Her arms are covered in silver bangles shaped with spirals and half-moons. The glitter around her eyes and cheeks sparkles like starlight, and her rich brown locks are crowned with a dark flower crown—

      Semele

      The voice inside me resounds with an astronomical longing. I almost buckle at its intensity. 

      She turns her back to me, heading towards Ginny, who beckons her to Ron’s side to help him walk quicker on his pathetic crutch. I can hear the turmoil of her thoughts as I reach her. Just as she’s about to skitter away from me, I clamp my hand over her mouth and sweep her off her feet.

      None of her friends are looking at us. 

      Thinking it’s one of the masked trespassers, she thrashes for her life, and I tighten my hold around her, walking towards the darkness between the trees. Her teeth find the skin of my palm, biting severely, she’s practically turning feral on me, and it’s making me fucking hard.

      ‘Shhh,’ I murmur into her ear. 

      As soon as the familiarity of my voice processes, she stops her struggle. Instead, she mumbles animatedly into my hand, but I don’t hear it aloud. Her words enter my thoughts, ‘Draco? What are you doing? I need to help my friends!’

      I ignore her. She doesn’t know I can hear her this way, which makes my leverage over her even more thrilling. It’s considerably darker where we're heading, but my eyes adjust quickly, making it as visible as daytime. Once I’ve carried her well away from the uproar and the prospect of her running back towards it, I lower her by a tree and crowd her into it with my body, still keeping my hand on her mouth. 

      Turning her around, I force her back against the trunk, making the black feathers graze against my chin. She’s glaring at me, and the glitter lining her eyes and brushing off on my hands only makes her more beautiful.

      Smiling down at her, I say, ‘Here’s what’s going to happen. You’ll be good for me, so you don’t get hounded and clamped. Test my patience even once, and we’ll do things my way. Got it?’

      Her eyes draw together in deadly slits, and she mumbles against my hand.

      ‘A nod will suffice,’ I taunt, and she bobs her head slowly, never averting her eyes from me. When I release my hand, her gaze lowers to my bare, blood-slicked chest, and I sense the heat emanating from her in volumes. Her eyes quickly shoot up, and instead of glaring at me, she fixates on my mask, a sense of perverse and deviant thrill occupying her thoughts.

      She loves it.

      Flustered, her eyes bore into mine. ‘I need to get back to my friends, Draco. They need my help.’

      ‘Hmn.’ I pretend to think. ‘No, you don’t.’

      Pushing against my chest, she steps away from the tree and stares back the way we came from. There is only distant screaming to suggest the party is in full swing. Her mind is reeling, and I hear the thought before her legs move. Pretending she’s about to lean into a tree, she bolts towards the commotion, her wings bouncing frantically.

      I give her a few seconds head start, letting the adrenaline drain from her bones. It takes me little time, and she screams when I catch up to her. Grabbing her at the waist, I haul her over my shoulder, admiring how her dress has lifted to reveal a slit of matching white underwear.

      Her tiny fists hammer my back with as much force as a fly repeatedly soaring into me. ‘Draco!’ she bellows. ‘Stop this! I need to—’ 

      I land a severe slap on her bare ass that makes her yelp. ‘My way, it is then.’

      She's quiet for a moment before resolving to try her helpless tone of voice. ‘Draco…’ she sniffles. ‘Please…’

      I keep walking. I have no idea what Zabini intends to do, but I don’t want her around to see it. The swine is already on his last straw, and it wouldn’t take much for me to snap. Stroking the tender cheek, I’m tempted to land another slap at the thought of her helping that mutt. If I hadn’t interfered, she would have. 

      ‘Tonight, I get you. I never get you, and for once, I want you for longer than it takes to make you come,’ I grate.

      My sincere and startling response makes her breath hitch, and I continue when she remains silent, ‘Your friends will be fine.’ Not all of them... ‘You have my word,’ I assure with a softer voice. 

      She takes a deep breath, which I feel, expanding her chest between my shoulder blades. ‘What do you want to do with me?’ she asks wearily, and Jesus fuck; the explicit visuals crowding her thoughts tempt me to change my plans.  

      Maybe we should… no

      ‘You’ll see,’ I reply, ascending slowly on the sloping forest.

      The further we venture from the familiar trees, the more her resolve to return to her friend’s crumbles. She’s silent, but she’s thinking. The idea of me is ruffling every last fibre of her tenacity. It's perfect—it's how I've always wanted her.

      Bemused to my girl, tonight will be a beginning. She needs to realise to whom she belongs, and I need to hear her repeat it until the realisation dawns in her eyes—at the depths of her being and into the soul that belongs to me.

      It will be the beginning of our promise.  

Chapter Text

     Hermione Age 9

      ‘Will you settle down, Hermione?’ Aunt Gracie shoots me a sharp glower, slapping her hand over mine to stop my fidgeting.

      I huff in response. I can’t stand Aunt Gracie! Why my mum and dad reasoned I would be better looked after by a religious fanatic in place of an actual babysitter is beyond me.

      Retrieving my hand, I tuck it in the valley of my thighs, feeling uncomfortable beneath the minister's eye and the floating verses about temptation and the impulses coaxed by the Devil. Her glare returns in multitudes, and again, her chapped red lips part. ‘What is it?’ The musk perfume she wears is so strong it makes me queasy. ‘What is wrong with you?’

      Slipping away a scowl, I gulp down the lie. ‘I need to go to the toilet.'

      She leans in; the coffee on her breath assaults my senses like acid. ‘What Minister John is talking about is very important, especially for you. You’ll have to wait ten minutes until the chorus.’

      Really? What if I actually needed the toilet?

      My eyes dart quickly to Christ, bleeding on the cross for the congregation. Beneath him, the minister stands on the podium with a big open book, bald head alight with the morning glow. It makes me shiver—the angels and saints fixedly staring at me.

      I scratch my arms again, itching with discomfort that’s been driving Aunt Gracie wild.

      I don’t understand it all.

      Doesn’t my aunt know the teachings are fallacious and biased? Has she not studied ancient history and read the Epic of Gilgamesh? All I know is that she’s being very unreasonable, and I can’t shake off this feeling… this strangeness. It reminds me too much of my nightmares.

      Instead of remaining sweet and biddable like I promised my dad, I pout my lips and cross my arms over my chest. ‘The Devil isn’t waiting in a dark corner to trap me. I’ll go to the toilet by myself if I must.’

      Sensing the protest about to leave her lips, I get to my feet and begin shuffling between the pews to my left, out of Aunt Gracie’s touch. She reaches for me and only manages to snag the corner of my lavender cardigan, which she releases when eyes turn nosily our way. I nod politely as I trespass through this place I don’t want to be in. My urgency is a beast that will not settle.

       I want to go home. 

       I don’t know where the toilets are, and for a moment, I’m rotating awkwardly on the spot. A flicker of movement vanishes into a stony archway next to the donation table. I stare at the ingress concealed by a purple curtain, believing it a logical location to place a toilet and follow it just as a lady with two small children to my left points in the same direction. 

      Thanking her timidly, I swayed a little lightheaded on my feet, the pitter-pattering of my red Mary Jane dress shoes suddenly louder than the minister’s booming voice. Approaching cautiously, I stared at the dark curtain separating the room from the church. It swayed a little, moved by an invisible wind.

      ‘It’s just down the corridor, sweetheart,’ a cheerful lady’s voice encourages directly behind me. It’s so loud that half the people will be turned towards us when I whirl back to the mass in session.

      My breath catches. Every back is to me, and no woman stands behind me. I turn back to the curtain with a racing pulse. It’s eerily still; the fabric no longer oscillating. Stepping towards it, I pull it back slowly just as the minister speaks something that makes me halt.

      ‘In nomine patris et filii et illuminatum bestia.’

      What? I recognise the oddity instantly from my year of learning Latin with my dad every day after school. I’m breathless as I quietly repeat the verse as the dark corridor comes into view. 

      Step!

      The thought of someone walking up behind me makes me startle, and I quickly step into the corridor, my voice low as I say, ‘In the name of the father…’

      It’s a habit I’ve adopted—translating the Latin in my thoughts while reciting the English version aloud. I’m so confused by it. What is this church? Is the minister losing his mind? I release the curtain; the minister’s voice is subdued behind me. ‘And of the son…’

      I’m drifting down the passageway as if through a dream, deafened by the blood rushing in my ears. It’s so quiet. Where is the toilet?

      Rounding a corner, I murmur the last verse with a shaky voice, ‘And of the illuminated beast?’ I can’t contain the disbelief in my tone.

      ‘That’s right, love. Just down the corridor,’ the same lady’s voice beckons over my shoulder. Her voice rickets off the stone walls, an overwhelming presence crowding me towards the door at the end that is slightly ajar. My spine shudders, making me jump, and I turn around, thinking she’s followed me to the toilets.

      No one is here with me.

      ‘Little girls shouldn’t be afraid in holy places. Should they?’ A silky, male voice crooned over my shoulder. I recognised that voice. Whirling on the spot, I found the bathroom door open, a light shining brightly on the full-length mirror that revealed me in my baby pink dress, white stockings and bright red shoes, my hair braided out of my face.

      I needed to run.

      There was someone behind me. I could sense the intruder shadowing me like a second skin, but I refused to turn. Instead, I started down the dreary strip, watching myself in the mirror, and when the light flickered above it, darkening the hollow walls, I screamed.

      Silver eyes.

      They stare down at me now, expectedly, his lips ruddy and smeared as if he’d been burying his mouth in a blood-red fruit. The crispy and sobering wind remains undisturbed; the silence is both soothing and severe. He’s snaring my reaction, wanting to see what the horrors he inflicts do to me. Blinking in disbelief, I feel fragmented and benumbed, having watched Sofia being slithered away in the belly of the beast.

      Looking down, I realise my palms and bare feet are rooted to the earth, toes planted in its grassy bed. I spot a bright patch of red obstructing the white fabric of my linen nightgown. Am I bleeding?

      My stalker extends his hand towards me, red lips parting mischievously when he says, ‘Come.’ My vision flickers with the beautiful menace. I see him, the man of the childhood nightmares I had forgotten. But how could I forget him? He is utterly unforgettable.

      Velvety lips part once more. ‘Cat got your tongue, baby?’

      I swallow with a groan, hoping to clear my chafed voice. Staring at the hand blankly, I say, ‘No, not a cat.’  

      ‘No?’ His tone is mocking. ‘Then what is it?’

      ‘Something wretched. A blight,’ I snap, steeling my spine.

      He smiles broadly, lips stretching with devious delight. ‘Mmm. I do miss the old sayings.’ He flexes the arm extended towards me. ‘Get up.’

      I grit my jaw. I don't know why I say it, but I speak the first name that comes to mind. ‘Where did your monster take Sofia, Baal?’

      Without a word, he reaches down to grab me strictly by the forearm, pulling me to my feet. I rise shakily, fixing the skirt of my nightgown and wishing to wipe the wetness still coating between my legs. I pull my arm, but he doesn’t release me. Instead, his hand trails down and entwines with my fingers, making us hold hands.

      His eyes glow with an otherworldly light when he says, ‘I’ll let you call me whatever you like. Baal, Mastema, Azazel, Iblis, Leviathan. Names mean little when you have so many, though depravity never sounded fairer, leaving the lips of something so sweet. Did you want to stick with Baal, or should we keep going?’

      I look at his face in horror, finding a wolfish expression that is pure, undiluted sin. I keep my mouth closed, and whatever he reads in my thoughts tells him the answer.

      Without forethought, I throw myself at him, consumed by a rage that seeks to claw through to the bone, rabid and senseless; I shriek as I swipe at his face with my free hand, catching his lip. He takes a step back, about to grab my hand at my succeeding attack, when I notice he’s released the other, and instead of confronting him again, I bolt around him and scream with all my might in the direction of the house.

      Something thumps me on the back. I fall forward, the thing pressing me to the grass, this unknown weight between my shoulder blades, and I shout until his magical grasp on my throat hinders me. My cheek is on the earth, mud and damp grass consuming my senses when Baal’s boots pause before me, his dark presence stealing the last of my fight.

      I sniffle, muted and with a ridden-up dress.

      When he doesn’t move or say anything, I side-glance up at him and notice he’s trained toward the house, face sullen as if he’s focusing on something. The sudden slight curve of his lip tells me everything I need to know.

       He glances down at me, surly and jeering. ‘You almost got your husband out of bed.’ His tone is accusatory. ‘If it wasn’t for the fact he woke up rock-hard from dreaming about his secretary sucking his tiny dick. That’s just too bad, isn’t it?’ There is no remorse in his tone. I gape slightly, too traumatised and numb to consider the validity of his statement.

      He inclines his body towards me, and before I know it, I’m being hoisted up like a sack of shit onto his shoulder. I flail to no avail. Instead, I’m dangling and bounding pathetically in rhythm with his steps as he draws us away from the property.

      I notice we are heading towards the forest; the trees begin congregating around us in hungry hordes. He releases his hold on my throat, but it takes me a while to gather my turmoil into a cohesive line of dialogue.

      I feel the blood rushing to my head, and my voice is gravelly when I declare, ‘You’re astoundingly sick, do you know that? No matter what your name is, you have no right to tear apart my life. I will always find you twisted and vile, which makes everything you do futile if your end goal is to conquer my heart.’  

      He chuckles, grazing a hand in between my thighs. ‘I don’t need your approval and submission; I will take and take and take, even if your heart wants nothing more than to run from me.’ His fingers barely evade my wetness, stroking circles with it on my thigh. ‘Your pretty pride is a hindrance, but I’m patient. I’ll show you bit by painful bit how everything you esteem has talons and slimy faces beneath the surface.’

      I don’t understand what he’s implying, yet something inside me scratches in the darkness at the implication. ‘And your delusions are the only thing stopping you from giving up,’ I bristle in return.

      God, his laugh. It stirs a cauldron in me that hasn’t been disturbed in a long time.

      ‘I may create them, but falsities and mirages do not hinder me. Like I said, regardless of the opposition, I take and take until the outcome belongs to me.’ A wet, sucking sound interrupts, and I realise he’s licking his fingers. ‘I’m everything you believe me to be and so much worse,’ he finishes with a spirited tone.

      Just as I open my mouth, I smell it—smoke. My body is prickling with anxiety, with the implication of what it means. My hand clamps over my mouth as it hits me in waves until I grasp what little oxygen is left. I want to say something, but I can’t stand it. I squint as he walks into a meadow, vaguely recognising the dandelions and spiky thistle leaves beneath us.

      My head feels faint from all the gathering blood. But I need to search for the source of the assault. I sway a little to the right, and my eyes land on a slit of smoke that reveals a pyre and a stake stabbing out of it. When I see a pair of scorched feet, I thrash wildly until his arms capture my legs.

      I can’t smell the flesh, but just the thought of Sofia’s searing corpse summons an onslaught of tears that has me shaking.

      Before I know it, the smoke becomes less of a hindrance, and I’m dropped to the floor, metres away from the most horrific scene I’ve ever laid my eyes upon. My ass stings from landing so harshly, though, in truth, it was partially my fault for hitting his back as he tried to place me down. I’m dumbfounded as I try to process each gruesome detail.

      The smoke clears, blowing in the opposite direction as if the wind had been instructed.

      Sofia isn’t Sofia any longer. Her body has been split into two; the clothes completely burned away to reveal her nude, blackened figure. Her face is burned to a crisp somewhere in the stack of logs, but I can tell it’s her by the feet still nailed to the stake, a tattoo of orchids and a dragon covering her right foot.

      At the centre of the stake, a charred goblin-like creature with saggy, spotted skin is petrified with an open mouth revealing tiny, sharp teeth. It has no eyes—just two empty caverns beholding us.

      What the fuck am I looking at? I glance to my right, needing Baal to explain it. He puffs on a cigarette with a hand in his pocket, staring indifferently at the scene before us as if we were watching a steak cooked at a barbeque.

      He turns to me with an exhale, a smug expression as he licks the crusted lip I swiped with my nail. ‘Tell me, little Hermione, when did you stop believing Aunt Gracie’s warning about wolves in sheep’s clothing?’

      I open my mouth and close it, thinking back to my childhood. I suddenly recall lost memories of churches and Bible study in Aunt Gracie’s dining room when she babysat me. Even though I pleaded with my dad about not wanting to return to her after that first church visit, she was the only person available to care for me when my parents took weekend trips away.

      I'm breathless at the vivid recollection. ‘What?’ I rasp inaudibly.   

      He watches me intently, giving me the impression he’s reading my thoughts. ‘You don’t know what the creature is, do you?’

      I look at the goblin thing, wishing I didn’t have to. ‘No.’

      He licks his bloody lip again. ‘It’s a type of changeling—a fairy who has undergone countless transfiguration charms placed upon it.’ Sucking on the cigarette, he paces slowly towards me. ‘What it once looked like…’ He exhales. ‘We’ll never know. The repetitive tampering has kept it barely alive, though alive enough to act as a conductor for the deceased person it’s attempting to duplicate.’

      'Deceased?’ I murmur, coughing to clear my throat. ‘Who’s deceased?’

      He smiles. ‘Sofia Inkwood died five years ago.’

      ‘That’s not her name…’ I reel my mind for her actual name but draw a blank. ‘She’s not—’

      ‘—Sofia was killed on her way to visit her muggle grandmother in a motorway accident. It happened near Cheltenham; you can look it up online once we finish,’ he interrupts, stopping directly in front of me. He continues as if reciting a passage, ‘She worked as a nurse in St Mungo’s for three years, a warm and loving staff member who befriended many of the patients. Sweet and friendly Hermione Granger was no exception, though she took a particular shine to her that morphed into a genuine friendship.’

      My heart feels as if it’s about to drop. It can't be true... It can't! 

      The smoke billows menacingly over his face. ‘She died not long after Hermione was released to her guardian,' he says the word with contempt. 'The rest—’

      ‘You killed her!’ I accuse with spit flying out. ‘And this…’ I point in the direction of the creature. ‘Was your way of keeping an eye on me!’

      He lifts a brow, clearly disappointed with my baseless observation. I realise how pathetic the whole allegation sounds once it settles between us. Why would he go through all the hassle just to kill her again, but for me to watch? 

      ‘After all those Death Eaters, you think I also assassinated nurses?’ His tone is playful. ‘Come on, baby. I can’t take all the credit here.’

      ‘Then who did it?’ I seethe. ‘A Death Eater? Voldemort?’

      ‘No one killed Sofia Inkwood. She died by flying through the car window,’ he assures with a silky voice. ‘But someone did use very dark magic to bring her body back. Any guesses?’

      I chew on my chapped bottom lip. ‘Why would they want to bring her back?’

      His face abruptly turns to the side, silently staring in the direction of the trees we came from. He has the same thoughtful and sullen look he had earlier. The wind stops; the forest holds its breath, and he turns back to me as if a spell is broken.

      ‘Time’s up,’ he says, giving my body a once over as if wanting to memorise what he's done to me. His eyes grow heavy at the patch of blood. ‘If you’re quick, you can return before your husband and his friend head downstairs for breakfast.’

      Without another word, he bypasses me with a trail of smoke dissolving into the breeze. I’m staring vacantly at the stake, waning flames almost vanishing completely, leaving only Sofia's feet and the dead creature. The bonfire's heat still warms, and I only realise I’ve been dripping sweat this entire time.

      I turn around, a hundred questions on the tip of my tongue. ‘Baal—’

      My stalker's gone. I don’t know when his footsteps stopped, but I didn’t notice them.

      I’m running back through the path that forks towards the forest and lake. Distantly, I can hear the lively chattering of birds reposed by the water.

      My bare feet are tender from trampling over various forms of debris, like tiny branches and rocks that stick to my soles, puncturing and denting them. I don’t stop, even when my lungs strain, and my throat burns.

      I keep catching the red stain from my dress billowing from the urgency of my sprint. Where did it come from? Why were his lips tinted red?

      When the house comes into view, I don’t lessen my steps until I reach the backdoor, which is worryingly ajar. Wasn’t it locked when I had to slip out the previous night?

      I enter into the far end of the kitchen, finding it empty. I’m shutting the door when the footsteps begin upstairs, making me dart to the small laundry room with a pink basket of fresh linen sitting atop the tumble dryer. I browse the folded-up selections, finding the jumper with the quote about how the pen is mightier than the sword, which makes my stalker bristle with hilarity. Fuck it.

      A hundred thoughts enter my mind, and I can’t find the heart to give them the time of day. Ron’s distant voice makes me think about what Baal accused him of. Do I care enough to toil over it? Everyone has wet dreams, and after all the things that have happened to me…

      My throat grows taut. He could be fucking with me, but lying doesn't appear to be an aspect he prides himself on. He's deceptive and secretive, and I wonder if I'm fooling myself by only wanting to assume the worst.

      How did my life get to this? Everything is falling around me like a house of cards. I’ve always longed for a few things in a romantic connection: obsession and devotion. The two sentiments feel ridiculous, considering who or what is traumatising my life. And yet, with my recent burst of clarity, it seems I’ve consistently recognised it as one person.

      The wrong wizard. Maybe I've doomed myself from the beginning, and my stalker only exploits what I've always kept tightly hidden.

      ‘Mione?’ I hear Ron’s voice shouting down the stairs.

      ‘I’m just getting something from the laundry room, ‘ I shout back, shuffling out of the filthy nightgown so quickly that I feel lightheaded while bringing the jumper over my head. I stuff the fabric into the washing machine, adding the powder and fabric softener before halting in my tracks, slightly bewildered by all the buttons. The last time I did laundry, we had a different washing machine. Since then, Sofia has been doing—

      Sofia…

      Footsteps thundered down the stairs.

      ‘I can't hear you,’ Ron says, sounding like he’s just entered the kitchen. Poking my head out of the laundry room, I’m met with his ruffled appearance. He’s wearing a grey t-shirt with matching tracksuit bottoms. I give him a slight smile, hoping I haven’t got shit on my face after having my cheek pressed to the grass.

      ‘I’m just sorting out the laundry,’ I say.

      He glances up at the clock above the sink. ‘Shouldn’t Sofia be here?’

      My throat nearly hinders, but I swallow and muster an air of coolness with an undertone of frustration. I speak the first lie that comes to mind, ‘Sofia hasn’t shown up today. I think she may be thinking about changing jobs. She was talking to me about a nursing position the other day. Maybe she'll send her resignation in the post?’

      His brows draw together, his expression dropping with disbelief. ‘That’s not possible. She shouldn’t—’ He stops short, anxiously rubbing a hand over his hair, avoiding my eye. Looking at the floor, he appears to be thinking without blinking for several seconds.

      ‘What is it?’ I ask, concerned by his bizarre reaction.

      He blinks, taking a deep breath before looking back at me. ‘Hh-how will you manage all her jobs on your own?’ he says at last.

      ‘Urm, well, it’s only us two in this house. I can manage. I always could, but you insisted.' I pick up the basket before slapping the on the bottom which makes a loud beep before the sound of rushing water commences.

      I carry the basket into the kitchen, finding Ron staring absentmindedly out the window. ‘Shall I make breakfast, or can you manage?’ I say with a sarcastic edge.

      ‘Huh?’ he turns to me, leaning on the counter while staring over my head. ‘Oh. Harry and I should probably head out for breakfast. We’re popping into the office for a few things.’ His blue eyes snap to mine. ‘What about you? What are you doing today?’

      ‘Writing,’ I say quickly and cheerfully. ‘I may pop out for a walk, but I’ll be back in time for dinner…’ I swallow, feeling suddenly awkward as if I’ve forgotten how to talk to my husband. ‘Will you be back in time for dinner?’

      ‘Maybe,’ he says, suddenly dropping his gaze. His brows draw together. ‘What the fuck happened to your feet?’

      I look down, feeling my heart increase with panic. Shit! I gasp. They are dirtied and scratched, bleeding in some areas, dried and encrusted. I've even picked up some dried bits of grass tucked in between my toes.

     ‘I had to water the flowers and couldn’t be bothered to put shoes on.’ I shuffle inelegantly on the spot. ‘I'll hop in the shower.' Smiling at him, I wait for him to say something, but he doesn't. 'So… I’ll do that,' I murmur, pretending to clear my throat. 

      I’m about to leave this nerve-shuddering experience when I sense Ron stepping behind me, grasping my elbow. ‘Hey,’ he says, pulling my arm. ‘Come here quick.’

      When I turn around, I expect a grimace on his face like the night before and when I came home with Virgil. But in his boyish features, I sense a softness beneath a storm of tumult. He's trying to be caring.

      Ron steps towards me, reaching a hand to cup my cheek. ‘I just wanted to kiss my wife. Is that allowed?’ he teases without a smile. ‘We’ll finish talking about everything later, but for now…’ He leans over the basket, closing his eyes as his lips find mine.

      I can’t shut my eyes. I can’t even breathe. I don’t understand what I’m feeling, but it’s something akin to sickness. Ron’s minty mouth is insistent, but not in a way that makes me melt or crackle with lightning. He urges my mouth open; all I can smell is toothpaste and a warm breath that makes me close my nose to tune him out. When our tongues meet, I can’t pretend anymore. I close my mouth and kiss him quickly.

      ‘More later. I really have to get on,’ I mutter with a smile before darting out of sight and taking the stairs. ‘Love you!’ I shout over my shoulder. His reply is barely audible over the sound of the shower. As I reach the top, I quickly dart into our bedroom when I hear it turning off, needing to evade Harry and further questioning. I have to get ready and quickly.

      I have a fairy to find.

Chapter Text

      All Hallows Eve: Pretty, blackened girls get blood-bound.

      I’m the bad guy: menacing and baleful, the one she shouldn’t want. If she knew how I devised to destroy her friends, one by one, she wouldn’t be standing before me right now, winded and flustered, staring blissfully at the haunting view beyond. My deliverance is here, my pretty privilege, standing sweetly in a predator's eye. Her friends’ souls are mine; this world is mine, and her thoughts wouldn’t be swirling with visions of sex if she knew how I cut open a wizard’s tendons last night after a game of poker.

      His wrists bled him to death. Pity.

      The careless doe doesn’t notice the big bad wolf hollowing a trap around her. He’ll let her bask in a false sense of security, keeping his distance far enough. The flowers still graze her pretty pelt, the sun beating warmly on her back, all appearing as it should. All the while, the ground beneath her feet is diminishing, and when the flames erupt, it’s just her and the wolf in that part of the forest.

      She looks sheepishly over her shoulder, focusing on the floor instead of me. ‘I might freeze to death if we stay a moment longer.’ Her knees tremble. ‘What are we doing here?’ she says before her teeth chatter.

      Her fear. My god. It reverberates through my body, chilling me to the bone. She can’t even look at me without agitating. When she does, her eyes focus absorbedly on my mask before dropping to my nude torso, trembling, and then looking away. Morbid curiosity defies the reality of how fucking scared she should be.

      A frigid wind passes, and she shivers. It agitates her black wings, their obscurity tainting the purity of her little white dress and embellished arms. She leans over the railing, captivated by the view, the crescent moon casting a virtuous light upon her. It illuminates the smoke I blow out while observing her, desiring to soil her façade. To an outsider, we would look the part: me, the Devil eclipsing her sweet soul; my girl, the corrupted angel who could never outrun her derogatory hell.

      The castle is in the distance; a hundred orange lights create a starry gathering in the lonely, mountainous landscape. I’ve never related to another being. The highlands in the dark are the closest I’ve come to a semblance of resonance. Desolate places, like the view from the derelict tower I’ve brought her to, are where I contemplate and smoke. Otherwise, I'll watch my girl sleep for a semblance of bliss. 

      Playing with her when she’s unconscious is something I look forward to after observing her from afar during lessons and in between. She’s so out of it from the draughts she’s been dosing to control the nightmares; my girl has no idea I’ve been bringing her wet dreams to life.

      Thinking about how I rubbed the tip of my cock to her lips after fondling and licking her tits makes me want to force her to her knees right here, right now.

      I focus on what Zabini is doing to her friend as we speak, which is making me harder instead of quelling the fervour. When the opportunity arises, I intend to pull the mutt's hands and each finger from their sockets. Butchering him would be an even sweeter prospect, but he hasn’t earned the satisfaction yet.

      He's close: so close. I’ve seen his thoughts about her—friendly feelings morphing into physical interest. Yet, the urge to get her away from me is more powerful, and that’s where the line blurs.

      Her beauty will result in the fatality of many.

      I silently stare at her while pressing the tip of the fag to my lips, thinking about what needs to be done. The wind blows again, lifting her skirt, and she quickly turns around to press her back to the railing, giving me her front.

      ‘Why aren’t you saying anything?’ her voice comes out small.

      I drop my gaze to the tops of her breasts, relishing the view while releasing the smoke. ‘Enjoying the view?’ I ask with a sardonic edge, eyes intent on her pebbled mounds.

      ‘Yeh-yeah,’ she rasps with a shiver, folding her hands across her chest and glancing over her left shoulder toward the castle. ‘It’s- it’s nice. Very, um, pleasant. But I didn’t bring a coat, and I’m freezing.’ I lift my gaze to hers, finding her eyes on my chest. ‘Aren’t you cold?’ she asks in one shaky breath.

      ‘No,’ I respond brusquely.

      She kneads her bottom lip, visibly swallowing. ‘Draco, we shouldn’t—’ Want this. Need this. It’s despicable on my part, but I like— ‘be doing this, should we?’ Her agitated thoughts overlap her words.

      ‘No?’ One side of my lip curves.  

      ‘No,’ she echoes half-heartedly, finding my smirk equally sexy and terrifying.

      I let my shoulders fall into the wall, crossing my legs at the ankles as I lounge back and smoke while silently listening to her rattled thoughts, watching her with unblinking devotion. Unnerved, she looks away, shivering, and I hear the echo of her perplexed admittance: Oh my god. What am I thinking!? He’s petrifying!

      ‘Say it with more conviction.'

      My sudden declaration startles her from her thoughts. She shivers again; this time, it shocks the length of her spine. ‘I did say it with conviction.’

      'Hmn?' I cock a provoking brow, letting the sly grin slip. ‘How about a game to warm you up?’

      She gulps. Is he going to trick me? ‘What kind?’

      ‘The bad kind,’ I retort stoically. ‘It’s Halloween.’

      I don’t miss how her heart has increased to a deafening tempo. I don’t overlook how my mask reminds her of that time she went to church with Aunt Gracie and… Her mind can’t conceal the extent of her nightmares, the years of psychological torment, preparing her for me.

      ‘What if I say no?’ she chances, anticipating my forcefulness.

      My silence disturbs her, and I don’t say anything while taking a few drags, giving her entire body a once over. ‘Take your shoes off.’

      She fidgets her feet self-consciously. ‘I don’t want to take my shoes off.’

      When my scrutiny returns to her face, I don’t keep the malice from my eyes. ‘No?’

      ‘No,’ her pitiful refusal comes out with a squeak. She’s shitting herself, trying to be convincing, and I’m living for it.  

      ‘How does getting on your knees sound?’ I take a drag, relishing the visions coursing through her ruffled little mind. Her gaze momentarily drifts to my cock before quickly averting.

      She realises how fucked she is. It’s just me and her; the castle is an obscure, unreachable objective. My girl has no idea where we are or how we got here. She doesn’t know that I clouded her thoughts with blackness not long after I started the ascent, putting her into a heavy slumber while I carried her all the way.

      My girl only remembers the gruelling walk here, which she never took.

      ‘I’ll play,’ she murmurs, thinking the outcome will be any different. ‘No tricks, Draco. I mean it.’

      Both corners of my lips curve. ‘Take your shoes off.’

      ‘Promise me first,’ she says, knowing I’ll lie regardless.

      ‘Promise.’

      He’s lying. ‘No tricks?’ she repeats, brushing back the bangs that have swept before her eyes.

      ‘No tricks.’

      She doesn’t trust me. Good, she shouldn’t. Getting to her knees is far too agitating for her comfort. It warms her belly; she wonders what I taste like, but my girl’s far too prude to ask. She wants to keep prodding me on how bad an idea this is, but she doesn’t know how to talk to me. It scares her that, for once in her life, she can’t reason her way out of something.

       Instead of contesting me further, she leans down, giving me a delectable view of her crowded, glittering chest. She knows exactly what she’s doing. The first buckle of her black boots comes undone, followed by the laces, and she pulls the heel, taking her thick socks with it. Her bare, glittery-painted toes sparkle against the drab, grey stone.

      Fuck, it’s cold! She squirms, trying to keep her discomfort to herself while removing the other shoe. ‘What are the rules of the game?’ she asks with a suppressed shudder, placing her boots tidily by the railing.

      I hear the distant scream of her friend getting belted in the back with his crutch. It’s so faint that I almost didn’t catch it.

      She has no idea.

      I lick the corner of my lip, momentarily distracted by Zabini’s hazy thoughts. He’s too far for me to see clearly, but fuck… ‘To hunt you.’

      Her breath catches. ‘And what’s the objective?’ she presses, realising with a frantic pulse what I’m implying.

      ‘To catch you.’

      ‘What happens if you do?’

      ‘When I do,’ I correct.

      She scoffs, already devising a plan she thinks I can’t see. Go along with it. Make him believe you want this. Make him think that you know where we are. ‘I know these woods well,’ she says, straightening her spine to avoid revealing her crippling nerves.

      ‘Is that right?’ I retort, flicking the end of my fag over the railing just over her head.

      ‘You didn’t answer my question.’ Her hands shake, and she crosses her arms again to warm herself. ‘What’s the aim of the game?’

      I consider for a split second, wondering if I should terrify her or give her a false sense of ease.

      I settle on the first. ‘To gorge on you.’

      Her wide, fearful eyes land squarely on my mask. ‘What does that mean?’

      My smile is teeming with guile when I say, ‘One.’

      Her brows draw together. ‘Draco—’

      ‘Two.’

      Her heart thrashes wildly, her adrenaline sparking to life. ‘Tell me—’

      ‘Three.’

      She breathes a barely audible fuck this before shooting me a glare and bypassing me in a quick flurry of black wings and white fabric. Her bare feet pitter-patter down the spiralling steps, and I follow her with my back on the derelict wall. I’m still as stone as I listen for her entering the dark woods, seeing the panic through her mind's eye.

      She’s panting profusely, shrieking and biting the inside of her mouth at the severe pain beginning on the soles of her feet. She’s cursing me about it, reasoning that, surely, I have a foot fetish.

      I smile. It’s not far from the truth.

      I spark another cigarette as she redirects her route. Tears gather in her ducts while evading a trail infested with horse chestnuts, their prickly shells threatening to wound her further. I can’t help but chuckle with gloating satisfaction, seeing the terror shaking her to the bone. My girl keeps glancing over her shoulder, anticipating my pursuit while her friend continues screaming in the distance, confronted with no escape. Zabini is ruthless; I’ll give him that. It’s rare to witness his unrestrained malice.

      I'm thoroughly enjoying both sights. 

      Pushing away from the wall, I stalk down the spiralling stairway, sensing my blood thrumming with the thrill of the hunt. The air provokes this eagerness; ravenous shadows reach for my girl, longing to devour her exposed innocence. The forest that welcomes her is grim. Its wildlife is sparse yet feral, watching her with yellow eyes, and I am their worst candidate.

      My girl runs from me, but I don’t have to run after her.

      She flinches at the sound of a cawing crow as it follows her down the trail, making her twirl on the spot and catching the corner of her dress on a holly branch—the fabric rips during the struggle, with loose, frayed threads dangling against her thigh.

      Striding into the forest, I breathe in the fear that elates me beyond the boundary of obsession. Everything thrives: the inferno burning me alive and the god who rules it. I have to roll the tension from my shoulders, sensing the instant my eyes alter with the familiar discomfort. Unlike the night when I tormented the weasel into losing consciousness, I’m still here; we are here, speaking as one, conscious and starved.

      ‘In tenebris te exspectabo.’ He and I say.

      In the darkness…

      I wait for you.

      The leaves tremble in response, and she trips on a jutting root, catching her fall in the palms of her hands, knees scraping harshly on the ground. Lifting herself, she doesn’t realise they are bleeding, trickling deliciously down her legs as she wipes her watery eyes with the backs of her beaten hands. The stillness occupying her is intoxicating. She hasn’t had a solid thought for a while. Her desperation has become a despairing beast, growing tiny, harmless claws and compelling her to find a way out.

      Because of her feet, she hasn’t covered as much distance as she believes. My boot crunches over the horse chestnut, and it doesn’t take me long to catch sight of mousy curls and black wings bounding through the trees.

      A sucker for the pleasure, I can’t help myself.  

      With a slight prompt, the ravenous shadows begin congregating, forming limbs. The forest becomes thick with the emergent power; the darkness is tangible now, the light of my cigarette glowing as if through a dense fog. They rush her, tendrils prickling the back of her neck and spine before winding her to the floor.

      The scream that bypasses her lips is a delightful manifestation of sheer and undulated terror.

      Her bloody legs mingle with the dirt as she thrashes to recover her footing in the sodden mud and leaves. Sensing my imminent presence, she glances over her shoulder, her eyes obstructed by sweat-slicked hair. She hasn’t seen my silver eyes yet, and the shock leaves her in another rattled shriek.

      Underneath the fear, something else blooms inside her… exhilaration, perhaps? It’s so faint, but beneath the survival instinct, a rotten fantasy wonders what it would be like to anticipate me, thighs pressed together, to see if I will lift her skirt while holding her hostage and force them apart with my tongue.

     On instinct, I suck my bottom lip, imagining the taste of her gushing cunt before pressing the end of the fag to my lips, taking the last drag and stamping it out. I’m almost upon her, but still, she fights to escape me.

      With hands pierced by dead thorns, she lifts herself with fingers buried in the earth, giving me a glimpse of the white slit of fabric hiding beneath the bad-girl-good-girl façade. She starts sprinting, not caring about her feet and biting back the severity of the pain threatening to stun her into surrender.

      My girl can’t stand to lose.

      I continue stalking her with a slight jog, knowing exactly where we are heading. She has no idea, but rationality encourages her to follow the trail as if it might lead her to sudden safety. It won’t, and I can’t wait for her to find out.

      The shadowy fog is so dense now that she can barely navigate it. She’s blinded by it, derided by them, slapping her hands in front of her face like cobwebs are trying to impede her.

     Suddenly, she’s picking up speed with a blooming cramp, and I increase my pace. Almost there.

      When she comes upon an obstruction of overgrown nettles, she slows a notch to conceive a plan but settles on running through them with a breathless cry. Her yelp when the sting purposely blooms makes me smile; my girl wishes that she had plucked up the courage to suck my dick instead of the physical torture that comes with playing my games.

      Holding her cramping hip, she breaks out of the trees and finds herself at the base of a knoll. Its mossy, coarse face is dim, and little does she know that it’s littered with snakes, hiding proficiently behind boulders and inside deep holes. She glances again over her shoulder, her heart thrashing to a blinding tempo at my terrifying persistence in forcing her to climb the hill.

      Her footing is sloppy, and instead of breaking out of the forest, I wait by the threshold, mesmerised by the pretty visual of her—barely dressed and thoroughly run through—following the slight trails formed around the ruthless slope by larger animals. A sharp rock pierces the side of her foot, and she wails: God, have mercy on me! God, please, please, please—her cry drowns out the relentless plea.

      My pretty little prey doesn’t even know whom she’s begging. It’s a meaningless prayer that will never save her or find the ears of any god that isn’t me. Stepping out of the forest just as she bypasses the halfway point, I gratify her plea for mercy.

      The snakes hiss out of their hiding spots, startling her and making her climb with more urgency and swearing an onslaught of delicious fuck, fuck, fuck!

      They pursue her in my place, always on her heels, and when she reaches the top, trying to kick them away, she slips on a rock that tumbles towards me with a shower of dirt.

      ‘Draco! Draco! DRACO!’ she bellows my name in a quick, desperate sequence as the first snake coils around her ankle. ‘Help! Please help me! Oh my fucking God!’ The snake traps her foot to the ground with a deadly grip just as another seizes her free foot. She recoils, but it’s already looped around her once, twice— ‘DRACO!’ she roars, her voice thundering through the empty night.

      Climbing the ascent feels like returning home. Her screams no longer form words; her throat is pierced raw by them, and by the time the third snake finds her right hand, she’s sobbing uncontrollably with her weight on her elbows. At the halfway point, I look up at the star-speckled sky, and a shooting star crosses my path, its long tail vanishing towards where my girl awaits, like a benediction.

      She might not know it yet, but heaven looks like us.

      My girl is what holiness looks, tastes, and sounds like. In her devious fierceness, she belongs to something naïvely wild, sun-soft, and moon-poisoned. She will know that crawling for a God means bloodying her fingers with my name, leaving her sweet, devilish lips as her hands come together in desperate prayer.

      ‘DRACO!’

      My lips curve wider at the distressed appeal. Like I said...

      Licking her gracious fingers to savour me, she will see that the Devil tastes of worship and obsession—of blood, passion and death: all my gracious domains, all that belongs to her.

      I sense her tremble from the moment my horns materialise, rising like a sun on the curve of the knoll. She barely manages a rasp, brows drawn above bloodshot eyes, seeing my evident delight. Beholding my girl like this: snakes imprison her, wings broken from the impact, soft skin and lovely face speckled with blood and grime; she looks more beautiful than ever.

      ‘Draco…’ she rasps, eyes lowering to my naked chest. ‘What are you doing?’ Her voice is so chafed that she flinches at the sound. Her bound hands and feet twinge, but nothing happens.

      Without a word, I lower myself so my face is level with her knees.

      With hooded eyes, she watches as I lean in with my tongue to capture the soiled blood, trailing a path that encompasses the entire slash, my eyes never leaving hers. I do the same on the other knee, watching as her eyes morph into slits, and I take my time with it, letting her perceive the delicious, corrupted combination staining my lips before swallowing it.

      ‘You’re a sadist—’ she scarcely manages before her throat seizes.

      ‘I’m many things,’ I say, forcing her legs apart. ‘I’m everything that will bring your darkest fantasies to life.’ I graze my fingers on the inside of her knees.

      Yes. ‘No,’ she counters, trying to shut her legs.

      ‘No?’ I taunt, lowering my hand.

      ‘You’re evil—’ she cuts off again with a sudden swallow.

      Drawing circles, I tease the threshold to the silky flesh on her thigh.

      ‘I am evil.’ My fingers lower a fraction, and she responds with a shiver. ‘I’m very, very, very evil,’ I drawl, finally grazing the silken-smooth area that steals the breath from her lungs.

      ‘You enjoy torturing…me,’ she finishes the accusation in her thoughts.

      With my fingers an inch from the white lace, I let a smile slip as I say, ‘I do.’

      ‘Why?’ she grates.

      Instead of replying, I keep going, skimming the rough, damp fabric with my middle finger before finding the seam and hooking my—

      'Why?’ she echoes, her voice harbouring a haunting quality as the harshness mingles with desire. She meets my eyes just as I slip the tip inside, eyes growing heavy as I slide deeper into her folds, slipping the fabric aside.

      She doesn't break contact when I swirl the small, tight hole, relishing the direction her thoughts are taking. Dipping in and out, my girl’s finally quiet, except for her heavy breaths, and I slide the finger out when her eyes close.

      Before she can focus on my actions, I slide the slick finger into her pouted lips.

      ‘Why?’ I hum, my throat thick from the longing to fuck her with my tongue.

      Instead of resisting the intrusion, she sucks the finger into her mouth with wide, curious eyes, squinting slightly at the unfamiliar taste.

      My cock throbs. ‘Why don’t you tell the big bad wolf why you’re wet, little red?’

      She takes my finger to the knuckle before I let it slide out, her face reddening with embarrassment at my crass demand.  

      ‘Because you like the chase?’

      She keeps her legs parted as I draw nearer, skimming the crumpled dress gathered at her waist with my chest until I’m looming above her, with an arm on either side of her head. She’s breathing heavily; the taste of the candyfloss from the party settles on my lips.

      I lick them before adding, ‘Because you like being caught?’

      It takes her an instant too late to shake her head; she’s far too mesmerised by the sight of me crowding her in.

      ‘Because there will be no more ifs or buts after tonight.’ I straighten her flower crown, letting my fingers linger in her silky curls.

      She’s thinking while I stroke the sleek strand; thoughts of serpentine bodies and crippling bruises have subsided. Instead, she’s detained by my arresting appearance: how my white hair settles roguishly over the mask, how my strong jaw defines the perpetually arrogant expression she can’t help but admire, and how my eyes are always so intent, rapt on her and only her: a pretty poison in my mind and in my veins.

      ‘Your eyes,’ she says, her declaration somewhere between a question and an accusation, realising belatedly that the words slipped her lips. Her eyes wander to the stars behind me, besotted by a spectacle she thinks I’m not privy to; I can see everything through her eyes.

      They are the same shade; her words echo, and she finds a strange solace in their similarity.

      ‘They’re beautiful,’ she admits hoarsely, surprising us both. I know she was thinking it, but my girl has never allowed her intimate, private thoughts to slip around me, and the notion that she can, in fact, still surprise me is exhilarating. ‘You look like…’ she begins, stopping to swallow the callousness. ‘A terrible god.’

      My eyes search her face, silently appreciating each detail that incites the monster of my obsession. The rosy lip gloss smears across her flushed cheeks. I wonder what it will taste like, and as soon as the idea eclipses her mind, I find myself lowering my gaze, drawn by startled hazel eyes.

      The impulse seeks to alleviate the unrest toiling inside us both, and I glare at her until she closes her eyes, my stubborn girl pretending she doesn’t want this. I have to suppress a chuckle at her tenacity.

      Pretending is no longer an option; I intend to make her aware of this. Kiss me, love me, fight me, hate me—it’s all the same, and she will come to love all four as equals.

      Hesitating for a second, she closes them with lazy deliberation. I allow mine to follow, letting the mutual yearning in our shared breath guide the inescapable. Brushing my lips against the sticky gloss, I wait for her gasp to fan across my face before licking her bottom lip—devouring the slight strawberry residue.

      She releases another breathy gasp, which makes her body tense.

      Skimming her lips once more, I grin while trailing soft kisses along her cheek and jaw, sinking to her neck, which she offers by turning her head and bracing her thighs around my waist. The bubble-gum shower gel she uses wafts with a heady concentration, mingling with her sweat, the bonfire from the party and the freshness of pines and damp earth.

     I lick the length of her neckline, claiming the scents for myself while her pulse writhes at my proximity.

      ‘Please…’ she suddenly breathes out, admitting the remainder of the appeal only to herself: Please kiss me. Please do it without asking.

      I continue downward, tasting her collarbone freckled with silver glitter. ‘Please?’ I echo against her skin, trailing dampened lips along her chest and erratic heart, ending at the seam where the tops of her breasts are almost spilling out. ‘You’ll have to be more specific.’

      Her toes curl into the dirt. ‘Please be gentle,’ she rasps before her voice cuts off, the unspoken truth provoking her rattled thoughts. She’s roughed up and shackled, speckled with blood and dirt, asking me to be gentle with her?

      ‘Gentle?’ I goad as my fingers trace the fabric before abruptly pulling it to her ribs. Lifting my eyes to her face, I find her observing me with a nervous pinch of her brows, beige nipples pebbling in the frigid night.

      ‘Yes,’ she breathes, her scrutiny landing anxiously on her naked chest.

      With her tits taunting an inch from my lips, I forget about wanting to make her divulge the true implication behind her plea. She’ll know soon enough, but for now…

     The notion that I may finally get to hear what sounds she makes when the delicious flesh is provoked is far too distracting. I need to know. It’s not enough to listen to her sleepy sighs. It’s not enough to eat her out until I come.

      It will never be enough.

      The desire to sink my teeth into them is blinding. To keep myself distracted from the assault, I trail kisses around the supple, sensitive skin before swirling my tongue on her erect bud, beckoning a hoarse, unrestricted moan to slip past her pretty, glistening lips.

      Her grip on my hips intensifies with each lick, suck, squeeze and moan as I repeat the worship on the other breast, paying equal reverence to the flesh that’s been haunting me long into the lengthening nights.

      Glancing up, I realise my girl is staring at my horns with hooded eyes, wondering what they would feel like with her fingers wrapped tightly around them. Releasing my suction sharply, she yelps, meeting my gaze.

      It’s almost time.

      Pushing back on my arms, I snarl, ‘Say it again.’ Turning my head to the treeline below, I bite back a smile at the anticipated disturbance. So close. ‘Repeat what you said earlier and make it a promise.’

      Her eyes widen as I draw nearer, grazing her nipples against my hard chest. ‘Say what?’

      ‘That you’re mine.’ The declaration is husky despite the bloody chaos obstructing my thoughts in waves. ‘That I’m terrible and the only god you’ll ever believe in.’

      Her shock is palpable. She’s gawking at me, convinced it’s either a cruel joke or my brand of dirty talk. She doesn’t have to think about it; it’s not a question.

      Breaking the small distance, I crash my lips into hers, claiming her mouth with a fervour that could bury us both in the mountain. I entwine my fingers in her hair, grasping the back of her head firmly while greedily forcing her to take everything I have to give. Her mouth parts on a whimper; she’s trying to say my name, but she can barely breathe.

      When our tongues collide, a light flares nearby, yet she doesn’t notice.

      ‘Say it,’ I breathe into her mouth. ‘Promise it to me.’

      I kiss her again, and she mumbles an onslaught of protests as a consecutive flare lights up the forest canopy in a bright shade of red, but she still hasn’t sighted the intrusion. I’m obstructing the spectacle with my body.

      ‘Stop arguing,’ I growl before blinding her once again with my lecherous lust, devouring the taste of her mouth before pulling away, our lips less than an inch apart. Staring into her wide, beautiful eyes, I try to express a softness I don’t harbour.

      If it were up to me, I would make her say it. I’d petrify the admittance from her throat. Instead, I soften my tone, ‘Promise me you’re all mine.’

      ‘I—’ She drops her gaze, searching my chest for a logical answer. ‘I don’t know…’ She’s on the brink of losing her voice. Her flustered hesitation startles a hundred questions she can’t voice. Yet, she’s almost there; just a slight nudge and my girl’s on the other side, shamelessly confessing the terms she already believes. 

      Stroking her cheek, I mimic the romantic impression she entertains about me in her daydreams when I say, with as much tenderness as I can muster, ‘I’m all yours, Hermione. I need to know that you’re—’

      ‘I’m yours,' she interjects with a small smile to alleviate how coarse her voice sounds; it’s barely a whisper now. ‘I promise—’

      The sudden flare lights up her face, blooming like flames in her eyes. It takes her several heartbeats to process what it means. When it does, the lust in her eyes morphs into distress, pinching her brows together. She looks at me, expecting me to mirror her concern, but I don’t.

      I let the sly smile slip, showing my teeth. ‘That’s my good girl.’

      Crowding her in again is easy, even if she’s fighting to resist me. My hand is still buried in her head, and she has no choice but to oblige me. Her attempts grow vicious when I force our lips together, relishing the taste of her sweet, violent vehemence. I could indulge in this all night: feasting on my snarled girl’s body while she’s determined to kill me. Making her come a hundred times would make it all the more delectable.

      I need one more thing from her...

      Parting my lips, I slide my tongue against hers before she recoils and, with an angry squeal, sinks her teeth into the tip, piercing my lip on impact. I pull away, more than satisfied, the blood collecting quickly around my gums.

      A few drops slip out, trickling down my chin and dripping on her naked chest.

      I keep her legs parted in place as I lower myself, just as an anguished voice rings out through the trees. Her head is turned toward it; she still hasn’t pieced together who it could be. He's relatively near, but in his wretched state, the mutt couldn’t make three more feet if his livelihood depended on it. It’s almost fitting that she has lost her voice when he needs her the most. 

      The moon is directly above her, a waning, yellow omen that will crown her mine.

      Red drips all down her thigh before I can sink my teeth in. Her squeal as I pierce the flesh sounds like nails on a chalkboard while I suck her blood out, making sure it mingles with mine. I sense it the moment it does: it’s like lightning honing my bones, growing electrical roots that branch towards every corner of my being: a current as old as time, a lifetime of meteors...

      The maw of a demon tearing my spine apart. 

      The pain is astronomical; my vision grows hazy, and I nearly convulse face-down into the blood as she screams, piercing the night with her raw, bristly cry of sheer and utter affliction. 

      The physical torture subsides only a little, much sooner than it does for her: she’s still bawling when I look at her; beautiful, fair flesh rippling like she’s overcast with enchantment, and beneath it, I perceive an intricate patterning of black veins that pulse and create shimmering, spiralling currents, growing and settling in every corner of her body.

      Lifting my forearms, I’m welcomed by an almost identical sight, except the black veins appear more like thorny vines devouring the shimmering crystals. They pulse a handful of times, streaming flickering speckles of starlight amongst the darkness, and are gone.

     I'm trembling profusely. Looking back at her, I noticed they're entirely buried beneath the white dress and soiled skin, vanishing as quickly as they came. The only evidence that anything happened is the crimson red left behind by my assault; the bite mark remains indistinguishable.

      Twice born, a prodigal of darkness, holy, sublime, and terrible, I live. 

      The screaming suddenly stops, and I know she’s lost consciousness. It threatens to do the same to me, but I fight it.

      My legs tremble as I get to my feet, the serpents releasing their hold on my girl’s limp body. It takes me a few tries to pick her up, ripping away the broken wings, and eventually, she’s nestled against my chest, breathing so softly, I’d think she hadn’t survived it if it wasn’t for her steady pulse.

      The red light flashes again, breaking through the trees: a cry for help. The mutt may obtain his aid, but it sure as shit won’t be from me.

      I bite the inside of my mouth to focus on apparating, the sharp pain distracting me from the trauma of the whole tribulation. It works well enough, and before I know it, my feet press down into the carpet of my bedchamber with its familiar emerald fabric and the warmth of the fireplace.

      Overriding the famous no-apparition spell in and around Hogwarts was a tedious challenge. Ultimately, it has given me unrestricted freedom and allowed tonight to happen without the threat of a fatality. If anything happened to my girl, I would burn the world to a smoulder, gorging every soul in the process and spitting them back out to blacken the stars. The Earth doesn’t deserve to endure if she isn’t in it, flooding it with her benevolence.

      After a few steps, my legs hit the bed frame.

      I fall into it on my side, keeping my arms tightly around her while adjusting her head into the crook of my neck. I check her breathing and pulse one last time before allowing my lids to close, joining her in that dusky place where we both belong: sovereign and blood-bound by it.

      The forest still captures the sound of her breathless, gasping voice, burning her throat from the inside. I can hear it in the icy wind. She stirs within me a chord that echoes sempiternally. At last, I have darkened and arrested her. But it doesn’t end here.

      I am already here, ever in the wilderness, watching and anticipating.

      I straighten my spine. I do not tear my gaze from the entrance for even a second, where the pumpkins are wilting beneath the heavy rain, and the enchanted candles fight to stay lit. When the group finally materialises, several redheads carting out one of their own, it is not by chance that his eyes find me standing by the castle’s sunrise shadow. I breathe out a thin cloud of smoke, smiling deviously at the state of him.

      He’s trying to glower, but his eyes are too bruised.

      Instead, he follows me the entire journey to the levitating broomsticks, ignoring what is being said around him. When he is strapped in, supported by two brooms, I wink, throwing the fag butt over my shoulder.

      My eyes convey a warning of their own: Next time, you’re dead. Fucker.

      The Weasley mutt looks away.

      When I return to my room, by some cosmic mirage, my girl is sleeping and scathed on my bed, with my imprint buried beneath her skin, glowing luciferous in the morning light. Seeing her beseeches me to appreciation, imprinting every little detail: she’s as beautiful as a forest fire.

      For once, I didn’t have to sleep with the chains securing me to the bed. Though the thought of securing her to them…my god.

      Walking to the bathroom, I begin running a bath, undressing from the grey t-shirt and black jeans. Whatever fake blood Zabini threw on me was clearly not intended to wear off on the first try. I wiped a damp cloth over my body before heading out earlier, but it still stains my skin in trickles of pink.

      Sitting on the bathtub's edge, I blankly stare at the running water until it skims my fingertips. Turning it off, I return to the bed and carefully remove her clothes, keeping the jewellery on; I'm relishing how, in the nude, it makes her look like a divinity. There’s even forest debris tangled in her locks.

     I find a brush and get to work, which takes me much longer than anticipated.

     She sighs when I finally pick her up.

     The water is hot when I sink us both into it and begin washing away the residue of our exhilarating night. I have to keep her head on my chest to stop it from lolling about.

      She doesn’t stir when I lift her arms and legs to soap them, keeping a count of the bruises and cuts I must heal once she’s dried off. Washing her hair was the most challenging part, second to her tempting cunt, which I had to stop myself from touching.

      Now, she's on the bed once again, wrapped in a cream towel, and I watch her sleeping body while drying myself.

      The ways I want to fuck her would make me such a bad, bad man if I allowed myself to act them out. My self-restraint is a weak, pathetic thread that could be snapped at any second. And yet, I’m so fucking tired that instead of acting out the despicable, I dress myself in grey jogging bottoms and a black hoodie before searching for my wand and beginning the tedious process of restoring her body.

      By the time I finished, my eyes were so heavy, and I didn’t realise until almost lunchtime that I had fallen asleep beside her.

      The illusion I curated of her sleeping in her bed is evidently working because not one girl in the Gryffindor dormitories has suspected her ulterior whereabouts. It can’t go on forever, no matter whether I want it to.

      The dormitories are empty, so I shouldn't postpone her return.

      I press her naked body tightly against me, savouring the sweet scent of her clean hair, the frizzy strands tickling my neck. I stay like this while apparating to her room. The small journey affects me more than I would like to admit. I almost stumble over a pile of books while tucking her into bed. 

      Once she's appropriately covered, I notice the familiar poster plastering every corridor of the castle poking out of one of the tomes. Its oddity is starkly out of place. The poster reads, "War on Afghanistan: The Untold Truth." The design and writing are much plainer than her usual endeavours. I wonder how she was granted permission to talk about a topic so out of place in the wizarding world. It’s so like her. She’s headstrong about equality and injustice.

      It’s cute and admirable, and the presentation should prove stimulating.

      All morning, I’ve tried to avoid glancing at my reflection. I rarely sleep, and the evidence is darkening beneath my eyes. The small mirror above her lamp, along with my ruffled hair and scabbed lip, confirms this. It’s the second time I’ve had a wounded lip related to my girl. It feels like a sign that my menacing lust is reflected in the lips she so obsesses over: a warning, perhaps.

      One she will never heed.

      Leaning down to place a chaste kiss on her forehead, I whisper, ‘Sweet dreams, gorgeous.’

      If I harbour any softness, my girl will never be lucid enough to know it.

     She stirs at the sound of my voice. She has barely flinched a muscle since last night. Now, when I am about to leave, a tiny flicker of consciousness sparks in the dark void of her dreams, encouraged by my voice.

      Her body responds to me; it always will. No matter how much she wishes to fight it, her admission last night was nothing short of absolute truth because if she didn’t mean it, we wouldn’t be tethered to each other as we are now: tendrilled with incandescence and deep, ancient magic.

      Even death himself couldn't keep us apart.

Chapter Text

     … her wounds

    denying

    her wounds came from the same source as her power

     Adrienne Rich

      The Flashback // Commination

      At night, the pretence falls away, dissolving into the earth. I see blue eyes in the flames, turning silver. It’s easier to admit that I’m suffering in silence while staring longingly at the treeline, consumed by the amber glow that keeps the dark at bay. I know exactly what I’m doing when I pour the sachet of mistletoe berries and valerian sprigs into the metal camping teapot, trying to stir the herbs into the Lethe River water quietly. My wand sits on my lap, ready to use the corrupting charms.

     The longer I live, the more I wish to disappear, and tonight is no different. I feel displaced, like a woman wandering solitary through a storm. I was happy this morning. What happened? Maybe it’s the fact my virginity was ripped from me in such a sinister and shameful way. I can still feel the claws threatening my skin.

     Stirring the pot with a wooden spoon, I tell myself what I always do: It’s easier to forget the magnitude of what you feel—what you shouldn’t feel—and the monsters who have haunted you since childhood. I often wonder if I have unknowingly cursed myself by distorting everything that qualms me. And then there’s my favourite excuse: It’s not real if you can’t evoke its entirety, Hermione.

     I’ve been doing this for a long time.

     Recently, it’s been affecting my immediate memories. This morning, I understood why Ron was upset with me. However, this evening, I do not. After my unsettling encounter with Draco, I should be concerned that his silver eyes stirred a wave of physical unease, making me shiver each time I recall them. The voices, as well. I should remember why the menacing influences echoing in my head make me turn to the forest's shadows: I thought I saw something.

     The gripping fear feels familiar.

     ‘You spoke of the devil; now he is here. Pray that he doesn’t see you again,’ Aunt Gracie would say. ‘Close your eyes and take a deep breath. Imagine something beautiful—a story or a book you love,’ my father would say.

     By age ten, I had read all the Greek epics at least three times, although I can’t remember what I was distracting myself from. I could translate Egyptian tablets in one sitting and had already written two complete essays on classical theory by eleven. I miss him, and on nights like these, I think about packing up and going home, imagining him absorbed in an ancient text while Mum sways her hips to a jazz vinyl in her red apron, stirring a delicious casserole.

     ‘Dad,’ I said, looking up at him in the psychologist's waiting room.

     ‘What is it, love?’ he said, turning the page of The Guardian.

     ‘Isn’t it beautiful that one of the most feared goddesses, who knew both the gentleness of the earth and the wrath of war, retrieved her beloved from the netherworld, even though he died a natural death?’

     ‘Are you talking about Anat and Baal?’ Dad asked, still not taking his eyes off the papers. ‘They complemented each other: he of water and thunderstorms that nourished the soil; she of the soil. How would the Earth survive without him? Not to mention how fiercely she loved him. Some would say her vengeance on the goddess of death was fitting. It’s uncommon to find a myth of feminine rage like it.’

     Blinking at the fire, I try to evoke the myth, but the threads that weave it into being are foggy. ‘Say that you’re mine, that I’m terrible and the only god you’ll ever believe in,’ Draco said once as the snapping wood flares.

     If I told my dad about him, he might say: ‘He is the thunderstorm of your Anat, the splinter of lightning in your meticulously controlled existence.’ It’s as if fate wants to torment me: see how little control you possess. I’m the most brilliant witch of my time, yet the most foolish. I’ve carefully curated myself to be the perfect student. I have all my career prospects planned out. I’m prepared for everything—spreadsheets and journals filled with possibilities.

     I’m prepared for it all…

     Except for him.

     Eventually, he discovered my flaw: that I liked him and couldn’t help it. Maybe he used it against me, but he’s persistent, which makes me believe that… I can’t even say it. To deem it as liked me back would seem irrational. He’s a masochist: dark and sincerely evil. His words made my heart sing until they didn’t.

     Leaving Ron for dead on All Hallows' Eve should have been enough reason for me to strike him, spit on him, and never speak to him again. When I close my eyes, dispersing the visuals of how he fucked me like a sadist devil possessed, the zipper to the tent is pulled apart, revealing a shadow of red hair poking out.

     Ron is staring at me, his tired scrutiny unreadable. ‘You’re up.’

     ‘I am,’ I say with a small smile. ‘Did I wake you?’

     He rubs his eyes. ‘No.’

     When he steps out, I notice Salazar Slytherin’s locket, which turns amber in the firelight. My toes wiggle in my boots, and I try not to shudder at the uncomfortable feeling it gives me when worn by someone else. I wish it would vanish—shatter into a thousand tiny pieces, burying its menace in the darkest depths of the earth. Instead, we are forced to take turns with it, and while it doesn’t affect me, I can see in Ron’s eyes that he is battling an inexplicable force.

     ‘Would you like me to—’

     ‘No,’ he cuts in sharply, giving me his back to pull the zipper up. The noise interrupts my startled silence, and when he straightens and turns back to me, I notice he is wearing a coat and gloves. He intends to sit with me, and I am growing nervous at the prospect, wishing he would not, as mean as that may seem.  

     ‘Okay,’ I say softly before adopting a friendly tone. ‘I’ll make you some tea if you’d like. This one isn’t very good.” I put the lid on the pot before picking it up by the handle and placing it away from the fire.

     ‘Fine,’ he says while sitting on a log across from me. His eyes find mine, and a bleak light in them turns the lids heavy. The dark skin beneath his eyes is pronounced. Somehow, despite feeling bad for him, I can’t stop myself from growing irritable with his curt tone. I’ve done so much for him and Harry, all at the expense of my mental and physical health. I’m exhausted from studying day and night about Horcruxes, stopping in between to make meals and wash our clothes in the stream.

     If they think doing the dishes is enough of a contribution to justify speaking to me like this, I grit my teeth while I reach into the bag to search for a zesty pouch of herbal tea that Ron enjoys. In a way, I hope not to find it, but I do. Violently breaking the seal, I don’t cringe when dry flowers burst out onto my lap.

     Ron remains quiet.

     From the same bag, I retrieve the spare camping pot and a jar of honey, focusing intently on the task to settle my nerves. Things have been awkward and severely tense since he discovered the notes. The scowls have been heavier since my return to camp. Since he’s wearing the necklace, I’m treading on eggshells, waiting for him to lash out again.  

     ‘What’s wrong?’ Ron asks after a beat, his tone lacking any empathy.

      I hate him wearing the necklace. It makes him abnormal and dismal, but I’ve often wondered if it amplifies the wearer’s character. In my journal, I’ve documented how Harry has displayed mild effects while wearing it, as have I, while Ron is far more irritable and grimmer.

     I don’t bother replying while pouring the contents into the pot.

     ‘Did you think about what I said?’

     His question startles me. I knew there was something I was forgetting, but I couldn’t quite place it. There’s always something I’m forgetting. The logs in the fire crackle as if reacting to the abrupt change in topic. I brush the frizz from blowing into my eyes. ‘What did you say again?’ 

     The glacial wind cuts sharply between us, stirring the flames and making me pull my scarf tight against my chest. Although I had planned our outfits according to the weather, I was unprepared for the relentless cold. I only seem to find relief when I escape to Diagon Alley. It’s much warmer there, on the edge of summer and autumn. You’d think it was the depths of winter here in the forest.

     Several severe seconds go by as I wait for his response. Silence.

     When I look up at him to perceive his expression, his eyes are intent on me—dark as coals and alight with a chilling, icy glow. It doesn’t help that he appears dishevelled from sleep.

     ‘You forgot?’ he says at last, working his jaw.    

     ‘Yes,’ I snap with contempt. ‘Do you realise how much I must do for us, Ron? Every spare minute when I’m not ensuring we are all well-fed and clean, I’m researching how to destroy that bloody poison around your neck!’ I slam the pot on the coals, splashing the water on my gloved hands. ‘And when I’m not doing that,’ I recover my breath. ‘I’m walking the forest, checking the wards repeatedly and ensuring we are safe. I’m tired, and I realise we are all tired, but give me a bloody break, will you, and repeat what you told me that was so important.’

     He snickers, turning his grimace from me to glare at the forest.

     ‘Tired enough to meet your boyfriend behind our backs?’ he bites out, turning back. ‘Do you think those notes he left you during school mean he cares about you? That he wants you?’ Harry’s sudden high-pitched snore makes him glance over his shoulder. Ron continues, ‘He doesn’t give a fuck about you, Hermione. I’ve told you this already, or did you forget? The scumbag ruined our lives, and you’re…’ He gives my body a once-over, his mouth twisted with repulsion. ‘Bloody hell! I don’t know what you’re doing. I don’t think you realise either.’

     I can’t speak. This whole interaction is my worst nightmare. My blood has grown cold. ‘I’m not—’

     ‘Oh, bollocks, Mione. I caught you two in the boathouse.’ His expression turns even more sour. ‘I know what you let him do. Considering everything he’s done, who he is—a fucking Death Eater, you should be disgusted with yourself. He’s using you to destroy us and the Order. He and his friends will slit our throats, and you would have led him to us. Don’t you understand that? Don’t you realise the magnitude of what you’re doing?’

     My insides shrivel and wither.

     ‘Ron…’ I shake my head, breathless from the hurt and disbelief. ‘I would never—’

     ‘I don’t want to hear anything from you until you realise your actions have consequences and what you and I could I have if you embraced your true feelings instead of betraying everyone who cares about you for that nutcase.’ He gets to his feet, brushing the debris from his trousers. ‘I like you, Hermione. Far more than a friend, which is why I’ve protected you from those who love and care for you by remaining quiet. But I won’t keep your dirty secret if it means killing us all. My family’s lives are worth more than this.’ Turning back to the tent, Ron leaves me distraught.

     Wiping away the torrent of hot tears, I want to rip my terrible heart out, raw, bleeding, and still thumping, fresh from my chest, and throw it into the flames along with everything else: the red notes, the gold necklace that Draco slipped into my diary that afternoon when he intruded on me while it was snowing, and the diary itself, filled with senseless admissions of how unspeakably dreadful I have been to my friends.

     The country lane is empty when I pull down my jeans and squat in the bushes. I can still smell the smouldering paper. My fingertips remember how the metal was blistering my fingers when I picked up the gold necklace from the flames. I ran to the forest's edge and threw it into the valley. No one came outside to check on me, but I knew Ron was listening.

     I almost fall forward while trying to hold onto a jutting root. It feels as if I keep dissociating from my current reality, though the cramp in my abdomen is agonisingly reminding me that I am, in fact, still very much here.

     I can’t stop howling through the pain. I don’t care if someone catches me urinating on their muddy track, infested with potholes that made me scream to drive over. Hot steam rises from the ground; the relief is instant. I cry again, not just for Sofia, but for the memories that surfaced during my drive, along with the agony forcing me to pull over.

     I sniffle while reaching down to wipe the urine with the tissues I found in the passenger compartment. My head is throbbing. I still feel like I’m back in the forest with Ron, the fire warming my startled bones. What is happening to me? When did the memories fade? I vaguely knew I had done something terrible with Draco in the past, but I didn’t comprehend its magnitude—how my heart was involved and how my husband was tangled in this obscure web to a frightening extent.

     The tissue feels slimy and wetter than expected. I look down, and when I see it—a severe bite mark—I gasp. Sharp teeth puncture the soft flesh of my thigh. Not only that, but blood coats the white tissue between my legs, blotchy and thick.

     Oh shit! I’m bleeding!

     The sound of stomping breaks through my panic, and I glance over the car's hood to see a horse with its rider racing towards me. The leopard appaloosa would be a marvel to appreciate if my eyes weren’t rubbed raw and I wasn’t squatting on the side of the road with my vagina and cold ass cheeks bared to the elements. I drop the tissue without thinking before hastily pulling my auburn leggings up. It lands on top of the evidence: crimson coats the lush green leaves of stinging nettles.

     Any form of pretence has entirely abandoned me. I don’t know whether to cry, wave, laugh or scream as the blonde rider in full, dark green equestrian gear approaches me. I fully expect a bollocking by the way her mouth is contorted in a tight-lipped grimace.

     ‘Woah, Chevy,’ the woman says before stopping metres from my car.

     ‘Good morning—'

     ‘Do you understand that you are trespassing on private property?’ she says sternly. I realise there isn’t a trace of a Scottish accent in her low, husky voice. It resounds with a Slavic quality. ‘There are three signs along the lane suggesting this. You couldn’t have missed it.’

     Wide, dark eyes consider me as the horse inclines its head at me, making me feel like I’m under the gentle scrutiny of an astute beast.

     ‘I didn’t miss them,’ my tone is reluctant, and I try to straighten my spine, meeting her eyes beneath the black helmet. ‘I apologise for intruding. I wouldn’t have done it if it wasn’t an emergency.’ I watch her shadowy gaze lower to my feet, where I had dropped the bloody tissue. ‘I-I think I’m bleeding.’

     The woman lifts her chin, subtly inviting the sun beneath her helmet. Her pale skin and piercing blue eyes, enclosed by rose-framed glasses, give her an austere yet striking beauty. I notice the slip of several tattoos on her wrist where the leather gloves end.

     ‘There’s a fuel station three miles from here. The convenience store offers pads and tampons,’ she says sombrely.

     I pinch my brows together. ‘For what?’

     Her blonde brow lifts. ‘For your period. Unless you have some internal bleeding, to which you should probably call an ambulance.’  

     My period? The thought makes me shaky. I hadn’t thought about a period for a long time. It’s been years since I’ve had one. I can’t even recall what the experience feels like.

     ‘Do you have a signal on your phone?’ the woman asks, startling me.

     ‘Ye-yes. I think so,’ I stumble. That would explain the cramps, at least. Leaning forward, I pick up the tissue, dumping it into the crumpled carrier bag beside my feet. The distraction gives me a moment to recover. When I straighten, my vision darkens, and I have to hold onto the car to steady myself.

     ‘I’ll be on my way to the fuel station. Thank you,’ I declare before opening the car’s door.

     ‘You are welcome,’ she replies, searching my face. ‘Are you well enough to drive? Perhaps you should call someone.’

     I don’t have anyone; I almost let the intrusive thought slip past my lips.

     ‘I’ll be fine,’ I say, tying up the bag to throw it in the back seat. The instant I lean into the car, I feel more blood seeping out. It won’t be long until it drenches my jeans. At the corner of my eye, I notice my phone screen flashing. ‘Have a good day.’

     I’m about to sit in the driver’s seat when the woman hastily announces, ‘If you follow me to the end of the lane, I can give you a few pads and a paracetamol.’

     I smile at her. ‘That’s very kind of you, but I’m about four miles from home. I’ll buy a pack at the shop and head straight there. I want to get back into bed as soon as I can.’

     ‘Okay. I understand,’ she says, biting her lip as if something troubles her. ‘What was your name?’

     ‘It’s Hermione.’ I wipe away the curls tangling in my lashes. ‘What about yours?’

     ‘Tula,’ she returns with a strong accent. The horse snorts as if it were mocking her, and the gesture almost makes me laugh. I would if I wasn’t dying from the inside. I glance at the horse, finding it staring right back at me. ‘And this is Chevy. He came with me from Poland.’

     ‘Hello, lovely Chevy,’ I say sweetly. ‘You’re a gorgeous boy. Aren’t you?’

     Tula chuckles. ‘Don’t tell him that. His ego is already inflated enough.’ She lightly ruffles his mane. ‘You could do with less pampering, really.’

     Chevy grumbles, lifting his front leg to strike the floor once, twice. The gesture is so human. It’s almost like a toddler throwing a tantrum.

     ‘It’s as if he understands you,’ I say after a moment.  

     ‘Maybe he does,’ she says rapidly. ‘Mind the potholes when you go.’

     With a quick farewell, she nods when I smile through the windshield, slamming the car door. I wait for Tula and Chevy to turn around and continue back down the track. When they vanish around a bend obstructed by trees, I turn the engine on with a tear slipping down my cheek.

     The desolation is numbing while the claws continue ripping my abdomen apart, reminding me that fighting this pain is as fickle as it is futile. Somehow, I know I've been in pain for a very long time. 

     I feel it every single day, and I believe it has many names. Some that I may not admit aloud. 

Chapter Text

     …One may smile,

     And smile,

     And be a villain.

     Hamlet

     Light filters through the trees, announcing my failure. I had imagined finding Aurora, the fairy who insisted she knew me, but all I discovered was more agony in my tiresome existence.

     During the drive home, I thought about the memory of Ron and me in the forest and its implications, feeling sick at the prospect. How did he discover the red notes in the first place? Was he snooping in my bag? Moreover, it was infuriating to recall my plundered virginity, though at least it confirmed my suspicions.

     I’ve experienced much more clarity these past two days than in the fog of the last five years. I don’t believe it’s all staged. There’s a deeper, more terrifying meaning to my past actions and their consequences, and I don’t suppose my stalker could manipulate a gut feeling. It’s a peculiar confirmation: the sensation that my body retains every experience, each word spoken to me, roughly or softly, embedded into my bones. I feel these impressionable recollections on a soul level.

     It is not a choice, but it could be a curse for someone as wounded as I am.

     Arthur practically skips over when I pull up next to his truck. Blood has stained my leggings, creating a dark patch on the russet fabric. I remove my cardigan and wrap it around my waist before stepping out of the car, leaving my phone and wand on the passenger seat.  

     ‘Ms. Granger!’ he bellows cheerily.

     I slam the door shut. ‘How are you, Arthur?’

     ‘Gud, Gud,’ he repeats, stopping a meter away with his clipboard pressed against his chest. ‘Postie delivered a special parcel for yer. The recipient paid for next-day.’ He retrieves a thick white envelope from behind the clipboard. ‘The hoose was empty, so I received it.’

     I accept it from him and read the label.

     My shoulders release some of their tension. I appreciate that he hasn’t mentioned Sofia’s absence. His discretion is a welcome avoidance of a grim topic. Just thinking about it makes my stomach drop. I still haven’t come to terms with her second death, and I can sense a threatening breakdown as soon as I’m left alone house.

     ‘Oh, thank you! That’s very kind of you.’ I apologise for not checking on you and the horses. How can I explain that I am in a constant state of cavernous distress, with my life disintegrating right before your eyes? I pull my lips into a slight smile. ‘How are the horses? Oh, and how’s your family? The school break for the half-term is next week. Do you have any plans?’

     He nods eagerly, and I welcome the familiar buzz of conversation.

     While we talk, I sense eyes on me, a hundred gazes burning into my skin from every murky crook of the land. Ping! We both turn to the driver’s side window, looking into the car where my phone flashes with life.

     My breath catches. ‘Let me get that.’

     ‘Awright.’ Arthur scratches his beard while I retrieve it. ‘Ah. Did yer see the bones lately?’

     At this point in my life, I’m utterly unphased by the anomaly. I had nearly forgotten all about it. ‘More bones?’ I swipe the obstructing curls behind my ear. ‘Where?’

     I don’t hear his response when I glance at my lock screen. Ping!

     Ron:

     I’m staying with Harry and Ginny tonight. She insisted.

     Ron:

     Harry said I could help build the furniture for the nursery. I’ll be back sometime tomorrow.

     ‘Well, that’s fucking great,’ I bite out, chucking the phone back into the seat, hearing it bounce on impact and thump into the floor.

     ‘Aye,’ Arthur agrees. ‘Bout five piles of them now.’

     I take a deep breath to contain my frustration. ‘It’s probably just an animal. Don’t worry too much about it.’ Slamming the car door shut, I press the button on the keys to lock it. ‘I need to start dinner. I’ll see you in the morning, then.’

     The goodbye is quick; I’m already walking away with the envelope when he gives me a rundown of the tasks he will finish before heading home. I’m tempted to cry as I climb the porch steps.

     On any other day, Ron would undoubtedly invite me, and Ginny pressured him to. Clearly, he enjoys being petty and isolating me so I can sulk in my guilt. It feels like my husband is shunning me, rubbing in my face that he has somewhere to escape when upset. And where does that leave me? We share friends, and I don’t have many people unrelated to him to complain to.

     It makes no sense. He fucking kissed me this morning, pretending everything was fine!

     The front door is already unlocked, but I don’t care to reason why that may be. I’m desperate to remove each blood-soiled layer encrusted against my soft skin. Meanwhile, the bone-white envelope awaits temptingly in my hands. I break the seal while shuffling out of my hiking boots (I learned from last time not to wear trainers in the highlands). Though, to be fair, I didn’t know where Virgil was taking us.

     I pull the contents out, noticing the heading and my name beneath it.

     My manuscript, “Asiatic Plants from a Comparative Perspective,” looks back at me with an accusatory tone. I sent it to Sarah about two months ago, anticipating her response while working on my subsequent research. I was proud of it then, but suddenly, I’m not. While writing it, I accepted that Ron didn’t want me to travel to improve my investigation. It made sense to travel around Asia, gathering sources and strengthening my arguments. I conceded because he seemed concerned about me wandering in foreign lands alone.

     ‘Someone did use very dark magic to bring her body back. Any guesses?’

     I chew on my chapped bottom lip. ‘Why would they want to bring her back?’

     I can’t help but wonder about Ron’s bewildered and anxious expression when I told him Sofia had not shown up. Why did he say it couldn’t be possible? She used to ask me about taking holidays and having dentist and doctor appointments off for her kids. Her imaginary teenagers, may I add. As far as I know, she and Ron hardly spoke.

     I thrust the manuscript back into the envelope.

     I’m not proud of it, and I’m almost tempted to retract it as a potential publishable work. It’s not who I want to be. The writer in me wants to live for herself, to demonstrate to my readers that I sincerely care about the topic enough to leave my bloody desk chair.

     Thankfully, I uncovered a dusty box of pads from the cupboard under the bathroom sink. In some way, the universe occasionally conspires in my favour. After the shower, I fell asleep in my fluffy beige dressing gown. The sky darkened, and light fractured weakly through the window in diminishing golden hues, the last of a sunset. My eyes burst open in a sudden panic at allowing myself to be so vulnerable. Thoughts of the unlocked front door, my phone, and my wand in the car made me surge out of bed with a frantic heart.

     There are no lights on outside the room. Somehow, this doesn’t frighten me.

     I must fight the grogginess that nearly makes me slip twice while taking the stairs. Since the shower, I haven’t touched my hair: no creams or coconut oil. I can feel the frizz reaching out toward the shadows. With the hair tie on my wrist, I tie it back into a low bun just as I reach the last step.

     The prickling from earlier assaults my exposed skin.

     I shudder while flipping the switch to every light nearby. After finishing in the kitchen, I head to the fridge to find something for dinner. There are two containers of black beans and chicken to microwave, and I see a packet of grains and wild rice next to it—Sofia’s last dinner.

     From now on, I’ll have to remember to pre-plan and cook my meals. There’s enough for a few nights, but the thought of what I must do going forward without Sofia intensifies my already overwrought nerves. The clock ticks at seven o’clock. I slam the microwave door shut, and once both dishes have been heated, I scoop them into a bowl and sit at the small kitchen table.

     Thankfully, there’s a little cranberry juice to pour into a cup.

     Thinking about driving to the supermarket in the morning is equally unsettling to me. I don’t feel like pretending to be a muggle, a witch, or anyone else. The prospect of not being here to await Ron’s return gives me a smidge of anticipation. He can buy his own food from now on if he insists on leaving at all times of the day. Was it always this bad? I can’t remember him leaving so much.

     Maybe I didn’t notice while drinking coffee and taking sips. Now I do, and it feels like a slap in the face. What does he expect me to do? Welcome him home with a compliant, friendly smile.

     I left for one day with Virgil, and look how Ron acted. The double standard in this relationship is shockingly horrific. I glance down at the wedding band on my finger. I put it on this morning before leaving the house, trying to reassure myself that everything was fine after anxiously pulling away from my husband’s kiss.

     Once I finished eating, I realised I could no longer prevent the inevitable. I put the bowl in the dishwasher and washed my hands before heading to the foyer. Next to my black leather boots, I slipped on the knitted socks and retrieved the car keys. Finally, I opened the front door to welcome a horrendous chill into the house.

     It’s as if the temperature outside has dropped by ten degrees. The few stars dotting the sky help me breathe a little easier. I consider visiting the stalls where the horses settle for the night as the cold gust sweeps against my legs. Staying out in the open for longer than necessary is a terrible idea. There is no universe where I’ll be chased through a forest tonight.

     The wind swoops punishingly.

     I pull the fluffy fabric across my chest as unwanted memories disturb my desperate attempt to maintain a semblance of peace. ‘Baal the blight, wretched in the holy lands…’ I quickened my pace to the car, wishing I had resolved to lock all the doors and hide in my wardrobe. ‘Apollyon, born with a blinding radiance, the host in disguise…’ Unlocking the car, I pull the door quickly and dive inside just as the overhead light turns on ‘The whore of Babylon who spreads her legs for the harbinger.’

     My phone is dead when I grab it. I’m somewhat surprised to find the wand still there until I remind myself it’s utterly futile against my infernal stalker. I don’t want to think about him. I’m scared that even conjuring a mental image of him could bring him behind me. I’m suddenly very aware of how my back is turned, and I hit my head on the roof of the car while trying to get out as quickly as possible.

     With my phone and wand in hand, I jog back to the house, breaking the dusky silence as my feet disturb the stony driveway.

     I keep my eyes focused on my next step, not allowing them to divert to the forest on my right for even a second. I feel the blood dampening the pad with my urgency. Just as I’m about to climb the three steps, I startle. Ping!

     One of my vases holds a bunch of red roses by the front door. Red rose notes encircle the base, folded precisely as I remember them. My body grows glacially cold as I consider the carefully curated scene before me. The only thing missing is the gold necklace, but I don’t think about why that is. I don’t think at all when I glance down at my dead phone, which still has a battery reading of 0%.

     Ping!

     Unknown Number:

     You believe him like a god. He betrays you like a man. Meanwhile, your god rots in my mouth.

     Unknown Number:

     The boy who was secretly jealous of the chosen one. Who furtively yearned for a girl that wasn’t his to want.

     My foot creaks on the first step of the wooden flooring. Ping!

     Unknown Number:

     What do you say: rot or be eaten? ;)

     The gust pushes me forward, and I catch myself on the second step with my foot.

     I know that if I turn around, I’ll see him. Every fibre beneath my skin is alert to him. The elements are not on my side—they never were. I complete the stairs with unruffled bravado. As I begin to feel in control of myself, I splinter like glass and squat down to pick up the vase, clutching it to my chest. The roses brush my chin; their scent invigorates me in this dark world.

     I do what I shouldn’t: I abandon my phone and wand in place of the paper roses, carrying everything in both hands. My actions are slow and deliberate. I open the door carefully, like a woman sneaking inside while her husband sleeps upstairs, bearing the evidence of her infidelity.

     Not waiting for the door to shut, I step inside.

     Before I know it, I’m in the kitchen, standing before the empty sink. The notes fall from my hands like bloody petals, tainting the perfect silver basin. I consider stopping there, but with an almighty bellow, I destroy the vase on top of them, smashing the paper repeatedly until the glass shatters.

     There’s so much red. All I can see is red.

     I retrieve a yellow bottle from a nearby cupboard and splash lighter fluid on everything red. The matches are next to the gas cooker for when it acts temperamental. I strike three together and toss them into the sink, which ignites with alarming intensity.

     It’s not enough.

     Dashing out of the kitchen, the string of my robe comes undone, revealing the shirt beneath with a slit of army green. Even in my delirium, I remember putting on a faded grey shirt with the white writing half-rubbed off. I stop and part the fluffy fabric. I’m wearing the Slytherin shirt the boys at Hogwarts wore for Quidditch training and physical exertions. It’s large, about a few centimetres away from grazing my knees.

     It’s—

     My breath hitches. I think it belongs to…

     My cruellest nightmare is standing by the treeline when I step through the half-open door. I smell smoke and glance over my shoulder to see the kitchen on fire. It takes me several heartbeats to spot him. It’s as if he’s part of the earth, belonging in a way I could never comprehend; the trunk supports him like a throne, and the murky leaves ripple on the branches like a crown. He leans against a thick oak, releasing smoke with a sly grin curving his lips.

     The mask is back, obscuring the dark hair, but I know his silver eyes are raptly watching me. He smiles the entire time I march toward him, stepping away from the tree and taking several steps that bring him to the stone driveway. Maybe he senses what I’m about to do. I don’t even know what it is until I reach him. I know that my hand aches; the impact of the glass may have bruised me, but it doesn’t matter.

     My head spins, and I am back in my younger body, feeling an anger that has lodged itself in my chest, destroying me ever since. If my wand can’t save me, perhaps my contempt for him and everyone who has created a monster of me will. His silver eyes are unblinking. I’m already growing tired beneath the weight of his gaze.

     ‘Hi, baby,’ his voice is silky smooth. ‘Didn’t you like my presents?’

     He’s about to take a drag when a frightful Whack! startles the silence as if a thick hand was hitting something soft. The impact has turned his face away; the cigarette has soared off somewhere, leaving only the smoke in his mouth, which escapes his lips when he turns back to me.

     I swiftly ignore the crippling burn on my hand. I curl my fingers and hit him again. He lets me do this, but it’s still not enough. My hands find his chest, pushing against him with all my might.

     ‘LEAVE ME ALONE!’ I hit his solid chest, but he doesn’t move like I need him to. ‘Fucking leave me alone!’ I push again, and this time, I almost fall into him. ‘Let me be! Will you just let me be!’ Tears spring to my eyes, my emotions choking me, and I can’t scream anymore as I would like. With my next shove, I perceive my diminishing strength.

     A sob slips out. ‘I don’t care who you are: Draco or the devil,’ my tone is broken and desperate. I haven’t looked at him once since beginning my assault. ‘I don’t care! I don’t care who or what you are! Just leave me alone!’

     Thinking about how he’s devastated me and ruined Sofia, how he’s quickly spoiling Ron for me, too, I want to scream until nothing comes out. Until it’s not physically possible to form another cohesive word. I don’t care if it makes me vulnerable; no one can hear me scream.

     No one can save me from him or myself.

     ‘You've ruined my life!’ I manage to yell with spit flying until my voice breaks. My onslaught of shoves and punches has grown painfully weak. I might as well be poking him. Realising this, he gently stops me, clutching my wrists like I’m some wounded animal that needs to be relieved.

     Everything aches—my knuckles, throat, and chest. I almost sink into the feeling of his warm grasp, which prevents me from hurting myself further. I shouldn’t find comfort in it, but I do. I almost do. Instead of allowing my body to surrender to the sensation, I begin another attack, my fists thumping weakly into him.

     ‘Take what you want and leave,’ I croak, wiping snot away from my face with the dressing gown. ‘Just fuck me. Please, do it. I’ll let you.’

     My hands convulse against his chest. Maybe I’m breaking them; I can’t tell.

     ‘Rape me! Just do it!’

     ‘No.’

     I finally look up at him. His expression is stoic. Every feature is firmly set, and he isn’t beaming at my feebleness for once. Silver eyes watch me unwaveringly, even while his cheek flushes with the evidence of my madness. I’m in the midst of it and need something to satisfy it.

     ‘Rape me,’ I repeat hoarsely while staring intently into his eyes.

     ‘No.’ His tone is severe.

     ‘You don’t get to choose when you take what you want from me!’ My hands find his chest again, my numbed fingers seeking more damage, but he stops me. ‘I’ll be your good girl and spread my legs for you. I’ll open up and let you rape me. Don’t you want that?’

     He snickers. ‘I do, but not like this.’

     I growl in frustration.

     ‘Just do it! Do everything you’ve wanted to do with me. Take away my power; I don’t want it. I want you to force me.’ I slip my arms out of the dressing gown and let it pool at my feet. At this point, I don’t even understand what I’m saying. It feels as if I’m witnessing this psychosis from an alternate perspective.

     ‘I want you, won’t you have me?’ I stare into his eyes, pleading, my voice lowered to sound seductive.

     He doesn’t say anything; his lips press into a firm line. The eyes that consider me are obscure and unsettling; the starlight has forsaken them. I drop to my knees and stare expectantly at him, hoping he’ll do what I’m pleading for.

     I need his force.

     I need him to compel a feeling that only he can give me.

     A sound like bursting glass pulls my attention from him, and I glance over my shoulder again, finding the house devoured by flames. All at once, the heat envelops me. I don’t know if I’m here, but the warmth makes me feel I am. All my books and tireless research are burning; the memories of Ron and me turned to cinders. Yet, I feel a strange sense of relief instead of sorrow or retaliation—just for a split second. It consumes my entire body like I’ve taken my first breath in all my twenty-three years, and then, it’s gone.

     ‘Please,’ I whisper with a sob, staggering to my feet. ‘I need you to—’ I stop, thinking he’s about to give me what I want, his fingers curling around my neck as soon as I stand before him.

      His essence envelops me, and I realise he’s about to kiss me.

      When our lips press together, it’s neither the force I’m accustomed to nor does it feel as wrong as it did with Ron. It’s slow and meditative as if we have been lovers forever, and it’s the only way he knows to reassure me and end my foolishness. I don’t understand this response. I’m losing my mind, but suddenly, I can feel everything: the way he consumes me, as if sincerely desiring to possess me, bones to heart, spirit, and mind.

     He feels and tastes so fucking good.

     It hurts.

     It aches in a splintering way that encourages torrents of hot tears to stream down my cheeks. I’ve cried so much already, and I’m sickened by this grief that insists on feeding off my strength. I open my eyes to moan as our tongues curl, widening in disbelief at the sight.

     It’s not black hair that greets me, but bleach; bone-white strands graze the top of his mask, and I hear the familiar screams that resound from it: tortured souls echoing as the paws, claws, and teeth rip the doomed souls apart. The longer I stare, the more I find myself slipping into that terrible abyss.

     I blink, and blue eyes glare back at me.

     I must be dreaming. If I force my eyes shut, I’ll be back in my bedroom, opening my eyes for the first time. But I’m still here, and so is he. I don’t understand how he is here, how someone could be undeniably dead but return to torment me. Is it all an illusion? I want to believe it is, but he looks like a man with features more defined and shaped than they should be for our age. He resembles the vision from last night by the lake, devoid of any boyish softness.

     The heat from the house must be spurring this delirium because I’m suddenly hot and frustrated. Only the spirits of the house know that I’ve played with myself before, beneath the sheets, when Ron wasn’t home. Only they know I’ve never uttered Ron’s name while I came. I’ve only done it during those low moments when my pride abandoned me.

     Oh my god. What am I doing? I try to pull our lips apart, but he won’t let me.

     He closes his eyes and becomes more persistent with his tongue. It’s so intoxicating that I lose myself and am taken back to a time when this might have been real. I don’t know if he is real or not, but the tears continue to flow because somewhere inside me, I acknowledge that I have been fragmented ever since I realised he died, and the rest is blank.

     When I open my eyes to embrace the impossible reverie, the devil is back. My mind is reeling with the impossible magic he displays. He revived the rose notes I burned all those years ago. It’s a recent resurgence for me, but I remember they were the first to burn, followed by the diary.

     Baal breaks the kiss, his face illuminated by the firelight. ‘Give me your hand,’ he commands in that tone I’m all too familiar with. It means I have no choice.

     Regardless, I lift my chin to him. Despite the blazing house, my warm, wet lips become cold from exposure to the elements. ‘Have you decided to rape me?’ My voice is coarse.

     He smiles. ‘Is that what you want?’

     My lip trembles. ‘I’m married. Of course, it’s not what I want, but if it’s what you want and it will satisfy your torment of me, then do it. Please.’

     The customary smirk resumes, curving his beautiful mouth.

     ‘You like to say that you’re married. But where, oh where, is your husband?’ He leans in, his breath caressing the side of my face. ‘And where was your husband when you were grinding your pussy against another man in a cave?’ I turn my head to consider him, noticing his eyes are filled with delight at watching the flames licking at every wall. ‘Where is he now when his wife needs him most?’

      I don’t know how to respond.

     He leans closer, caressing the sensitive spot just beneath my earlobe. He blocks my face; all I can smell is an intense musk mingling with the surrounding smoke. He breathes, and I feel it pebble my skin. I grow increasingly at ease when suddenly, his rough hand grips my chin, forcing my face an inch from his. Yes. This is what I wanted. Force me.

     With a heavy-lidded glare, he growls, ‘What you need to understand, Hermione, is that pissing me will result in consequences you will regret.’ Flames consume his eyes. ‘You’ll see.’ He smiles, intensifying his petrifying aura. ‘Just know that I will fuck you over his body, and that’s a promise. Your husband will know that his docile little wife took my dick to the back of her throat and relished every second. I’m sure you understand the implications of my threat?’

     I swallow, feeling how restricted the action is since my head is nearly turned skyward.

     ‘Nod your understanding,’ he orders.

     I shake my head.

     ‘Wrong answer.’

     My face is turned toward the house, and its foundations are now visible. The timber is black and almost charred. My spine is twisted uncomfortably, putting strain on my lower back, yet I don’t flinch. I watch the scene unfold without a shred of feeling.

     ‘Have you forgotten something?’ His lips graze the same spot, sending shivers down my spine. I can’t even focus on the house; my heart can’t break at the sight of it. ‘Think very carefully about what you’re doing.’

     How do I tell him that I can’t think?

     My body twists back towards him, alleviating the strain I was fighting.

     Instead of intimidating me with his black hair and silver eyes, Draco stands before me again. I didn’t even notice my hand being raised, held just an inch from his face. The wearied limb is almost entirely limp. I realise my soiled skin is swollen and bright pink, nearly red. Several long cuts slash the flesh, probably from when I mindlessly smashed the vase repeatedly into the sink. The entire situation is severely fucking with my head, and that’s likely his intention.

     ‘Don’t,’ I manage to grate, expecting him to lick the blood like the sick masochist he is.

     His smirk deepens. ‘Don’t what? ’ The voice is identical to the one I recall, if not huskier.

     ‘Whatever you’re about to do. Stop it.’ I go to pull my arm back, but I can’t.

     ‘Don’t do this?’ He brings my crooked fingers to his lips, watching for my reaction. If he wants me to be disgusted, I’m not. My body feels numb, and when he sucks the injured finger into his mouth, taking it to the knuckle, I watch him with heavy eyes as a new wave of exhaustion washes over me. When he pulls back, releasing my arm, it slumps back into my side.

     ‘And this?’ His lips part, exposing his tongue where something golden glints around the tip of it.

     What is that? It’s almost familiar, but my thoughts are too foggy to piece anything together. When I don’t say anything, he licks his top lip with it, and I realise he’s stolen my wedding ring. If I could dart an arm out to retrieve it, I would have. All I can do is glare at his penetrating blue eyes, the same ones that have haunted me for as long as I can remember, as he swallows my wedding ring. Ping!

     ‘You should check that,’ he says with a hint of humour, reaching into his waistcoat pocket.

     The moment his words sink in, I feel it right away. The searing warmth is replaced by the icy gales of the highlands, blowing from all sides. I have abandoned my dressing gown, and the sudden cold startles my body into a tremor. How is it possible that my phone survived the fire? I realise the answer almost as soon as I turn my head, greeted by unscathed walls.

     There was no fire; the only smell of smoke originates from his cigarette.

     He’s waiting for me to unlock the screen, and when I do, every warm drop of blood beneath my skin dissolves into nothingness.

Chapter Text

The red petals and emerald stems litter the thick blanket of snow, discarded wrathfully. She tore the flower buds from their leafy bodies, flinging them out the dormitory window before anyone else could witness the bountiful bouquet I had placed on her bedside. As an added gesture, I plucked out her secret diary from its hiding place, situating it next to my gift, with the gold necklace sticking out of the pages.

      At least she didn’t throw the necklace with it.

      I smile at the sight of the red and green carnage at my feet. Her resentment is blithe to my crepuscular existence, shining above all things. When I found her on the terrace, writing and practically sobbing about how her feelings towards me and what I had done, I was tempted to let her smite me. One day, she will know what my surrender feels like. It will only happen when she’s on top of me, grinding her sweet cunt until sweat trickles down her cheek. Even then, it will only be a momentary lapse in our perverse game of cat and mouse.

      With one last look at her window, I turn my back, letting the disguise reshape my features and stature.

      The wind howls, and I notice the slip of dark brown hair momentarily obstructing my eyes. Once I’ve bypassed the protections that fortify Hogwarts, I feel altogether different. I realise how effectively the charm has worked when Fenrir Greyback emerges from a cluster of pines with his wand pointed at me.

      ‘Put it down, you ugly piece of shit. It’s me,’ I say with a terse tenor.

      In response, he snarls, showing me his teeth before pocketing the wand.

      At this point, all I need is a slight excuse, and I’ll happily kill this children-eating prick. Tolerating him and the rest of the Death Eaters is a reality I will relish to jilt once my plan is solidified with fire and brimstone. They think I can be manipulated because my father is in Azkaban—that I’m a naïve little schoolboy who can be influenced into an ass-eating soldier for the Dark Lord. I look solemn by my mother’s side, pretending to care about my family's fate.

      It’s an easy pretence.

      The reality is that if my father deteriorates in his incarceration, he will thank the fates for being spared what I have planned for him if he lives. It will be so deliciously demoralising for my mother that she will join his side before I have to lay a finger on her.

      I shoulder past Greyback, who stares at me dumbfounded. ‘What do you look like? We aren’t attending a beauty pageant, pretty boy.’

      He can’t see my smile as I continue walking into the forest. ‘This pretty face will assure both your wife and daughter the pretence of joining me in my bed before I severe their limbs and dispatch each one to you. I’d call that an effective front.’

      He sneers, but it doesn’t harbour any of the expected sentiments of a wizard who has just had his family threatened. The hairy fiend doesn’t carry a shred of regard towards anything but himself. There are reasons evil people do malicious things; the ones out for themselves are my favourite to eradicate.

      ‘Take the wife,’ he sneers, and I’m rudely welcomed by visions of a Were woman beaten bloody and blue and a young girl who has to escape home to prevent a similar fate.

      I hear his steps crunching the snow behind me. ‘The daughter’s marrying her cousin next week, and I’m taking the manor once I get close enough to kill my brother.’

      I shrug off the visuals. ‘Is that right?’ Fuck. I have to remind myself why I’m doing this before I slip up and crush his skull into one of the pine’s pointed branches.

      He catches up to my side. ‘I’ve been waiting a long time to massacre his lineage. The Dark Lord vows to support my position when the other Were clans declare a feud.’

      I hum in response. I couldn’t give a rat’s ass what happened to him and his sordid kind. The best-case scenario is they eradicate themselves during the expected upheaval. He doesn’t shut his fucking trap until we reach the portkey, meeting two other cloaked figures: Pius Thicknesse and Corban Yaxley. Unfortunately for me, Voldemort seems to be scraping the grime from the bottom of a barrel based on the swine I’m having to put up with.

      Bemused to them, I hear the loathing they all harbour for each other; it sings in their thoughts as they grin while greeting us. Yaxley extends a hand to me, offering me the infamous mask, and I accept it.

      ‘This is the Malfoy heir?’ Thicknesse asks with drawn brows.

      Greyback sniggers next to me.

      ‘An effective disguise. You’ve mastered the Polyjuice?’ Yaxley inputs.

       I give him a curt nod. I’ve never needed potions to become who I am. I have boundless faces, but most notably, three. The reality is that they are beholding this particular form will guarantee their eventual deaths. My girl named this one the first time she met me as a little girl, though she tries to forget it. It’s the author of her father’s favourite book—my favourite book, too.

      I can’t wait for her to see it again one day.

      We teleport to Thicknesses’ manor. The journey is more gruelling as my façade falls away. At the entrance, I catch a slip of white hair that I brush away from my forehead. The large door opens to reveal countless figures, darkening each corner of the foyer and beholding us with suspicious and greedy intent.

      Bellatrix entwines herself to my side before I can absorb the faces in the gathering.

      ‘Draco Malfoy has arrived,’ I hear the Dark Lord drawl from an unseen source, silencing the murmurs and snarls. ‘Bring him to me.’

      The Dark Mark stains the pale flesh of my forearm.

      Concealing it is far easier than I had predicted. Everything has slip-ups and loopholes, and I’m learning each carefully and attentively. I wrap up the mask with the cloak and slip it into a chest underneath my bed.

      ‘So,’ Zabini drawls from the armchair next to the window, blowing ribbons of smoke that spiral towards the curved moon. ‘Is this phase two? One? You’re always so vague when it comes to the details.’

      I grin. ‘That’s because I don’t do phases.’

      He thinks about that momentarily, letting another more pressing thought rise to the forefront. ‘Why not just eradicate all the Death Eaters and Voldemort? Quite frankly, they're getting on my nerves, meddling and assembling in the forest.’ He inhales the smoke deeply. ‘If what you say is true and he’s planning on making a deal with the Dementors, then I’m as good as prey every time I step into the trees.’

      I pluck a cigarette from the ashtray on the small table beside him. ‘You can rest assured that he hasn’t done it yet.’ Plucking the lighter from my pocket, I spark the end to life.

      ‘And how certain are you on the validity of your… abilities?’ He uncrosses his legs. ‘What if Voldemort knows what you are? Or what if he’s good at disguising his true intentions in the likelihood that someone around him is an impossibly good Legilimen?’

      ‘Not possible,’ I reply dismissively.

      He furrows his brows. ‘What if—’

      ‘It’s. Not. Possible.’ I take a long drag, summoning a shred of tolerance for the onslaught of questions he’s been hounding me with since I allowed him a glimpse into my world. ‘Yes, it’s a long game, Zabini. It will be a lengthy and monotonous spectacle.’ I blow out the smoke deliberately. ‘But I'm very, very, very patient. That’s all you need to understand.’ I almost laugh at the declaration, considering how impatient I can be.

      He smokes thoughtfully and silently for a while, allowing me a moment to close my eyes when I lean my right shoulder against the tall window frame. In the darkness, I watch the threads of thoughts come together as Zabini pieces together the morsels of ideas I’ve given him.

      He opens his mouth, but I know the conclusion he’s drawn before he speaks it. ‘You’re allowing the terror of Voldemort to disguise a far greater threat, which is…you.’ His mind resumes to reel as he continues, ‘You don’t care what he does or whom he destroys as long as it’s not your girl. And once he’s appropriately rattled the wizarding world, you’ll be able to take her?’ His last words are a little uncertain.

      ‘Sure.’ Something like that.

      After a long silence, I slit my eyes to find him brushing a hand through his coarse, short hair. He meets my eyes. ‘You know everything he intends to do? No detail spared?’

      I incline my head in a brusque yes.

     ‘Well, fair enough then,’ he gives me a short, uneasy smile. ‘What do you need me to do?’

     ‘Nothing,’ I put out the fag end in the ashtray. ‘You’ll know when and if I need something from you. You can sleep easily for now, knowing you and your girl will come out of this unscathed.’

      He grazes a finger against his bottom lip. ‘How do you know I can be trusted?’

      I smile a fatal, cautionary grin. ‘Because I can see everything in your mind. You’re scared of me; somehow, I’m the only person you can sincerely trust. We share similar goals, and that offers you a semblance of solace. Am I wrong?’

      ‘No,’ he confirms cooly, growing self-conscious at the prospect of what I can see. ‘Am I right to be scared?’ he meets my gaze again, and I’m confronted with someone who has the potential to be as twisted as I am if he harboured just a shred of my powers.

      ‘Yes,’ I retort frankly with a hint of humour. ‘I’ll see you at our first lesson.’ I incline my head to the door.

      ‘Busy night?’ he gives me a sly grin. ‘Alright.’ He lifts his arms, giving me the palms of his hands. ‘Good chat, mate.’ After patting me on the shoulder, he leaves.

      ‘Don’t give it your hand, Mr Longbottom!’ Professor Sprout bellows with her generous lung capacity, startling every student with a quill in their hand. They shudder again when the grating door to the classroom opens and slams shut.

      The seating area has been changed, curtsy of both Sprout and me, though she doesn’t know my hand in the meddling of the chart. The long table with the deadly plants at its center has returned, and I’d rather eat my hand than watch my girl sandwiched between two guys, which was the initial seating. Instead, she’s scooted so far to the right that there’s a gap big enough for another person between us.

      I surreptitiously watch as the venomous plant withdraws any attempts to harm her. It darts to strike anything that breathes but not her. She doesn’t give it too much thought while twirling a stem around her finger, letting the leaf tickle her skin. Everyone around us is too preoccupied to notice. If only she knew the significance of what she was doing. Since the night of Halloween, I sense her more than ever. Semele stirs just beneath the surface of her consciousness.

      Maybe this one’s ill, she muses, and after a moment, she bows over her work, quill moving erratically across the scroll.

      ‘Miss Granger, will you scoot along the bench so we make room for our late arrival.’ Professor Sprout sweeps past my back, glossing over each student’s work. ‘Quickly, now.’ She stops behind Hermione until she obliges with a grunt, sliding on the bench until there’s an appropriate gap between us.

      If she thinks I’m anywhere near rattled by her silent treatment, occasional growl and habitual scowls, then my girl needs to realise that I sincerely don’t give a fuck about her bratty act. If she thinks returning McLaggen’s flirty smile with a shy grin during meals has bypassed me… well. I know what she’s doing; all the scenarios she fabricates in her mind that don’t involve me. She tries to meddle with her memories to forget how I make her feel, which works to a certain extent until confronted with the root of the feeling itself.  

      It will never work, and I can’t wait to show her how unsuccessful her fight has been.

      She’s so hyperaware of my proximity; it’s all she thinks about while crafting an immaculate essay about Venomous Tantacula. Once she’s finished, she’ll be granted early leave from the lesson to hide in the library until her heart has settled and her callous front towards me reassumed.

      I grin as I lean over my scroll.

      ‘What the fuck!’ Beside me, Zabini feverishly begins rubbing his hair. ‘It bit a chunk of my hair off!’ He picks up the discarded black ball of hair the plant spat out.

      ‘It happens,’ Professor Sprout roars from the other end of the table. ‘Keep your hair to yourselves unless you want to shave a bit off.’ Her chuckle makes Zabini visibly clench.

      ‘Stupid cunt,’ he murmurs under his breath, shooting me a glare. ‘I’ll tuck the plant into bed with her and see how she likes waking up bald. Too bad she’ll be immobilised to do anything about it.’

      ‘Blaise!’ Hermione practically shrills beside me. ‘You can’t say that.’

      He bites his lip, keeping the frustrated retort to himself. I, on the other hand, would rather see her turn my favourite shade of red. I turn to her, keeping my eyes steadily on hers, when I say, ‘Shut that bratty mouth and turn back to your essay.’ Her brows furrow, face growing exceedingly exasperated at my sudden harshness. She drops her eyes from mine.

      ‘That’s right. Go and keep writing like a good girl; see if Sprout gives a shit about your obnoxious bibliography,’ I say with a jeering tone.

      ‘Shut up,’ she bites out quietly, bottom lip trembling as she reaches for the discarded quill.

      ‘Hmn?’ I slap my hand over it as her finger grazes the feathery fibres. ‘Why don’t you say it again? See what happens.’ I lean into her space, barely keeping the cruel elation from curving my lips. ‘I dare you.’

      ‘No,’ her tone is withdrawn as her eyes dart about the table, seeing if anyone is watching us. ‘Give me back my quill and leave me the fuck alone, Malfoy.’

       I’m biting the inside of my mouth, considering how far I want to take this. Should I make an example of her? To illustrate to everyone how meek she is when confronted with me. I can’t wait until she sees what I have planned for McLaggen.

      I drop my tone to a deadly timbre as I lean further until her hair grazes my cheek. She can’t recoil from me, seeing as someone is behind her. ‘Still telling me to fuck off, huh? Wait and see.’

      Her face has flushed to that devastating red that makes me inwardly groan.

      At least she doesn’t manage to finish her essay early; her nerves distract every attempt she makes at being absorbed in her work. When the lesson is finished, she’s already screwed on the lid for her ink and rolled the scroll up tightly before bolting out of her seat and running to the girl’s toilets.

      ‘You agreed to what, and for what?’ Zabini tucks his hands into his trouser pockets, tailing me with a lazy gait. ‘But why?’

      ‘I don’t have a choice,’ I say briskly. ‘He’s the son of one of the Death Eaters accused of conniving against the Dark Lord.’

      His step increases. ‘Are his parents being executed?’

      ‘Trialled.’ I fidget with my shirt sleeve, tempted to roll it up if it wasn’t for the Dark Mark. ‘He has a quidditch match to play, and that’s all I’ve been told.’

      ‘So you’re going to drink Polyjuice and play on his behalf?’

      We round a corner into one of the isolated bathrooms, where I spot the duffle bag carrying the guy’s Seeker attire in a shadowy corner. Snape must’ve just left, meaning Blaise needs to get out before anyone picks up on the signs.

      ‘Go. I’ll find you after the match,’ I say while retrieving the bag. I riffle through the contents, finding a Seeker’s uniform. He’s bigger than I was when I played the team’s Seeker. It fits me perfectly now, which is promising. If I had to get accustomed to a different body mass and size, it may raise a problem when attempting to keep my balance on the broom. A Nimbus 2001 sits at the bottom of the bag.

      When I go to the basins gathered in the center of the room, he's still standing by the door. ‘No Polyjuice?’ he asks with arms crossed, leaning into the frame.

      ‘I don’t need it,’ I retort bluntly, dropping the clothes in one sink.

      He hums, letting me see the assumption in his thoughts instead of voicing them aloud. ‘Well, good luck then. I’ll be cheering you on.’

      I laugh dryly while unbuttoning my white shirt from the top down.

      The door groans back into its hinges at his departure. I bow into the sink with my shirt undone, running the cold tap to drench my face and chest. I let the water run down my body before pulling out a fag. I haven’t needed a lighter for a while, and the end comes to life almost immediately as I bring it to my lips. The floor-to-ceiling windows are misted with a perpetual haze, and I can only about make out the Quidditch stadium in the distance.  

      I slip off my shirt, tucking it into the crook of my arm before turning to the mirrors above the sinks with the cigarette caught between my lips.

     My hair has already changed to mimic the Seeker: raven black, longer at the top, with a fade on the sides. I turn my head to consider it better, finding a strange familiarity in seeing myself this way. When I see him sometimes in the mirror instead of my reflection, the visual is remarkably similar to what I see now. My white hair will be replaced with black; my face my own or, often, altered altogether—with striking, enigmatic features belonging to someone otherworldly and older.

      I incline my head, blowing out smoke from my nose.

      While reviewing the Seeker’s habits and game tactics, I noticed that, as far as he knows, his parents are guilty and are being used as an example to fluster the Dark Lord’s numbers. Fear makes people slip up and do things they usually wouldn’t do out of desperation. I push the thought aside and focus on the upcoming game.

      Once I’ve successfully changed and fitted myself in the Slytherin Quidditch team’s attire, I hide the evidence and make my way to the door with the Nimbus in hand. I flex my fingers around the handle, getting used to the unfamiliar digits. In the mirror, I’m a stranger to myself: bright green eyes beneath thick, dark brows and an easy smile that slips whenever I put the charm on. Despite being a Slytherin, he’s charismatic and appeals to all students with his amicable demeanour.

      He's used to winning, but today he’ll have to lose.

      ‘What happened out there, Gottfried?’ The Slytherin Captain jogs to my side, his steely gaze boring into the side of my face.

      ‘Got some stuff on my mind. I’ll double my training to make up for it,’ I say precisely as the Seeker would.

      ‘This is the first loss of the season.’ The captain puts an arm on my shoulder to stop me as the Hufflepuff’s cheering grows to a deafening volume. ‘Are you sure you’re alright?’ he says finally.

      ‘Hunky-dory, mate,’ I reply quickly. ‘I’m going to take a long shower. Don’t wait for me.’

      I increase my pace lest anyone else catch up to me. When I shoulder past a group of girls that won’t move but instead incline their bodies towards me, I almost scowl before remembering the flirty grin the Seeker is known for offering.

      ‘You did great, Gottfried,’ one of them says.

      ‘You were amazing,’ another one chips in.

      I roll my eyes before glancing over my shoulder. ‘Have a good night, girls.’

      They swoon and crowd together animatedly, squirming and giggling. This life is certainly not for me, and witnessing this pathetic demonstration projected at me only makes me gladder that I scared away any girl who looked at me a certain way or made the ones who told their friends they had a crush on me cry.

      The path back to the school is mostly empty, and I walk it quickly. It was a shit game; the only part of it I enjoyed was the flying itself. It would have been too easy to take home the win; their Seeker was sloppy, and I practically handed him the Golden Snitch in my own two hands. But there was no other way: I’d be stuck celebrating all evening with the Slytherins if I hadn’t slackened my chase on the Snitch in the most inconspicuous way possible.

      Gottfried didn’t live up to his reputation, and he’ll have to deal with that when he returns.

      The door to the isolated lavatories groans shut, and that’s when I decide to stop the water and wrap the cream towel around my waist before stepping out, still dripping. If I had known my day would end like this every time, I may grow tempted to do this again. I round the corner; the humidity of my long shower has enclosed the room with an impenetrable mist.

      But I know exactly who’s here. I knew it when I took the path back to the castle, my silent stalker following from afar.

      ‘I knew it,’ she says, still standing by the door as if anticipating to make a run for it. ‘It was you.’

      I pass a fogged-up mirror, noticing that my hair has changed back. With a slight prompt, I beckon the mist to clear around her so I can see her better. She’s enjoying not being seen, as if it gives her some leverage, that she could disappear as soon as this conversation goes south.

      Her spine prickles when she realises she’s not as hidden as hoped.

      ‘What do you know exactly?’ I counter, leaning back to rest on the basin, my hands holding either side.  

       Her glower roams greedily over my water-slicked form before settling on my face and narrowing when her suspicions aren’t physically confirmed. Her face is flushed from the steam and the thick grey jumper she’s wearing over her uniform. She’s gained a little more self-control over the last few months. Her thoughts don’t immediately congregate with thoughts about sex because she shames herself against entertaining it.

       She holds my eyes. ‘You played really bad. It didn’t make sense that Gottfried held back from his usual tactics, and it made even less sense when I noticed one of your signature deflects. You performed poorly, even for yourself. If anyone finds out about this duplicity, you’ll be in big—’

      ‘So keep your mouth shut,’ I intercept sharply.

      ‘Why?’ she steels her spine, crossing her arms against her chest. ‘Why would I do that for you? Maybe I’d like to get back at you for what you did to Ron and how you traumatised me in that forest. What about how you treated me during Herbology? Maybe…’ She takes a step away from the door. ‘I should warn the professors about your terrifying abilities and how you insist on leaving flowers on my bedside. It’s alarmingly disturbing to sneak into the girl’s dormitories. They take things like that very seriously.’

      I suck my bottom lip to suppress a cruel smile. My god. If only she knew the extent of it.

      ‘So do it,’ I say cooly. ‘Warn them, and have me removed.’

       She bites her lip, bewildered by my unexpected retort. I have to give credit to her because she’s seriously considering it, which vaguely surprises me. Her Gryffindor righteousness is whirling with ideas about how bad I am—how good it would be for everyone if I left and that she could finally feel a part of her friend group without shame and guilt for what has transpired between us.

      ‘I will,’ she resolves, flipping her curls back. ‘Maybe you’ll discover some redeeming qualities in all your free time.’ She whirls on the spot. ‘God knows you need it.’

      ‘What if I don’t want to be redeemed?’ I retort before she steps towards the door. ‘Maybe you don’t understand…’ I will the door lock by its invisible, mechanical mechanism that makes her jump. ‘I can’t be good.’

      She whirls back to me. ‘Are you locking me in here, Malfoy? Because if you are, I will fucking scream until the whole school is banging on the door.’

      I smile as I sense her muscles tense in alarm. ‘No. No, you won’t.’

      The spell obstructs her mouth as her eyes widen and bulge with the anticipated cry for help. She realises in horror and turns to the door, banging against it with hysterical fists. I let her do it—let her work herself into a frenzy because I know there isn’t a single soul within our proximity to hear her.  

      My girl grunts and growls, almost like a rabid animal. It’s quite a sight, and I’m patiently waiting for the next phase of her frustration. Her hair is a wild mess when she turns back to me, flushed and snivelling. I don't care to hear what she's thinking. I know if I did, it would only make me want to do worse to her than I intended.

      ‘Do you remember what I said during Herbology?’ I wait for her burning eyes to widen with recollection, but she’s far too angry to remember. ‘Wait and see. That’s what I said.’ I readjust my seat on the basin. ‘Now you’re going to do something for me before I let you out. Come here.’

      She doesn’t move.

      ‘Come here, Hermione,’ I beckon softly.

      She shakes her head.

      ‘You keep playing games, but the only one suffering is you.’ I push away from the sink, strolling towards her. ‘Because you lose yourself every time you deny this. So keep fighting me. Scream about how much of a monster I am, all while knowing how much you love this.’ She’s frozen in place when I’m within reach, my hand darting to her mouth. I graze her lip with my thumb, waiting for her eyes to meet mine with less malevolence.

      They're shaky when she finally lifts them from my chest. ‘You can’t pretend around me. I see you.’ I stare at the soft, fleshy skin while kneading it, mesmerised at how a bit of skin can affect me. ‘Now, get on your knees.’

      She drops suddenly, astounded at how it happened.

      ‘And you’ll take what I give you. Understood?’ I say with a sly smile.

      She nods at my prompt.

      If she wants a demonstration of my terrifying abilities, she can experience them first-hand. Every time she tries to resist me from now on, it will come with a price.

      ‘Good,’ I say, the anticipation prickling my skin at her intimate position. ‘Remove the towel.’

      She obliges with wide eyes, startled at her passivity when, on the inside, she’s fighting to regain control of her body. As soon as her fingers tuck into my waistline, undoing the damp fabric of the towel which falls on her lap, I bite the inside of my mouth.

      Her eyes look like they want to burst out of her head, and she swallows.

      ‘This is for pissing me off—for all the weeks you’ve spent glowering at me, talking shit about me, and disregarding the promise you made me.’ I wrap my fingers around the crown of her head, making her look up at me with that beautiful, terrified expression.

      ‘There are consequences to your disobedience towards me. The sooner you learn it, the better it will feel.’ I inch her head to confront my hard cock. ‘Open up and receive your punishment.’

      She does exactly as I say, and as soon as her wet, fleshy lips wrap around the tip, I groan and momentarily let my head fall back. The pleasure is blinding. All those nights I spent teasing the idea of shoving it down her throat while she slept, coating her lips in my come, couldn’t prepare me for the real thing.

      Her teeth graze, and I tighten my hold on her head, pulling her back slightly. ‘Careful, baby. I know you don’t know what you’re doing, so relax your jaw and go with it. Let your mouth get wet.’

      She refuses to look at me as she follows my instruction, sucking me back in and getting used to the feeling. The steam swirls around her, casting her in an ethereal aura. There has never been anything more beautiful, alluring and radiant than she. My girl’s on her knees before me, where she belongs, yet I feel I should be on the ground before her, revering her every step.

      My head falls back again, and I feel her squirm every time she accidentally grazes me, but I don’t mind. There is no technique to how she’s devouring me, growing a little more confident with each inch. Fate made it so that we would be each other’s first.

      I release my hand from her hair to steady myself on the sink when the sensation grows to a blinding edge. ‘That’s—’

      ‘Seamus said he saw her taking the steps.’ The voice is just outside the building, on the threshold of the wing. ‘They don’t use this part of the castle anymore. Wasn’t it because…’ I tune the voices of Potter and Longbottom out before resolving to pull back. The frustration of the intrusion is rage-inducing, and I have to boil it down to keep my composure before I allow it to slip and do something despicable.

      The spit glistening my cock is such a fucking waste. She's not looking at me, I realise. Her eyes are fixed with a startled realisation at the Dark Mark on my forearm.

      ‘You're free to go. Get out,’ I say, forcing her attention back to me.

      She shakes her head, confused, lips glistening and wondering if she’s doing something wrong.

      ‘Go,’ I growl. ‘The spell will break once you’re out the door.’

       Without waiting for another word, she quickly gets to her feet, equally doubtful and relieved, not yet realising she’s soaked the fabric of her underwear. Her mind is reeling with concern at what she’s done—or hasn’t achieved, and the newfound realisation that I may be someone much more terrible than she initially perceived. She can barely contain the disappointment from choking her throat as she steps out without another glance, moments away from bumping into her friends.

       I rub my face with the palm of my hand, wondering how the fuck I’m going to keep the monster inside of me contained for another day. 

Chapter Text

And they tell me you are evil,

and I answer: Yes, I know.

Patricia Smith

‘As much as I relish toying with that pretty, insolent mind of yours…’ The shingle crunches beneath his feet. ‘I warned you, Hermione.’ The wood groans as he takes the first step onto the porch. ‘Didn’t I, baby? I told you what would happen, but you insisted on pissing me off.’

      My phone slips out of my fingers, landing with a crash. The smile curving his lips is the most perverse sight I have ever witnessed. There is no remorse in his expression at what he’s done. The mask resting on his cheekbones continues to resound with abysmal influence. I have never felt more terrified in all my life than I do now.

      It has to be a mindfuck. I’m shaking profusely.

      I blink, and all at once, it’s Draco walking towards me with black hair. My vision flickers again, and it’s Draco wearing a Death Eater mask. My eyes flash, and the mask is gone. He’s standing before me, black-haired and terrible, lifting my chin to behold his face.

     ‘Didn’t I warn you?’

     Tears spring to my eyes; I can’t utter a single syllable.

     He forces my head to nod in yes. ‘You promised me you were mine, Hermione.’ He leans into my face to whisper, ‘Friends don’t betray each other, do they? But you seem to crave the taste of penance, and I’m all too eager to deliver it.’

     I’m about to state the obvious, but I’d be repeating our interaction from last night.

     He leans back, spreading those terrible lips further. ‘Your husband is waiting for you upstairs. I brought him to you so you could talk it out. Aren’t I good to you?’

     I shake my head, releasing the tears that quickly bypass my cheeks, gathering in his fingers.

     ‘Go and see him,’ he encourages, retracting his hand. I watch him lick the tears before the door behind me suddenly bursts open.

     He watches me with his daunting, heart-wrenching silver eyes as I step backwards, still in a daze. My eyes are dry from staring at him in shock and disbelief. When I blink, he’s gone, and I manage to turn and stagger towards the stairs. The screenshot he sent me embosses my mind; it’s all I can see as I traverse each step, stunned, distraught, and on the threshold of collapse.

     My life.

     My marriage.

     My Ron.

     When I enter, the bedroom door is wide open. The curtains are drawn, making the room an impenetrable abyss. ‘Ron,’ I murmur, taking a shaky step toward the tall lamp beside my vanity. I feel for the switch, and it clicks into place; I fall to my knees.

     ‘RON!’ I crawl across the bedroom floor, rumpling the rug. ‘RON!’

     Reaching the bed, I pull at the sheets to help me up. He’s sat straight-legged atop them, wearing the same outfit I watched him leave in this morning, the boots still on and dirtied at the soles. I clutch onto pieces of dry mud as I haul my body towards him. He doesn’t even flinch.

     ‘Ron? My love?’ I keep pulling myself towards his petrified form. His arms are draped on either side of him, fingers curled and pale. Everything about him is pallid. His skin is colourless, and his bright blue eyes stare vacantly beyond—it’s almost precisely what happened to me in my second year at Hogwarts. I don’t know what spell is holding him captive or whether he can perceive me.

     I grasp his hand, entwining my fingers into the marble limbs. ‘My love. I’m so sorry. I should’ve told you. I should’ve told you everything.’

     Any morsel of strength that pushed my body beyond its limitations has abandoned me. I can’t even lift my legs off the floor to join his side, and when I slump forward, releasing his fingers in case I pull him towards me and break him, the front of my body plummets on the bedsheets as my knees give up. The howls, wails, and screams that rip out of me shred my throat to pieces.

     I look up at him again. ‘I’m so sorry, Ron.’ I parrot the exact words over and over until my voice breaks. ‘I’m so so sorry.’ My face buries into the sheets again, and all I can see is the screenshot: the video of me sucking that monster all those nights ago, sent to my husband.

     Unknown Number:

     (Video)

     Your wife is one good fuck toy.

     Ron:

     WHO THE FUCK IS THIS?????

      If Ron watched it all, he would see me open my mouth after he came down my throat to show the camera that I swallowed everything he forced me to take.

      The door clicks shut behind me.

      ‘Time to get on the bed, baby,’ the silky voice intrudes.

       My head snaps up. I think I’m delirious when I perceive Draco wearing his Death Eater mask, staring directly at my husband. It can’t get this bad—it can’t possibly become any more terrible. He steps into the room before pulling off the mask from the chin up, turning his hair black again. He discards it on the vanity, resting it against the mirror so it faces us.

      ‘Bed. Hermione, now,’ he grills.

      I don’t know what else to do but to oblige him. If I fight him, what else will he do to Ron? I don’t even have my wand; I can’t see Ron’s either.

      My legs straighten unsteadily, and when I collapse atop the bed, I frantically crawl across the queen-sized bed to reach Ron’s side before my legs are pulled from under me.

      Draco drags me to him with his hands bruising my ankles. ‘I didn’t fucking say that you could go to him. Did I, baby?’

      All I manage is a shriek as I begin clawing at the sheets.

      ‘Your wife is one bad, bad girl.’ He lifts me from the waist, carrying me to Ron’s side of the bed and settling me on his lap as he sits down. ‘Do you know what I do to bad girls?’

      I can’t tell if he’s talking to me, Ron, or both. ‘STOP!

      The t-shirt that certainly doesn’t belong to me is being lifted, exposing my granny pants and bloody pad in Ron’s direction. I start wriggling in his unrelenting hold, hoping any movement will help roll off his thighs and onto the floor.

     ‘Stop,’ I squeal, barely a whisper.

     He pulls the underwear down, letting it gather halfway down my legs. He chuckles when I flail my legs. ‘He can still hear and see us. Don’t pretend you aren’t loving this.’

     I thrash my arms while rasping, ‘I’m not!’

     ‘Don’t fucking lie,’ he bites out, close to my ear. ‘Why don’t you tell him, Hermione? Tell him how good it was when I devoured your cunt.’ A harsh slap lands on my cheek, and I scream, ravaging my throat. ‘And how much you relished taking my dick to the back of your throat.’ A succession of slaps land in the same area, making me sob. ‘Tell him how badly you want me to rape this tight little hole.’ His fingers graze my cleft, skimming and probing my asshole.

     ‘Why don’t we show him how terrible you are for taking everything I have to give and loving it,’ he reveals, pulling back his fingers; they return damp. ‘Are you going to continue lying to yourself? To him?’ He chuckles a cruel and malicious sound. ‘Weren’t you just begging me outside to rape you? To take what I want and that you would spread your legs for me like a good girl?’

      Another succession of slaps stun me just as I had been about to argue.

      He resumes grazing the area, teasing the tip of his finger until it eventually slips in, and I clench. ‘That’s it. Get used to the feeling.’ I suck the finger as it moves in and out until another one forces its way inside. ‘You’re doing such a good job,’ he croons. ‘Fuck. You’re gushing blood all over yourself.’

     The next series of slaps on either cheek is so paralysing that I slump over in defeat. The sensation of him playing with my hole is lulling me into a suspended consciousness. For a second, I don’t feel any shame or guilt that Ron is watching. It seems bizarre to feel this way in my current position and predicament. 

     ‘Get up,’ he barks abruptly, and without warning, he gets up, and I’m stumbling to grasp onto something to support me. ‘Get back on the bed and wait for me on all fours.’

     I wait for my damp eyes to focus on him before obliging. He’s shrugged off his waistcoat and begins unbuttoning his shirt, revealing dark lines and shapes tattooed all over his chest and waist, forming visuals I can’t even process in my current state.

     The blackbird is the only thing I remember, sitting tauntingly above the line of his trousers. The white shirt drops, and I climb over Ron’s legs, putting as much distance between us as possible. Suddenly, my ankles are being forced again, pulling me back to my husband while lifting the t-shirt to scrunch around my shoulders.

      Draco titters. ‘Keep defying me, and I’ll saw off his head and make you hold onto it while I fuck all three of your holes until they're bloodied and raw. Do you understand?’

      I yelp.

      ‘Good,’ he murmurs. ‘Turn your body so your head is facing him and lift your ass.’

      I swallow, shaking as I force my body to do as he says. I can’t even look at Ron. As soon as he’s in my sight, I bow my head forward, shutting my eyes as I wait.

      ‘Open your eyes, baby, and look at your husband for me,’ he says as I feel the bed sinking with his presence. I do as he says, not daring to test if he would kill Ron right in front of me for disobeying such a minute demand.

       I stare at my husband, who is suspended in a spell. His eyes are not confronting me when I move my lips in repeated, ‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.’ He’s staring over my shoulder at the demon about to fuck his wife in front of him.

      ‘This is perfect, really,’ he hums. ‘Too perfect.’

       I scream in my thoughts, calling him every and any name under the sun: you ghastly, horrid, monstrous, despicable, foul piece of fucking dog shit! I hope you fucking die, you heinous monster!

      ‘Mmm, I hear you,’ he murmurs almost seductively while aligning himself with his hands on my hips. ‘Keep it coming. It only turns me on.’ An unanticipated spank laps on my right cheek. ‘Any words for your husband?’

      ‘No,’ I sob weakly.

      ‘What about sharing with him how kissing him has been making you feel?’ He rears back, readjusting, and I feel the instant his warm breath fans over my sensitive skin. ‘How wrong it was and that you were begging for it to end.’ His hot tongue begins lapping at my entrance, and I bite back any sound that may slip past my lips.

      Draco chuckles. ‘Remember how good it feels to taste me? To kiss Virgil? It seems you enjoy anyone but your husband.’

      Oh my god! I’m blinking back tears while staring at Ron, realising there is no way to explain that away. They’re not lies; the reality is more terrifying than I am ready to confront. I still don’t understand it myself, which is why I’m piercing the inside of my cheek to keep from unintentionally moaning at the onslaught happening between my cheeks.

       I hear my bedside drawer opening and something metallic rattling to the floor. He spits on my hole once, twice, massaging the area with his finger before pulling back and returning with a cold and thick, slippery substance. Is that my Vaseline? Suddenly, I feel the finger replaced with something much bigger and firmer.

      ‘Stop,’ I attempt again, feeling the tip prodding at the entrance.

      ‘Say please,’ he encourages with a chirpy tone.

      ‘Please,’ I beg, unclenching when I feel him beginning to spread me.

      ‘Please…what?’ He pushes in until my muscles are clenching and my teeth are clamped together. I sniffle and weep, but he raises his voice over the commotion, ‘Please, oh big bad Death Eater? Please, daddy?’ He spits on me again, pulling out slightly to rear back in. ‘Please, big brother? Mmm, I think I like the latter best.’

      I’m beside myself in agony that I can’t even process his words.

      He slips in deeper. ‘What does your husband think?’ He rears back and plummets to a blinding spot. ‘Christ. If only he could see how good this looks.’

      My fingers dig into the sheets. I can’t keep my eyes on Ron anymore, even if I wanted to. The screams I need to release won’t come; my throat is shredded. He’s splitting my rear in two, and I’ve never experienced a more excruciating pain in all my life.

      He pulls back again. ‘Look how well your wife takes a Death Eater’s cock. I think you were made for it, baby.’ I groan. He slaps my left cheek hard. ‘So, what will it be? Please, what?’

      I try to think, but he’s half-filled me, and the pain is disorienting. ‘Please, big bad Death Eater,’ I squeal, shredding my throat further.

      Instead of obliging me, he spits again, rearing and forcing himself even deeper. ‘Didn’t I say that I liked the latter best?’

      By the feel of it, he’s almost filled me.

      ‘Please…’ I sigh, pressing the backs of my hand into my eyes. I refuse to give him the words he seeks, especially in front of Ron. ‘Please, Cadmus.’

      The name startles me. Something flickers in my peripheral—a golden orb, maybe? I’m forced to close my eyes as he spanks me again.

      ‘That’s not what I asked for, but I’ll accept it.’ His fingers draw lazy circles on my lower back. ‘You haven’t seen my mark on your back yet, have you?’ I feel an arm coiling around my waist and lifting me until I’m almost straddling him the wrong way around. ‘Let’s show it to him first.’

     The angle I’m forced into makes me sit on his lap with his agonising cock buried inside of me. He turns us so Ron is to my left, and the giant mirror is directly in front of me. The light in the room offers an unbearable amount of illumination on my assault and the striking man doing it. He’s grinning over my shoulder, skimming the side of his face in my hair while his hands massage my breasts beneath the shirt. I didn’t even realise he was doing it.

      Suddenly, the shirt is being lifted over my shoulders, and the waning pain combined with my perspiring body and hazy brain almost makes me feel that I’m dreaming or dying. I can’t see what he’s talking about until he pushes me forward, and when I lift my head to the mirror after catching myself, I see swirls and patterns of dark ink painting my entire curved back.

      Are those plants? And birds? Peculiar shapes cover almost every shred of skin.

      I lift my gaze to Draco, and a rush of sensations envelop me. Why is my heart beating faster? Why is my skin reddening to behold him? I feel so hot and uncomfortable while he moves back and forth with a sinister smile, his strapping form hardened and breathtaking. I don’t understand how he’s alive—if he isn’t an illusion, or why I loved him and, perhaps, always have loved him.

      I shake my head.

      ‘I can remove any trace of what someone gives you. But what I give you…’ He starts moving at an agonising rhythm, rotating his hips. ‘Not even a god can impede it. It embellishes your soul, making starlight look like tinsel in comparison. You’d have to die countless excruciating deaths to be free of me, and even then, I would hunt you, find you, bind you, drag you, and remake what we started.’

       I force in a shallow breath. He leans in, fanning the shell of my ear with his hot breath. ‘So, are you ready to fulfil your promise to me, my sweet Semele?’

      The light resurfaces again, and something hums and drums until my body quakes in tandem with this unknowable ringing. Something inside me shatters, pulverising, and my vision grows feverish as if I had suddenly been overcome with a blinding illness. The sounds grow: crickets, cicadas, whistling winds and a deafening roaring as if an ocean is about to swallow me. I clamp my hands over my ears, and when it doesn’t stop, my head collapses onto a cushioned surface I can’t see. My stomach clamps, and my muscles grow painfully taut with the fight.

      Everything dissolves until the wild chorus overcomes me.

      When my eyes refocus with a hazy veil, I realise I’m running through a dense, crowded place—a thousand vines and leaves trying to hook me. The earth doesn’t relent in its attempt to claim me. There are too many voices and too many entities—animated and vegetal. Thump! Thump! Thump! A creature cries above me as something sharp strikes my skull.

      Thump! ‘Let it happen, Hermione.’ Thump!

      My head shudders at the commanding voice. The ocean of plants and a thousand persistent birds will engulf me if I oblige him. I don’t even feel his assault anymore: it’s a tiny distraction in a larger, more chaotic symphony. Birds are slamming their wings against my eye sockets. Plants and branches are grazing and cutting my arms and legs. It’s as if I’m running through a jungle, hounded by every living body within it. I pass over a veil of sunlight cutting through the dense canopy, and it burns me. My skin is itchy from it, rubbed raw by a sun that doesn’t love me.

      Thump! He says something, but I cannot hear it. What did my beloved say to me?

      Thump! The elements have turned against me, and I want to know what I did to deserve this. Two voices inside me lament their distress from this heartache: "Didn’t I love and adore this earth enough?” she and I say as one. “I have venerated and honoured you from the moment I took my first breath. Why has it stopped loving me, Adder?”

      Thump! A vibrant bolt of green lightning strikes ahead of me, grounding itself in my path.

      Thump! ‘Adder!’ I scream while bypassing a vine trying to coil itself around my neck.

      Thump!

      Thump!

      Thump!

      ‘Let it happen, Semele.’

      The name turns every voice and assailant wilder. A flurry of commotion forces me to an end. In this enormous, inescapable jungle, I plummet forward and dissolve into the earth, my mouth sealed in a perpetual scream as the soil shovels into it. I pull my hands to relieve myself of this slow and muffling death, but it’s like pulling thick, ancient roots that have embedded themselves into limestone.

      I can’t feel where my fingertips end.

      ‘Cadmus,’ I hear myself whine as my limbs extend, becoming something without eyes or a human sense. Is my beloved still here? Will he come with me wherever I go? I can’t imagine a world without him as my members search the soil for minerals and sustenance. A severe rainfall begins pelting my back, and I receive it with a longing as old as time itself, absorbing it into my cold body.

      I hope he is near and won’t abandon me no matter what I am becoming.

      The thumping has ceased. His voice is so far away that I wonder if I can ever reach him again, where sunlight streams through the trees, giving me life.

      Thump!

       When I open my eyes, rubbing them violently while folding into my side and coughing, I do not expect the sight before me. My body feels as if it’s fallen through a jagged tunnel that completed its course in an icy, violent ocean. There are names on the brink of my tongue: Adder, Cadmus. They loop about my skull in a desperate and haunting ballad, relentless and heart-wrenching. It hurts my body to recall how much those words hurt me.

       I suddenly focus on red hair and a cold, stony face that is turned away from me. I recoil at the sight. Are they dead? I wonder if I died beside this stranger when a voice summons me from my uncomfortable reverie.

      ‘Semele.’

      My head whips around immediately, following the voice I could navigate to even from the darkest, impenetrable abysses. He’s staring at me from the end of the bed, tightening his belt before reaching for the crumpled white shirt before him.

      ‘Good,’ he says, gaze flicking to admire my unwavering expression. ‘You answered, and that’s all that matters.’ His body flexes while putting the shirt on over his thick arms. When I look at his tattoos, I see something completely different from earlier. They are more like fissures: slits into another world, into the same jungle that buried me and brought me back to life. When he moves, the spirals, sickles, and vines reveal a different part of the dark forest.

      I gloss back to his face, bewildered and equally intrigued to see a man with my beloved's spirit standing before me. He is altogether alien but unquestionably familiar. I know him as Draco in this life, yet he is so much more.

      Thump! Thump! Thump! I’m anticipating the torture from the jungle to start again when the door behind him creaks open with a belated knock. I look down in panic only to see that I’m wearing a t-shirt and a blanket wrapped around my legs just as a man with short black curls and dark, rich skin steps inside, eyes flicking curiously over all three of us.

      I recognise him as I do with the red-haired man beside me, but the memory struggles to resurface. The little voice in the back of my mind tries to enlist caution, but I don’t know why I should be frightened when Cadmus is here, watching over me.

      The man’s lips curve dangerously when they gloss over the man beside me. ‘What happened in here?’

      ‘Have you dealt with the wards?’ Draco says, never leaving my eyes as he buttons the shirt.

      ‘Course,’ the man says lazily, deciding to step inside.

      ‘All the piles of bird bones?’ Draco asks.

      ‘Buried with a curse,’ the man’s tone is short. ‘I also took apart the portkey and floo network for fun.’ He approaches Draco, standing at the same height beside him. ‘Is the mutt dead or watching us?’

      ‘Watching,’ Draco retorts with snide bluntness. ‘Mind your words. She’s a little shaken and doesn’t remember you.’ He retrieves the black waistcoat from the floor, breaking our intense eye contact. ‘It’s time to get going, baby.’ His easy grin doesn’t unsettle me as the little voice in my head tells me it should.

      The man hesitantly approaches my side of the bed, looking at Draco for instruction. ‘I’m still taking her there, right?’

      Draco nods, brushing his hair back.

      The man looks at me with his next step. ‘Hi, Hermione. Please don’t be scared. I won’t hurt you. My name is Blaise; I’m an old friend.’ The closer he draws, the more noticeable the mean scars marring his face become. ‘My wife is waiting for us. She’ll be able to help you.’

      Am I meant to be scared? I don’t feel scared.

      He slowly guides an arm underneath my legs before stepping closer to wind the other on my lower back. His inviting, sweet scent engulfs me. The placid fragrance doesn’t match his mean exterior. I let him lift me and settle against his chest, finding a strange comfort at the mention of his wife. Who is she? And what will she help me with?

       Draco sentries us as the man carries me around the bed, towards the open door, being careful not to graze any of my limbs against the furniture. He moves with nimble grace, almost like a trained fighter or brigand accustomed to sneaking around.

      ‘Don’t forget your sexy mask,’ the man comments spiritedly before obstructing my vision of the room. When Draco doesn’t say anything as we step out into the hallway, he lowers his voice, ‘I think he intends to leave it behind.’

      When I don’t reply, he continues, ‘I hope you’ll be alright to apparate. He didn’t say anything about it being a problem.’

       I blink at him, wondering when he’ll realise I can’t talk. Instead, I offer him a small smile to convey appreciation for how gentle he’s being. I rest my head back against the black leather he’s wearing. My eyes lift to the tall ceiling with the ample light dangling from it, wondering if this home belongs to the red-haired man sitting callously on the bed.

      When we finally abandon the strange house, I’m elated to feel the wintry wind rolling against my hot skin. There are many stars above us—but nowhere near a sufficient amount. In my time, the Aether realms were brimming with star bodies crowding against each other for dominance. The long, lustrous tail that moves across the night is so faint—I don’t know how this has happened. It’s as if a veil has been lifted, obstructing the immense beauty that has guided and motivated humanity since the animal gods created us.

      I don’t hear the man's words as a silent tear trickles down my cheek.

      Where is Adder? Has she sincerely deserted me? She will know what happened to the sky; the urgency to understand it drives me wild. It’s all I can think about as I watch the trees and stars around me spinning until they are one bright, directionless light.