Desire and Destruction

Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at [Link]

Rating: Explicit
Archive Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Category: F/M
Fandom: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Relationship: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Characters: Hermione Granger, Draco Malfoy, Blaise Zabini, Harry Potter, Charlie
Weasley, Bill Weasley, Fleur Delacour, Padma Patil, Horace Slughorn
Additional Tags: Vampire AU, Alternate Universe - Vampire, 1700s Au, Blood Kink,
Blood, Dubious Consent, Blood Play, Vampire Draco Malfoy, Vampire
Hunter Hermione Granger, non-canon compliant vampires, more
inspired by Anne Rice vampires, Explicit Sexual Content, We’re not
gonna think too hard about what’s in a vampire’s cum, Cunnilingus,
Inspired by Art, Implied Mates, Non-Consensual Blood Drinking, blood
drinking during sex, Hermione has a secret proficiency kink, Draco
Malfoy Has Long Hair, Inappropriate use of Vampire Magic, Magical
restraints, I have no idea what I'm doing, But I did my best, do not copy
to another site, Suicide, Forced Vampiric Acts, Coffin sex, Angst, Heavy
Angst, Depression, Hurt, Trauma, Eventual HEA, trust the process,
Please don't show this to my therapist, But maybe talk to yours, French
Draco Malfoy, DO NOT PUT ON GOODREADS, Complete
Language: English
Stats: Published: 2023-11-28 Completed: 2024-05-10 Words: 26,392 Chapters:
9/9
 Desire and Destruction
by gillianeliza

Summary

Hermione, the Order's greatest vampire hunter, has arrived in Paris to find and destroy Lord
Draco Malfoy. Little does she know he's the most powerful immortal she will ever meet and
their connection goes far beyond her orders to sink her silver blade into his heart.

Notes

Hi, hello! Funny story — I saw this artwork by [Link] & my brain was
REELING. I pretty much thought about it all night & then woke up the next morning &
seven hours later I had this (which has now been turned into a nine chapter fic). A huge giant
thank you to my betas for reading & giving me feedback so quickly so I could share it with
y'all, but an even bigger thank you to Jamie for allowing me to use her incredible artwork. Go
follow her if you haven't already!

Please make sure you read all tags as this one does get very dark.

If you liked this version of vampires, check out my Sirmione Dracula AU fic In Paths of
Flame that is currently uploading every Friday. Much different dynamic (& set in the 1800s)
but similar vibes. If you'd like to stay up to date with this work & my other projects, please
consider following me on TikTok (@gillianeliza_) & Instagram (@gillianeliza) or joining my
mailing list to be the first to know all about my debut novel coming out this fall.

Please do not copy this work to another site or put it on Goodreads. This work was made as a
gift from me to you & I appreciate you treating it as such. You can find all of my policies
(including binding & translations) on my Instagram. Thank you so much for your
understanding.

This fic is now complete! As a reminder I do not allow translations of my work & I only
allow hand binds for personal use. Please, please do not put this work on goodreads.
 The Lord of the House

Winter 1774

Paris

All the scholars were wrong.

Dying was not easy. It was not sinking into peaceful streams of nothingness, to move into the
beyond on gilded wings. It was fire and ash, ice and frost, it was to stand at the edge of a
precipice and know it was all for naught.

Hermione knew that better than anyone — save perhaps her fellows within The Order. That
knowledge had helped her survive when others might have succumbed, had sharpened her
intelligence into cunning, had turned just a small part of her heart cold. It was the reason she
had found herself within the magical confines of the Order, scooped up when she was only
eleven years old. Albus Dumbledore had found her clinging to the bodies of her parents
within the slums of London, detected her magical signature and shepherded her off in a swirl
of silk brocade and satin roquelaure. He had taught her the means of her magic, along with
the other professors at their school for magical children.

But he had also placed the silver dagger in her hands when she was merely thirteen, had
taught her what it meant to survive.

The Order was a means of defense in a world filled with chaos and darkness. And, for the
greater good, Hermione had found herself once again seated in an opulent carriage, sliding a
hand over the silk of her crimson gown and staring at the ramparts of Paris disappearing in
the distance behind her.

A deep breath, then another. Trying to calm the rhythm of her heart, to lose herself within the
character she must play. She let go of the fine fabric drape covering the window, not wanting
to see the great chateau looming ahead — the chateau where she would find her victim by
becoming his prey.

“They can scent your fear.” Professor Lupin, her mentor, had said all those years ago when
she and her fellows had sat in classrooms to learn of the darkness that crept within their
world. “Can pick a thought from your mind as one might pick a ripe fruit. What is the
greatest strength against such a feat?”

Control.

Therefore, Hermione laid her bricks beneath heavy silks in her mind. Beneath opulent meals
at crystalline tables and fine geldings, beneath the anticipation of laying eyes upon the lord of
the house ahead.

She touched the choker at her throat, the cameo set within the lace. A gift from Harry, her
brother of sorts, in a gesture of good luck for her mission.

“It’s beautiful,” she had said, wrapping him up in a tight hug.

“It was my mother’s,” he had answered, bright green eyes glassy. “The visage of Persephone.
She used to say that women did not have to choose between the light and the dark — that
both lived inside us all. I thought… I thought it suited you.”

Because both the light and the dark lived inside her, just as it did him. They had too much
blood on their hands for anything other than darkness now. That was the beauty of The Order
— they would succumb to the dark so others may flourish in the light.

“My lady?” a soft voice called.

She shook herself, blinking back at a man in a tall powdered wig, a white gloved hand
extended to assist her from the carriage.

They were already here.

“My apologies,” she answered, placing her hand in his and allowing the footman to help her
down the steps, having to twist her hips to the side to accommodate her paniers.

The hum of voices buzzed around her like the hum of insects — they quite resembled them
too. Jeweled beetles skittering to find their place within the well-lit chateau ahead. Though
one might have been better off calling it a castle with its high turrets and many rooms.

With a nod to the footman, she looped her wrist through her fan, and gathered up the front of
her skirts to follow the queue forming in front of the ominous double doors. The tension in
her chest eased as her gaze skittered to those around her. Of course, she had known she would
be dressed within the Paris fashion with its wide paniers and dangerously low necklines. But
it was one thing to see the sketches from Madame DeRosier and quite another for the corset
to be tightened, for the silk to brush against her skin, to gaze down at the swell of her breasts
— nipples barely covered by the black lace trim.

Her dark crimson dress stood out against the sea of jewels — a singular ruby nestled within
peridots, sapphires, and amethysts, but she understood this too. Understood why she had
forgone the wigs she spied around her, some even topped with stuff birds or miniature ships,
in favor of her own wild curls pinned in a similar style upon her head.

She was a poisonous flower, lying in wait for her prey.

Music spilled out onto the cobblestones as she approached, slipping her hand within the folds
of her gown to withdraw the invitation she had procured a few days prior. A simple
confundus charm to the right person, a suggestion, and a wide smile had been all she needed.

“Mademoiselle Granger,” the servant read, bowing low.

She resisted the urge to bow her head, instead lifting her chin and gazing into the receiving
room. The dark marble floors glittered in the light from the chandelier overhead from the
hundreds of candles giving off their burning glow. Flowers dripped from every surface and
she thought she could hear Neville’s voice in her head as she realized what they were.

Chrysanthemums.

Marigolds.

Orchids.

Red poppies.

Black roses.

All flowers to represent death.

“Suivez-moi, s'il te plaît,” the servant continued. Follow me, please.

Hermione was grateful for the translation spell she had recast before her arrival. Though she
spoke some French, she would need her focus elsewhere tonight. Lifting her skirts, she
climbed the curved staircase to a pair wide open doors above, where a man in a powdered
wig stood with his shoulders back. He accepted the card from the first servant, waiting for
Hermione to reach the landing before stepping onto the balcony above.

“Mademoiselle Hermione Granger,” he announced, stepping to the side with a bow as

Hermione passed through the threshold.

The staircase below could have been the path to hell. She blinked, clearing her vision, trying
to see the mass of bodies for what they were. This was not a mass grave, the bodies below
were not writhing in pain, but dancing with quick steps and light feet. They were alive, they
were breathing.

And they had absolutely no idea that a snake was slithering in their midst, ready to strike
unless she severed the head first.

The ballroom was outfitted in a similar vein as the receiving room. Dark marble and gilded
lamps, chandeliers dripping in diamonds, and mirrors upon every wall to reflect the light
back. Heavy drapes framed the tall windows, the dark green fabric an echo of the nighttime
garden beyond and her escape when it was all done.

She slipped into the crowd, withdrawing her fan and bringing it up to her face as all ladies
around her did. But she was not prowling for a dance partner, no, her sights were set upon a
man at the end of the hall, the shiny bald spot upon his head a beacon in the dark.

“Monsieur Slughorn,” she greeted with a small curtsey, her English fluidly translated into
French as she continued. “Good evening.”

A portly man turned to face her, the pearl buttons of his waistcoat in danger of popping as he
took in a deep breath.

“Good evening, mademoiselle,” he answered. “How may I be of service?”

She rose out of her curtsey, withdrawing the fan from her face and fluttering it around her
chest. Greedy eyes dropped to the swell of her breasts.

“I was informed by the footman to find you, that a… Monsieur Zabini might be interested
procuring a dance partner?” Of course, this was a lie but she had learned through the servant
she confunded how the game must be played.

The man’s bushy eyebrows lifted, gaze sliding across the line of her cheekbone, down to the
curve of her lips, before falling again to the lace at the edge of her dress. But then he was
nodding, hand out to receive hers and guiding her through the crowded hall. It was a veritable
feast for the eyes, she knew, with the finery of this country. Around her were those who had
never known hardship, had never known the way hunger could gnaw into one’s belly, who
would never understand what it was like to watch death slink through the wooden floorboards
of their home. The way the scent of it clung to one’s clothes, to one’s skin, to one’s very soul.

“Monsieur Zabini!” Slughorn called in a jolly voice. “One more for you, Monsieur!”
A dark head turned with a swirl of opulent sapphire silk, the coat exquisitely cut to his tall
frame. Full lips pursed as they approached, dark eyes flicking from the top of Hermione’s
head down to the tips of her toes.

“May I present Mademoiselle Granger,” Slughorn cried.

She curtsied lower this time, head bowed and eyes trained on the floor. A gloved hand
extended and she took it, letting the man assist her to her feet.

“How old are you, mademoiselle?” Zabini asked, gaze continuing to flick across her as if she
was a horse he was inspecting for purchase.

“Twenty, Monsieur,” she replied, keeping her voice low.

He hummed, letting her hand go and circling once slowly. “And your chaperone?”

She swallowed, lightly gripping her closed fan between her hands. “Indisposed, Monsieur. I
was sent in his stead and bade to find you.”

The man slowly came to a stop in front of her. Though he smiled warmly, ice dripped from
his eyes as they rested on her face. “How would you like the chance to meet the lord of the
house, Mademoiselle?”

Hermione brightened her eyes, letting her lips part on a gasp. “Truly, Monsieur?”

Zabini pursed his lips again, nodding. “Truly.”

She pressed a hand to her breast, curtseying once more. “It would be my honor.”

The silver blade against her thigh almost hummed in anticipation as Zabini took her hand,
settling it onto the crook of his arm as he guided her through the room. “Now it is only a
chance, Mademoiselle. There is no guarantee the lord will pick you.”

She dipped her head. “Of course, Monsieur, I understand.”

There, lining the back of the hall next to a large gilded mirror, was a mix of men and women.
All appeared to be around her same age and all indescribably lovely. Women with rosy
painted cheeks, skin pale with the blood leeching that was so fashionable in Paris. Men with
cupids bow lips, beauty marks penciled upon cheekbones and eyes wide with innocence.

“Good evening,” she greeted them with a small curtsey, and those gazing upon her nodded
their heads, or else curtsied back.

Zabini positioned her at the end of the line, next to a girl in an emerald gown with night black
curls piled upon her head, a stuffed raven peeking between her locks.

“Only a few more minutes, my beauties,” he rumbled beneath the music, before turning on
his heel and making for a small side door.
The woman next to Hermione sighed, withdrawing her fan and waving it in a lazy way in
front of her face, hiding her lips from view.

“Have you seen him?” she asked, attention darting to Hermione and then back to the crowd.

Hermione frowned, stepping as close as their paniers would allow and lifting her fan to her
face as well. “Who?”

The woman huffed, rolling her eyes. “The Lord, of course, who else?”

She swallowed, attention flicking through the mass of bodies but it was a wall of brocade and
silks. A tidal wave of frivolity and lavish pleasure that was threatening to crash upon them at
any moment. Hermione grit her teeth, refusing to be swept away.

“No,” she answered after a moment, “I have not.”

Her companion sniffed loudly in disappointment. “Nor have I, but it is said he is beautiful
like an angel and dances like the devil.”

The latter much truer than the former, Hermione thought. “I have heard the much same.”

The woman turned, eyes the same shade of her gown. There, within her gaze, Hermione
recognized some of the same cunning she found within herself. Here was a woman who had
her sights set on what she wanted, who would stop at nothing to achieve her goal.

She could respect that, truly.

“I will find you after, shall I? To tell you if it is true?” the woman asked with a sly curve of
her lips.

Hermione mirrored the expression. “I look forward to it.”

I’ll place a wreath of roses upon your grave if you are so unlucky.

Monsieur Zabini appeared then, one hand tucked into the pocket of his waistcoat. “Follow
me.”

Slowly, they filed along the wall, slipping through a hidden door nestled behind a heavy
curtain. The room was dark compared to the bright light of the ballroom, merely a small
fainting chamber with a deep green chaise and a roaring black marble hearth. It was colder
here, despite the flames, and Hermione knew it had nothing to do with the winter wind
outside the walls.

The man shut the door behind him, only the barest whisper of the music outside slipping
through the crack. Hermione swallowed back the bile rising in her throat, chancing a quick
glance down the line. Like gilded cattle, lined up and ready for auction.

A door at the opposite end of the room swung open, the barest sound of footsteps clicking on
the marble floor. Her grip tightened on her fan for the barest moment before relaxing, pushing
away her fear in favor of excited nerves. Hiding her anger beneath layers of gilded mirrors
and lace fans.

She felt, more than saw, the Lord enter the room. His presence magnetic, imposing, the way
she imagined it might feel when a deity might walk amongst mortals. A slither of a
roquelaure across the floor, the click of a clasp as he let it fall. But she did not look, in favor
of staring at the skirt of her gown, at the fan between her hands.

Silence was a weapon, submission a blade, and shyness the hilt in the palm of one’s hand.

The heels of the Lord’s shoes clicked louder as he circled the group, but Hermione’s head did
not rise. A scent like cedar mixed with spice wafted through the room, heady and intense,
sparking heat in her cheeks. She took a shallow breath, wondering at the way the heat slid
down to her belly to curl between her thighs.

A vampire’s magic was beyond our understanding, Professor Lupin had said. Their ability to
bend mortals, magical and muggle alike, to their will is unparalleled.

“You may go,” a smooth voice slithered through the silence, farther down the line.

There was the rustle of garments with curtsies and bows, the clicking of heels, and the swing
of the door. Bright, bubbling bursts of music and laughter before swallowed up again by the
dark.

Another heartbeat. Another breath. Another circle of the predator like a hawk high in the sky.

“You may leave,” the Lord said again, voice like velvet wrapped in twilight.

A soft sniff of disappointment, the clearing of a throat, and then silence once more as a
shadow fell across Hermione’s view. At once, she dipped low into a curtsey, her knee almost
touching the floor.

Gloved fingers curled beneath her chin, tipping her head up.

Her lips parted on a silent gasp as she stared up into the silver eyes of the Lord. Pale skin,
smooth as marble reflected the light back at her. A lock of blonde hair fell across his eyes
while he gazed down upon her, loose from the ribbon tied at the nape of his neck. His thumb
brushed across her jaw, tip grazing the curve of her bottom lip.

“Exquisite,” he breathed.

The deep green velvet of his coat was almost black if not illuminated by the fire and she had
the strangest urge to reach out and brush her fingers along the collar, where black lace was
lovingly stitched beneath the onyx buttons. Hermione had seen many vampires in her short
life — her hands were coated in their blood, lids burned with the vision of the eternal light
leaving their eyes — but never had any of them been like this. Never had she felt so much
like a moth to a deadly flame, her wings already singed by the heat.

“Thank you, my lord,” Hermione answered, her mouth suddenly dry.

Silver eyes tracked the movement of her tongue across her lips and that same heat as before
flared between her thighs. Silver, like the dagger strapped beneath her gown, like the weapon
she must use before the night was over.

She could not allow herself to be swept away.

Gently, the Lord drew her to her feet and he bowed, cool lips brushing the back of her
knuckles. A shiver ran down her spine, quick silver eyes darting up to catch the movement.

“Lord Draco Lucius Malfoy,” the vampire purred, “at your service, Miss Granger.”

She blinked, realizing the Lord had not spoken in French but in English.

“And I am in yours,” Hermione answered finally, placing her free hand over her heart and
dipping her head.

Lord Malfoy rose to his full height, a seductive smile curling along his mouth. Silver
twinkled with delight as he drew close, one hand sliding around her waist and turning them
towards the door.

“Oh, my sparrow, you certainly are.”

He led them back into the ballroom, the hand on her waist falling in favor of wrapping her
arm around his. She would have stumbled in the bright light if it had not been for the
immortal at her side, who steadied her as the throng of attendants parted for them like the
Red Sea.

One would have thought he was King Louis for the way all bowed or curtsied in his presence.
The way the cacophony of gaiety melted into a whisper, none daring to speak. Even the
musicians, though they continued to play, seemed to quiet their strings, until Lord Malfoy
drew Hermione into the center of the room, and into the circle of his arms.

All at once the spell — for that was the only explanation Hermione could find — lifted from
the room. Dancers joined them on the floor, the musicians ripping into a haunting waltz, and
Lord Malfoy guided her in his arms.

But this was not dancing, no. Hermione had danced before at many a ball, dressed in finery
and in the arms of immortals. She had also danced with human men, with boys within The
Order. She was no stranger to the pleasures of the flesh.

And yet.

This was sin. This was divine movement, it was pleasure made tangible, woven into the
fabric texture of a man that appeared to walk straight out of her fantasies and her nightmares.
The man above her was not just beautiful — he was haunting. She gave a small shake of her
head as he turned her out, dipping beneath his arm.

“How are you enjoying Paris, Hermione?” the Lord asked lightly.
Her brows furrowed at the use of her given name. “It is my first time in Paris but I am
enjoying it very much, my lord.”

A soft tsk slipped between his teeth and the vampire dipped low until his mouth was brushing
her ear. “There is no need for such propriety, sparrow. Call me Draco.”

His name dripped across her skin like melted wax, pooling at her collarbones and the nape of
her neck. She swallowed, fighting to rebuild the walls inside her mind — he was perhaps the
strongest immortal she had ever met. Each time she was sure she was safe from his draw,
another tendril of shadow sliced in, crumbling her resolve.

She must act, soon.

“Draco,” she replied, her voice dropping low. Ever so slightly, she tilted her head to the side,
as if in an unconscious offering.

Cold breath trickled across throat, a gasp the vampire could not quite contain. She knew such
an act was one of submission, even if the mortal did not realize it. His fingertips dug into the
fabric at her waist, hand wide enough to span her back, as he drew her closer. The tip of his
nose grazed her pulse, the whisper of his lips following. This time she allowed a moan to
escape, tilting her head until it rested upon his shoulder as knuckles skimmed the line of her
jaw.

“Would you like to see the chateau, sparrow?”

Slowly he drew away, silver eyes hot on hers. Hermione’s throat bobbed with a swallow and
felt those same tendrils of shadow slither into her mind. This time, she was ready, this time
she conjured the images he wished to see while keeping her mind safe behind her walls. She
allowed her body to soften, her lips to part, and gazed up at him beneath her lashes.

“If it pleases you, my Lord—”

“Draco,” he corrected.

“Draco,” she finished with a nod, a soft smile pulling at the corner of her mouth.

He tucked her hand into the crook of his arm, guiding her through the crowd easily. Though
many called out to him, bowed to him, greeted him, he merely nodded in their direction,
refusing to stop even for the most fervent worshipers.

Hermione wondered how it was that Lord Malfoy — for she refused to call him Draco — had
not been found out yet? Were Parisians so lost within the finery of their existence they did not
bat an eye at a missing man or woman in their midst? Or else, did the Lord merely indulge in
what they called the little drink, instead of taking life as vampires were wont to crave?

He guided her down a darkened hallway, past indistinguishable paintings and unlit
candelabras, through a heavy set of double doors and into a room slightly larger than the
room in which they had met complete with a wide bed and a couch positioned in front. And
yet it was much the same as the rest of the house, with its darkened floors and marble hearth,
only a dying fire giving off the barest of warmth.

Lord Malfoy allowed Hermione to enter first and she steadied herself with a breath as the
door clicked shut behind him. Hands slid around her waist, drawing her back against a stone
chest as lips ghosted over her throat. But she was not afraid. She knew a cultured vampire
preferred the seduction, perhaps even to taste the pleasures of the flesh before succumbing to
the thirst.

“You look like sunlight,” he murmured, placing an open mouth kiss to the juncture of her
neck and shoulder. She shivered, hands curling around the silk fabric of her gown as his
tongue slid over skin. “You taste like the sweetest wine.” Fingertips teased the lace covering
her breasts and a soft whimper slipped through her lips without her knowledge.

Slowly, with those long, tapered fingers, he dipped beneath the bodice of her gown, plucking
at one nipple. She gasped, heat blossoming anew between her thighs and she thought she
could feel his smile on her neck.

“And yet you taste like him.”

Fire-like pain pierced her throat. Hermione cried out in surprise as his fangs broke her skin,
she turned, magic zinging across her fingertips, using all her power to push him away. She
found herself a few feet into the room, chest heaving as blood trickled from the wound in her
neck down between her breasts.

“Dumbledore is getting weak with age,” Lord Malfoy spat, beauty suddenly monstrous with
her blood smeared across his lips. “Did he think I would not spot a hunter amongst my prey?”

The silver blade against her thigh called to her, but she did not yet reach for it. In an instant,
the vampire closed the distance between them and Hermione smiled. It was what she had
anticipated, her hand darting between her skirts to grab the weapon. She thrust it forward,
hoping to take him by surprise only to find a hand wrapped around her wrist.

“I am over six hundred years old, sparrow,” he purred. “You will have to do better than that.”

With a twist of his hand, the blade clattered to the ground, pain slicing through Hermione’s
arm. But she did not cry out, only grit her teeth against the small spark of pain that was
nothing in comparison to the agony she had been made to feel before. Lord Malfoy gave her
a Cheshire smile, taking a few steps back and lifting his hands in offering.

“Again,” he commanded.

Hermione swiped the dagger up from the floor, charging forward and ducking beneath his
arm as he lifted it to stop her. But before her blade could find purchase between his ribs, his
other spun her, pulling her back once more against his chest. His tongue licked against the
wound on her neck, lapping the blood still flowing over her skin.

“Exquisite.”
Pleasure sparkled in her veins, blurring her vision before she blinked, trying to orient herself
once more. “Your monstrous tricks will not work on me.”

A soft chuckle whispered against her skin, one hand curling up to cup her breast. Her knees
buckled and though she pushed against him with all her might, a wanton moan echoed
through the room as he plucked a rosebud nipple between the tips of his fingers.

“They already are, sparrow.”

With a loud rip, he split the skirt of her gown, tearing at the paniers until they flew across the
room, leaving bruises on her hips in their wake. The cold air sank its claws into the skin of
her legs through the flimsy red fabric of her petticoat and stockings. Hermione let out a
growl, flipping the blade in her fist and bringing it down upon the hand holding her.

Yet, just as before, he caught her just before the blade could pierce his skin, frustration
bubbling deep within her belly alongside that burn of desire she could not seem to shake.
Anger was getting the better of her, the incredulity of being bested by such a monster.

She was the best hunter The Order had, she could not, would not, fail.

The lord took a deep breath, moaning as he exhaled, pressing his hips against her backside.
“You want this, even as you fight it.”

Hermione twisted, breaking free of his hold even while a twinge of resentment sparked
within her chest knowing he had allowed it. “You are delusional.”

She turned to face him, cheeks flaring with heat at the look of pure need on his face. The way
his eyes raked across her body, the barely concealed tips of her breasts, her petticoat and
stockings.

“It is you who suffer delusions, sparrow,” he murmured, sliding a hand down his chest and
over the placket of his trousers, rubbing once against the outline of his stiff cock. “I can smell
you dripping for me.”

The silver knife was hot in her hand and she reared back, flinging it towards him. Just as
easily as if it had been on the ground, he plucked it from the air, weighing it in his stone
hand. It was a feat she had never seen before, even amongst immortals. Such a display of
power, of preternatural reflexes forced another shiver down her spine.

She hated how with that shiver came another tendril of heat.

“You are a monster.” Her words were acid, spitting through her teeth.

Lord Malfoy merely grinned down at the knife in his palm, flipping it between his long
fingers. Then he lifted his gaze, smile slowly sliding off his face like the blood still trickling
from the wound at her throat.

“Come here,” he commanded.

The compulsion was strong, even as she fought it, Hermione’s legs moved of their own
accord. Her lips pressed into a thin line, pain spiking at the back of her head, behind her eyes,
until she was standing once more in front of the monster, gazing up into his marble visage.
Cords of magic wound their way around her wrists, pinning them firmly to her side even as
she tried to fight them.

This was power, she realized. Any display of magic or strength she had seen in her life before
now was child’s play in the face of this.

Slowly, carefully, he trailed the tip of the blade over her cheek, as one might trace the face of
a lover with a fingertip, before gliding it down her throat to the valley of her breasts. With a
quick flick, the blade cut through the silk of her bodice, falling away, leaving her in merely
her petticoat and corset.

One cool hand slid up the fastenings, a soft smile playing around his lips. “I admire your
tenacity, sparrow. Even as your body aches for mine, you continue to fight what your soul
already knows.”

She turned her face away, teeth biting into the skin of her cheek to quiet the moan threatening
to escape while his hand cupped her breast. But he merely bracketed her chin, turning her
face back to his while he plucked at her nipple with the other.

“And what is that?” she grit from between her teeth.

Silver eyes danced across her face, fangs flashing in the firelight. “That you are mine.”

He bent his head, sucking the tip of her breast into his mouth, tongue lapping at the tip.
Hermione’s back bowed, knees weakening, but an arm banded around her waist, holding her
as sharp teeth grazed sensitive flesh.

“I am not yours,” she breathed, the words softened by the moan wrenched from her lips, her
head tilting back when fangs pierced her skin.

She would not survive this; she knew that now — not with his power, his strength. But she
would not give up, she could only hope she could take him to the grave with her.

Lord Malfoy picked her up as easily as a doll, turning in a circle until they landed upon the
small couch, Hermione straddling one of his wide thighs. Another moan bubbled through her
chest as the thick muscle pressed against her core, a dizzying pleasure to match the pain of
the bite.

When had she threaded her fingers through his long blonde hair? When had she begun to
rock her hips, chasing the pleasure that felt so close and yet so far?

With a groan he broke away from her breast, fingertips pressing against the wound as blood
slipped between the digits. He lapped at the dried blood of her throat, free hand wrapping
around her hip and encouraging the slide of her hips.

“That’s it, sparrow, your body knows, your soul knows,” he praised.
Pleasure coiled tight between her thighs, even as she shook her head, as she tried to push him
away. Yet, somehow, she found she could only cup his face, thumbs trying to press into the
unforgiving preternatural skin of his cheeks. “No.”

His smile brightened, nostrils flaring, hand curling up around her throat. “Yes, my darling.”

There was the edge of a precipice, just there in Hermione’s mind. It’s the blood loss, she told
herself, even as her body tightened. Thighs shaking, sweat dewing, she fell, body convulsing
with the strength of her release pouring on to the fabric of the vampire’s thigh. When her
mouth opened, crying out in the surprising force of her orgasm, Draco pulled her face down
to his, swallowing the sounds.

No, but he was not Draco — he was Lord Malfoy.

Lips, softer than she would have ever imagined, molded against hers. Tongue dipping into her
mouth, tasting her whine as he continued to rock her. Light flared behind her lids, the
aftershocks of pleasure building to another unfathomable release, as he nipped at her bottom
lip, the tang of iron on her tongue as he sucked. Hands threaded through her hair, pulling at
the pins until it was falling down her back in riotous waves, fingers combing through it in a
gentle contrast to the ferocity of their kiss.

Air rushed around them as he lifted her, laying her onto her back upon the small couch to
slide down to rest his knees on the floor, settling between her thighs. Confident hands tore the
fabric of her petticoat, shredding the boning of her corset until she was bared to him, the
silver dagger forgotten somewhere upon marble floor below.

“Say it.” Draco’s voice dripped with darkness, with longing before he placed an open mouth
kiss to the inside of her thigh, blond hair falling around his shoulders.

But Hermione shook her head, even while her hips tilted, hands outstretched and reaching for
him. Blood still oozed from the wound at her throat, her breast, and a small part of her
wondered how long she had left. How much would be too much?

“No,” she answered. She would not give him the satisfaction; she would not die with those
words on her lips.

His mouth descended upon her, the flat of his tongue licking up her center. Back arching, her
hands scrambled against the damask fabric of the couch before landing in his hair. She could
not tell if she was pulling him closer or pushing him away. It was too much, her eyes
squeezed shut, bursts of color and light exploding behind her lids. Gently he sucked her clit
into his mouth, fangs grazing the sensitive skin while two long fingers slid up the seam of her
entrance.

“No, stop,” Hermione chanted, thighs falling apart. “Just… Just…”

Kill me. Do not subject me to this awful pleasure only to then snuff out my life.

“So wet, so needy,” Draco mused. “And yet still so stubborn.”

Those two fingers pressed inside crooking against her front wall, forcing a cry from her lips
as she curled forward over him. He pressed her back to the couch, fingers splayed wide
across her chest, easily pinning her into place while he languidly pumped his fingers in time
with the sucking of her clit.

Her breath came in quick gasps, body climbing higher and higher, nipples pulling tight while
her hips bucked against his face. But right before she could find that edge, before she could
fall into oblivion, Draco pulled away, leaning back onto his heels and slipping two dripping
fingers into his mouth.

“Kill me,” she pleaded, though what she really wanted was something much different and yet
thought it might end all the same.

Blonde eyebrows ticked up in surprise. Draco rose to his feet, deft fingers that had only a
moment ago been inside her making quick work of his waistcoat, pulling at his shirt until his
chest was bare. His body was sculpted as if from stone, as if he were a creation of one of the
great artists come to life. All ridged lines and triangles, rippling muscles of strength diving
down into the hem of pants.

“You think I mean to kill you?” Hands wrapped around her waist, lifting her bodily from the
couch and onto the bed behind it.

Her back bounced as her shoulders hit the mattress, eyes wide while Draco stripped, cock
bobbing as he freed it from the confines of his trousers. It was long and thick, the head ruddy
with desire and no doubt with her blood. She swallowed, dry throat clicking, unable to look
away while he wrapped one hand around the shaft, pumping lazily while gazing down at her.

“It is the only logical way in which this ends,” she finally answered, rising to her hands and
trying to scoot back on the bed, to pull her thighs together.

Tendrils of magic snaked out, pinning her to where she lay and though she tried to fight it
with her own power, she was no match.

With a flick of his fingers the couch slid to the opposite side of the room, all while he
continued to stroke his cock. Slowly, he placed one knee on the bed, right between her thighs.

“Is it, sparrow?” a moan slid through his teeth, hips bucking until he was fucking his hand.
“Can you think of no other outcome other than your untimely demise?”

Truly, she could not.

“Open yourself to me,” Draco commanded, though it lacked the hollow ringing of his
compulsion. He was asking and she thought there might have been a pleading note to the
words.

“No.” The answer sprung to her lips, as automatic as her breath.

He gazed down upon her, smeared with her own blood, and smiled. “You will, before this
night is done.”
She whimpered, unable to stop her gaze from dipping back to his cock, unfulfilled desire
coiling deep within her belly. And though she understood the desire was primal, part of the
allure of the vampire to draw in her prey, she could not seem to fight it.

“Please.”

The word was out before she could call it back. Hermione fought against the hold of his
magic, wanting to press her thighs together, to dip her hand between her legs, to finish what
he started.

This time, a single brow raised, a taunting smile on his lips. “What is it, my darling?”

Her chest heaved with her breath, head swimming. “Please.”

Draco tutted, shaking his head even while he stroked himself harder, eyes closing in a brief
surrender to his pleasure before they opened upon her once more. “Tell me what you want,
sparrow, and perhaps I will give it to you.”

Kill me, she wanted to say. Release me from this torment. And yet when her lips parted, it was
a deeper, darker need that burst forth.

“Claim me.”

Draco gave a low rumbling growl of approval, his other knee following up onto the mattress
and hand falling away to slide up her thighs. “Oh darling, I won’t just claim you — I will
ruin you.”

Somewhere on the floor was her silver dagger. She should be fighting this, should be
scrambling to find another weapon. To fulfill her mission. And yet… Draco braced one hand
beside her head, dragging the tip of his cock through her wetness, and she could not find the
strength. His magic released her legs and she bent her knees, thighs falling wide to
accommodate him.

The Order’s greatest hunter, destroyed by desire.

“That’s it, sparrow,” Draco moaned, sliding in to her inch by agonizing inch, “I will give you
everything you want — you only have to ask.”

With a swift thrust, he buried the rest of himself to the hilt. Hermione cried out, hands
scrambling over his shoulders as he withdrew only to slide home again. Her back bowed,
head turning this way and that until he gripped her chin, forcing her face to his.

“Look at me.”

She blinked, his hair falling around them in waves of white gold. Silver eyes, preternaturally
bright, shined in the darkness, hips churning, dragging the head of his cock against her front
wall.

“You say… you will give me — anything I ask for,” she moaned. “And yet y—you will
not… kill me.”
Fingertips tightened on her cheek until sparks of pain blossomed beneath them.

“I will not give you that, no matter how much you beg,” Draco growled, head dipping down
to lick the wound over her breast, opening the pinprick wounds.

Hermione thought she could feel her blood sliding into his mouth with each beat of her heart,
each churning of her hips. She was finished fighting her body as her hands smoothed through
his hair, as she tugged on his head until he lifted his face to hers. Rust and iron danced across
her tongue when his lips touched hers.

Draco released his grip on her chin, hand sliding down the valley of her breasts, fitting
between them. Fingertips strumming against her clit until she was crying into his mouth,
trembling beneath him.

“There it is,” he purred, drawing back just enough to speak, their lips brushing with each
word, “give it to me.”

A wail broke free from her chest, her orgasm tearing through the walls of silk brocade and
lace, tumbling down until she was laid bare to the monster above her, inside of her. She
gasped, his name falling from her lips a plea for mercy, for release, for rapture.

Draco, Draco, Draco.

“Say it,” Draco begged, and she knew now it was a plead in his voice. A desperate desire to
hear the words her soul knew.

“I am yours,” she cried, the waves of release taking her out to sea to far beyond rescue.

Draco nodded, moaning. “Yes, sparrow, yes you are.”

He bent his head, lips pressing at the hollow of her throat before his fangs pierced her skin.
This was it, she knew, he had finally gotten what he wanted and now it was the end.

There was no pain with this bite, however, just a rapturous ecstasy. Her body trembled around
his, a bright sudden orgasm rushing through her limbs. She gasped his name, weakening arms
trying to wrap around his chest before falling limply to her sides.

If this was death, then perhaps she was wrong. Because this was easy, it was slipping into a
warm bath. It was a sigh of relief, a period at the end of an exhausting sentence, the final
spell out of a now broken wand.

Gently it seemed, he pulled away, turning and rising up to extend his hand out behind him,
palm up. Metal clattered on stone before something shone in the palm of his hand.

Her silver dagger.

But when he turned back to face her, his eyes were black as pitch with desperation, with
longing that echoed deep within her soul. His chest rose and fell with a gasping breath,
resolve softening his features. With one great slash, he cut a deep gash into the side of his
throat, thick blood bubbling over and dripping down onto her mouth.
Gods, no. She tried to turn her head, to refuse the lifeforce dripping from his throat, but
fingers tightened like a vice around her chin, turning her back to face him. The grip was
bruising, digging into the skin of her cheeks to pry her mouth apart as hot blood poured
across her tongue. Her heart stuttered, faltered, and then picked up in a rapid pace. Horror
melting into a dizzying frenzy, until she had forgotten why she struggled in the first place.
Each drop an echo of the pleasure still thrumming through her veins until she found the
strength to rise up, to close her mouth over the wound.

In the blood, she saw Draco — her maker. Tasted the loneliness on her tongue, the desperate
need for understanding, acceptance. She drank down his sadness, allowed it to burn away the
hatred curling through her heart, to give over to what her soul already knew.

He had been right all along.

“You are mine,” he breathed. “Now, always, and forever.”

(Another huge thank you to [Link] for making this art & inspiring me!)
 The Angel of Death
Chapter Notes

Please check the updated tags & take care of yourself.

See the end of the chapter for more notes

There was nothing but this moment.

Hermione’s heart was heavy in her ears, a kettledrum beating against her consciousness.
Above her an angel perched, golden hair spilling around his face, marble chest glistening in
the firelight. Pleasure snaked between her thighs, a pulsing heat that bowed her back and
arched her throat.

“Yes, darling,” the angel breathed, his hips rocking against hers. “You are with me now.”

He descended, pain sparkling across her throat before it melded into the pleasure. She cried
out, hands sliding across the soft skin of his back, the tang of something delicious in the air.

“Again, sparrow,” the angel commanded, fingers tangling in her curls, drawing Hermione up
until she rested on her elbows. “Drink.”

But from what fount would she drink? Oh yes, of course, his everlasting blood. With some
effort, her teeth pierced immortal skin, now soft like velvet against her own. Thick blood
slipped through her lips and she moaned, lapping at the dark power flooding her mouth. Heat
sizzed through her veins, between her thighs, pulling from her a muffled moan.

Eternity here, in her maker’s arms. And Hermione was nothing but the moment, nothing but
the blood. No past, no present, no future. Only him, only the power that passed between them
as his teeth pierced her neck once more. An ouroboros of oblivion, two souls merging
together as one. Images flitted across her lids, too quickly for her to understand. Deep, heavy
woods. A looming tree whose trunk was more than three men wide. The blaze of an inferno,
the blast of heat against her face. Loneliness. So much loneliness.

It could have been hours or centuries later when gentle hands pried her from his neck, thumbs
brushing against her lips, dipping into her mouth so she might lap the blood from the tips.
The world blurred, then focused, the scent of the angel overwhelming to her senses: sweet
and spicy like incense and apples. Farther away she could find the scent of wood, of
candlewax, of sweat and feathers — even the fine geldings in the stables below. The hum of
voices whispered in her ears, a woman laughed, a man grumbled, and it rose in a wave that
threatened to pull her under.

“Focus on me,” the angel purred, fingertips pressing into the hollows of her cheeks. “Listen
to my voice, come back to me.”
His face swam into view: the aristocratic line of his nose, the soft curve of his bottom lip, the
deep silver of his eyes. The man above her was no angel, not with the blood smeared across
his cheeks, down the column of his throat. No, this was Draco Lucius Malfoy, the vampire
she had come to destroy and had instead… Hermione froze, eyes wide in panic as she gazed
upon the man. No… not just a man. Not just a vampire. Her maker.

In hazy patches the night returned and the steady beating of her heart told the truth that curled
deep within her belly. There was a lightness in her limbs, untapped power, so unlike her usual
magic, slithered through her veins. Blood covered her face, her chest, coated her hands.

Her blood and his.

Above her, Draco’s lips moved, but she found she could not hear the words. Only the soft
puff of breath across her cheeks, the air curling through her hair with his movement.
Emptiness replaced fullness as he withdrew, his glorious immortal body sliding from the bed.
But Hermione could not truly see any of it.

A monster. That was what she was now. The very thing she had been trained to destroy now
took root in her soul — if she even still possessed one.

Cold crept into her limbs in the wake of fire, ice curling around her heart. Hands touched her
cheeks, fingertips brushing curls caked with blood from her face, but it was only the
approximation of sensation, as if she were viewing the scene from deep within her chest. Her
body was wrenched up into a sitting position, a soft piece of fabric pulled over her head,
guided up her arms before they fell limply at her sides. But she merely gazed upon a marble
chest streaked with blood, unblinking and unseeing.

A brief flare of heat in her throat, devoured by ice.

There would be no returning to London. Never again would she lay eyes upon Harry or the
other members of the Order. Revulsion rose like a flood, acid curling in her throat. How
horrifying, to be disgusted by one’s very being. For there was no denying what she was now
— her eye teeth were too sharp against her tongue.

The door to the chamber opened, bringing with it something new. A scent she had not found
before. Heat pulsed from the doorframe, drawing closer until it burned the side of her thigh.
Hermione blinked. A man’s head lay across her lap, ginger hair fanned across her knees, blue
eyes gazing up into hers.

“Drink,” her maker beseeched her.

Her skin was burning, the heat from the man scorching against her skin. Hermione bit her
cheek, turning away from the sight of the dazed human beneath her. An offering — that was
what he was. A meal that she was expected to take. Dread pooled through her ribs, clenching
her stomach.

I am no killer, she wished to say, but could not find the way out to speak.
And yet, unbidden came the memory of her thirteenth birthday and the silver dagger that had
been placed in her hand. Hermione squeezed her eyes shut, willing the image to disappear.
The way her small hand trembled around the weapon, the sickness that had risen within her
belly until she had retched across the training floor before she learned to control her fear. To
savor the kill.

No, not to savor. To endure.

“You must drink, sparrow,” Draco said again, jerking her face back towards the human. His
grip was punishing against her face and would have bruised a mortal, but the pain was merely
a distant echo of the anguish of her past and nothing compared to the horror she felt now.

The man in her lap stirred, hand slowly reaching to wrap around her naked calf, a soft
vibration humming against her skin that she thought might have been song. Her maker
growled in frustration, silver streaking through the dark room.

“You will not succumb. I will not allow it.” His words tapped against her consciousness.

Something hot hit her cheeks, fire pulsed deep within her chest. No, it was not fire, it was
acid, it was the cruciatus sinking its claws into her throat, a funeral pyre raging in her mouth.
Her eyes opened, horror filling her heart as she gazed down upon the man whose neck was
slashed, his blood splattered across her face.

And behind the man, on his knees, was her maker, silver dagger in his grasp.

“Drink,” Draco commanded.

Fingers gripped her nape, thrusting her head down towards the dying mortal. Hermione
wanted to resist, shutting her eyes against the lifeforce flowing from the man’s veins, but her
lips brushed the wound. Droplets of blood pooling upon her tongue uninvited, and the thirst
raged like a hungry beast.

Unbidden, her mouth opened over the gash, teeth piercing the tissue paper skin to open the
fount. The man’s bones were hollow, fragile like a bird’s wings, cracking and snapping as she
hauled him to her chest. Images fluttered past her lids, intangible whisps of the man’s life she
struggled to catch like smoke on the wind. But the essence was there. The hardship, the
cruelty he had endured, so little hope in his short life — even shorter than hers.

Death curled its fingers around his soul, reaching out to stroke her cheek. His life barreling
through his veins, slipping through Hermione’s lips. She drank down his death, pleasure
rippling through her limbs with the echo of the ecstasy she had felt in Draco’s arms.

You are a killer, her new power whispered.

Bones snapped beneath her hands as she pulled the body tighter, squeezing out those last
droplets of life upon her tongue. Already the scent of death tickled her nose, the decay that
had begun to take hold. At once, she threw the body back, shocked when it hit the opposite
wall with a resounding crack.
 “I am no killer,” she growled, her voice resonant with the blood now coursing through her
veins.

Draco gazed up from his knees as she rose to her feet, his chest heaving and eyes bright. The
bloodied silver dagger was still clenched in his grip, a reminder of yet another betrayal
tonight from the lord of the house.

“Yes, you are, sparrow,” he replied in a tone so soft it pricked at the back of her neck. “Look
at all you have done.”

Her chest tightened, breaths too quick to find, unable to stop her gaze from flicking to the
crumpled, ruined body of her victim. Her victim. A shriek echoed off the walls, her hands
fisting at her sides. Muscles bunched, catapulting Hermione to her feet, shooting out of the
room with a speed that terrified her. Walls streaked past her as she allowed her instincts to
drive her forward, gilded chandeliers melting in a blur, mixing with the light of the candles,
marble cold beneath her feet until she found soft grass between her toes.

Pain lanced through her chest, behind her eyes, the world blurring and tinting red before
clearing. A sob clawed its way up her throat, vines and tendrils of leaves reaching out with
thorny hands to grip her hair and skin, but finding no purchase.

They would destroy her should they find out. The members of the Order. And she wondered
if perhaps it would not be better to bring herself to them, to allow them to put an end to her
terrible existence before the darkness took root — before she could fully succumb to this
monstrous nature. For even now, the taste of blood lingered on her lips, the memory of the
contentment she felt within Draco’s arms, the fulfillment when that man’s blood slid down
her throat.

You are a killer, her magic rumbled.

And, as if she could hide from her very nature, Hermione ran.

Chapter End Notes

Surprise! Next chapter will be posted a little while after my Sirmione Vampire Fic In
Paths of Flame has finished. For now, enjoy this little appetizer. Please be patient, I
promise it will be rewarded.
 The God of the Wood
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

The night swept past her vision, the beating of her heart roaring in her ears.

Hermione was unsure where she was running, only that a small part of her believed that if she
could only get away, she might wake from this nightmare. With every blink, the image of the
man’s face appeared, his blue eyes, that soft humming, the hand loosely curled around her
leg.

His blood.

Another sob slipped past her lips, bouncing off the hedges and disappearing into the dark.
Something hard wrapped around her middle, like a band of iron yanking her back, her arms
and feet flying. The breath whooshed from her lungs as she collapsed in on herself.

Spice, incense, apples. It was an arm around her waist, hauling her against a stone chest. She
shrieked, clawing at Draco’s arm. Droplets of blood splattered across his alabaster skin from
her tears as another cry wrenched itself from her lungs.

“Shhh, sparrow,” Draco murmured, smoothing back her wild curls.

Hermione jerked away from his touch, spitting through her teeth. “You — you did this to
me.”

For all her anger, Draco only held her tighter, hand running over her hair, down the back of
her neck. A choked groan rumbled through her chest, indecipherable words falling from her
lips, the anguish so deep she would not have been surprised to see a hole where her heart had
been. She dug her nails into his flesh, chin tilted back towards the night sky as she let out
another ear-shattering wail.

There was no escape from this torture. For even as she raged against her fate, the thirst
prickled through her throat. The memory of blood slinking back through her consciousness
like an itch she could not scratch. And Draco merely held her as she screamed, as her hands
went limp and her cries turned into piteous sobs. Until she was merely choking on the horror
in soft little moans of agony.

“When I was as young as you are now,” Draco began, his voice measured and even, “my
father offered me to a god.”

Hermione squeezed her eyes shut, as if the dark might drown him out. “Stop. I do not wish to
hear this.”

But Draco only took a deep breath, his chest pressing against her back, both arms now locked
around her waist. “In my village we worshipped the Great Mother — the one who created the
cycle of the seasons, who decided when our crops would prosper and when they would rot to
begin again. Long before I was born, one of the Mother’s disciples resided within the great
oak tree on the outskirts of the forest — only two day’s ride from where we now stand.”

Hermione’s sobs quieted with his words, her eyes wide and staring ahead, mind filled with
the same image she had seen in his blood. The wide trunk of a tree, dappled with autumn
leaves.

“My father was a priest of the God of the Wood. It was he, and a select few, who provided
sacrifice every solstice and equinox. And on the day of my twentieth birthday, he sacrificed
his only son to the god.”

Nausea roiled in her gut, her outrage slipping between her lips before she could call it back.
“Why?”

There was a soft shrug at her back. “Because the God asked.”

She shook her head, hands flexing against his forearms. Draco’s grip tightened around her
waist, his hair brushing her shoulder.

“I come from a time in which to survive meant to become ruthless. There was no… no
softness. One must be strong, one must endure.” Another image passed between them. The
high flames of a raging fire. Heat that scalded her skin. “Or else they would succumb to their
madness and be destroyed, as my maker was when I was only a year into this new life.”

His words from earlier that night hung heavily in the air. You will not succumb. I will not
allow it.

All the fight left her, arms falling to her sides, head hanging heavily upon her neck but Draco
did not release her, only brushed back the hair from her face.

“Why did you do this to me?” she asked, the words catching on the grief still heavy in her
throat.

Lips pressed against her temple, the caked blood on the curve of her jaw.

“Because you are mine.”

A quiet, mad laugh bubbled through her lips. In the blood she had thought she was his — that
they belonged to each other. But now she was not so sure. Not even as Draco swept her up
into his arms, cradling her tightly into his chest, could she find that exquisite rightness she
had felt when he had made her. Only then did she realize she was dressed in his tunic, the
laces wide and undone across her collarbones. It rippled in the air as he rose into the sky, the
darkness swallowing them.

Hermione cried out, clutching Draco tighter, but he did not reassure her. Only climbed higher
until even the glittering light of Paris was visible. Her heart beat wildly within her throat,
arms wound around his neck before she tucked her head into his shoulder. The wind beat
around them, the wintry night air slicing against her skin — but she found the cold not as
bitter as before. As if a layer of magic repelled the worst of it from her body: a reminder that
sickness and death would never touch her again.

“Open your eyes,” Draco breathed as the wind quieted.

The scent of mineral and stone coated her tongue, water somewhere nearby. They were
surrounded by high stone walls, stained glass windows blackened against the night. Draco
placed Hermione on her feet as a brass candelabra set into the far wall burst into flame, the
flickering light illuminating the stark chamber.

She said nothing as he guided her to the only furniture in the room: a large, dark wood coffin.
With one hand on her elbow, Draco slid the lid to the side, exposing the fine silk lining
within, the crimson pillow where the dead would find their forever rest.

“Why did you do this?” Hermione repeated, stiffening when he tried to help her in.

A muscle ticked in Draco’s jaw, the hand on her arm tightening. “I have told you.”

She shook her head. “No, you have merely claimed me as a possession. You have not told me
why you have done this — what possible reason you could have had to turn me into…”
Silence crept between them as she searched for the word, hands rising palms up before
slapping against her thighs. “This.”

Silver eyes, as cold as metal gazed down upon her. His hair was windswept, sliding over one
bare shoulder, breeches barely done up. But his lips did not part, his mind was quiet,
unreachable, in the space between them.

“You speak of brutality,” she continued, “of surviving through ruthlessness. I cannot survive
on such things, on forced feedings and cruelness — I will wither as a flower picked from the
ground before its time has come.”

“This is your life now,” Draco finally replied, voice a monotone. “There is no denying what
you are — what weare.”

Irritation crept up her spine, a pulse of this new magic flaring around her, the light from the
candles shuttering. “I am your captive, nothing more.”

A hand shot out to bracket her throat, but the grip was not punishing. Draco’s head dipped
down until they were eye level, some of her own ire reflected within his gaze.

“You are more than a hired assassin, sparrow. More than one who bends to the whims of men
who would make you feel small, helpless in the face of their miniscule power.” She snorted,
eyes rolling at his hypocritical words. Draco’s eyebrows ticked up. “I would not have you
feel small nor helpless.”

His lips were only a breadth away, sweet breath skating over her cheeks. Hermione
swallowed, fixing her eyes upon his rather than his mouth.

“And what would you have me be then if not powerless?”

A ghost of a grin tugged at one cheek. “Powerful. The strongest of us all.”

The words hung in the air between them before Draco pressed his lips to hers. The kiss, for
all its softness, was a claiming akin to the one he’d made earlier. Again, something unlocked
within her chest, warmth creeping into her bones until her arms snaked around his shoulders
and he was lifting her. Stepping into the coffin with an easy grace only a vampire possessed.

Silk slid against her skin, cool from the night air as he laid her down with a gentleness that
was so unlike the rest of him. A contrast to the brutality he had shown tonight. She should
have pushed him away, cried out, clawed at his face. But Hermione could only pant into his
mouth, arousal coating her thighs and perfuming in the air between them. Hands caressed her
cheeks, slid down her throat to the curve of her breast, before making the trek down the
length of her belly between her legs.

Draco swallowed her moan, pressing her thighs apart against the edge of the coffin to delve
his fingers into her core. Hermione’s back arched, chest pressing against his as his hand
mirrored the movements of his tongue into her mouth until she was whining, sweat dewing
across her brow and core fluttering around him.

“Give yourself to me,” he murmured against her lips, barely audible over her growing moans.
His thumb circled her clit, stars bursting across her vision.

But Hermione did not know how to give herself to one who had already taken so much. Who
held her heart in the palm of his hands like a bird he might crush with his powerful strength.
Pressure coiled tight in her belly, his fingers continuing their steady pace until they withdrew.
Her brows furrowed, a whine crawling up her throat until Draco hitched her knee over his
hip, sliding his breeches down with his free hand.

The tip of his cock ran across her seam before sliding home. A rush of air caressed her face
from Draco’s sigh, their heads resting on the silken pillow as he set the slow rhythm of his
hips.

“I will show you the power of the night,” Draco vowed, the words deep and resonant in his
chest.

Hermione moaned, drunk on the pleasure from only moments ago building once more. Her
hands curled around his shoulders, tilting her hips, trying to force him deeper. A low groan
rumbled through Draco, his lids fluttering.

“All this dark gift has to offer,” he continued, tugging down the shoulder of the tunic he’d
dressed her in to expose the curve of her throat.

The wet sound of skin sliding filled her ears, their moans echoing off the stone above.
Hermione could only stare, wide eyed as Draco thrust deeper, his hold on her hips the only
thing keeping her head from banging against the top of the coffin.

“And it will be…” Draco started, tangling his fingers in her hair to draw Hermione to his
throat.
 Without thinking, her mouth closed over the vein, teeth piercing the skin. His thick blood
flooded her mouth, her consciousness, until her body exploded in pleasure. This was bliss,
her mind reasoned, this was the rightness she had been searching for. That lost piece of the
puzzle in her chest. All betrayal flitted from her mind — the slate wiped clean. She convulsed
around him, hands scrambling over his back to bring him closer, to drink deeper. Draco cried
out, hips moving in a frantic pace, thumb pressing into her nape, following her over the edge.

Far outside the stone walls, the first rays of dawn broke over the horizon. Their movements
turned sluggish, just the soft aftershocks of pleasure sparking between them. Carefully, Draco
reached for the top of the coffin, sliding it up until they descended into darkness, still
connected. And right before the dawn took hold and they fell into oblivion Draco finished his
vow:

“For all time.”

Chapter End Notes

Hello my loves — what a week we have had. I just wanted to take a moment to say
thank you for all your support & understanding. The next chapter upload for this piece
will be on Friday, March 22 — so mark your calendars!

Thank you so, so much for reading! If you'd like to stay up to date with this work & my
other projects, please consider following me on TikTok (@gillianeliza_) & Instagram
(@gillianeliza) or joining my mailing list to be the first to know about my fantasy
romance novel coming out this fall.
 The Butcher & The Wolf
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

The sun slowly dipped below the horizon and took with it the paralytic darkness of the death-
like sleep. Hermione woke slowly, her body soft atop the silk, featherlight brushes sliding
across her cheekbones, the slope of her nose. A warmth blossomed between her thighs,
radiating out to her belly, her chest, a quiet moan slipping through her lips.

On instinct, she tilted her hips, pressure tightening in her core. Her mouth filled with magic,
throat working to swallow measure after measure. A purring growl vibrated across her chest,
until her eyes blinked heavily to gaze upon the golden-haired vampire before her. The sharp
line of his jaw was slack, silver eyes blown wide. One long fingered hand closed over her
breast, rolling it between his fingers. She whimpered, head tilting back to press against the
coffin wall, taking with her his wrist clamped in her grip.

The top of the coffin was cracked enough to let the moonlight in, enough to illuminate
Draco’s features. A furrow formed between his brow, lip curling to expose the deadly tip of
his fangs. With a jerk, he pulled his wrist from her mouth, blood sliding down her chin as she
chased the wound. He smeared the blood across her chest, his tongue following in his wake
until the gash from her teeth healed. Her fingers swiped at what was left, dipping them into
her mouth as she swallowed her next gasp, his hand fitting between their bodies to circle her
clit.

Her cunt fluttered around him, desperate moans filling the air between them. Quiet pleading
falling from her lips, soft and breathless.

“Look at you,” he purred, dipping his head to lick the tip of her breast. “Dripping in blood
and desperate for my come.”

Teeth sank through her skin, lightning zinging through her veins as he took one great pull.
His tongue lapped at the wound and with each movement of his tongue she shuddered, the
pressure coiling tighter in her belly. The edge was just there, ready and waiting for her.

“Say my name.” The words were soft, barely a movement of his lips, but she heard it all the
same.

Her jaw tightened against the urge, the reasons to deny him shimmering on the edges of her
consciousness. Betrayal, brutality, the beast that lived within them both. But then Draco’s
hips moved frantically, the tips of his fingers pinching her clit roughly. A cry wrested from
between her teeth, eyes rolling back as he threw her over the edge, the rhythm punishing as
he followed. But his name did not leave her lips, not even when another bright orgasm rushed
over her skin, leaving her limbs soft and body pliant.

She did not know how long they lay there in the quiet darkness, only a single shaft of
moonlight bringing clarity to her maker’s features. With each breath that passed between
them, the aching grief of her reality crept back into her bones. The reminder that before her
lay a monster in an angel’s form, staring back at her with cold silver in his gaze. And there
was, perhaps, a small crack within the stone façade behind his eyes, a tiny wound that bled
before the coldness swept in.

But the cold had already eaten away the warmth of his blood in her veins until all that was
left was the growing fear of what he might do next. Of what horrors lay in store on this night.

With sudden quickness, Draco pushed the coffin lid away, rising to his feet and gathering her
in his arms. He spoke not a word as he leapt into the air, darting through an open window in
the high ceiling above. Snow danced across her skin as he flew and she tried to resist the urge
to burrow deeper into his arms. To press her face to the skin of his throat, to pierce his skin
and find again the only warmth she now knew.

Instead, she kept her eyes open, cataloging the burning lights of Paris, the crumbling
ramparts beneath them as they sped into the countryside. Ahead was the chateau, gilded and
burning brightly with the light of hundreds of candles inside. How strange to see it empty of
its jeweled inhabitants, free of the fawning masses desperate for even just a moment with the
Lord.

Draco landed them soundlessly on the terrace, a whisper of shadow slithering past her before
two gilded doors clicked open to a large salon. There, with his knee crossed over one ankle,
was the man she had met only last night, flipping lazily through the Gazettes Et Papiers
Anglois before flicking his dark gaze up at the pair of them. His eyes widened, lips parting on
a surprised gasp before he folded the paper soundlessly and threw it into the roaring hearth
beside him.

“Sire,” Monsieur Zabini breathed, rising to his feet.

Beside her, Draco’s mouth turned down a fraction as he ushered her inside. “You know not to
call me that.”

But the man merely shrugged, a glint in his eyes that made Hermione wonder if he didn’t
enjoy the way it appeared to rankle her maker. “Yes, but calling you Draco feels so plebian.”
He turned back to Hermione, soft whispers from his mind curling through the air between
them. Noting the bloodstained tunic dwarfing her small frame, her hair and skin matted with
the same substance. “Hello, Miss Granger.”

Out of habit, she gave a small dip of her head. “Monsieur Zabini.”

The man chuckled, waving his hand. “Blaise is fine.”

She ticked an eyebrow up, stepping away from the hand pressing against her low back. “Oh,
but do you not find it plebian to be referred to as such?” The words left her lips before she
could call them back and she bit the inside of her lip in fear of how he might react.

But Blaise’s head tipped back; the long line of his dark throat exposed as he laughed. There,
nestled within his bright white teeth, Hermione spied the sharpened fangs.
“From your lips nothing could sound so common,” he finally replied, a wide smile still
pulling at his cheeks.

A hum of darkness curled through the room, ominous and oppressive. At once, the smile fell
from his lips and he turned, shoulders rounded towards Draco. Fear crackled down her spine
at the blank mask upon his face, the fury that roiled behind his silver eyes the only indication
that he was not made of stone.

“There is a chamber upstairs outfitted to your needs.” His voice was even, almost a
monotone.

Hermione pursed her lips, the obvious command in his voice an itch against her skin. Draco
took a step towards her, hand outstretched, but she merely gazed at it as if it were a vile
cockroach beneath her heel.

Without the blood she saw him for what he truly was. She remembered his betrayal, the
monstrous deeds, the press of his fingers against her neck as he forced her to drink. When
Draco moved towards her again, she took a step back, heartbeat fluttering in her ears. The
outstretched hand balled into a fist, before falling to his side.

“You have three quarters of an hour to ready yourself,” he finished, bitter anger sharpening
the constants.

“For what?” she snapped, a flare of pain sparking across her palms before she relaxed her
hands.

With a grinding turn on his heel, Draco disappeared from the salon, but not before she heard
his rumbling growl:

“The hunt.”

In the end it was Blaise who convinced her to dress. Who guided her with quiet steps up the
curved staircase to the bedchamber at the end of the east hall. But it was Draco who had
called for a servant to bring her hot water so she might wash the blood from her hair and skin.
Draco who had apparently laid out a fine emerald gown upon the large four poster bed.

“He made you?” Hermione asked from behind the privacy screen as she clasped the whale-
bone corset, silk cool beneath her fingertips.

Blaise chucked lightly. “No, Draco is not my maker. Only one who as accepted the role of
mentor to an orphan.”

She frowned, stepping out from the screen to present her back. Without hesitation Blaise
crossed the room, lacing up the corset.

“Is it so common?” she asked, but when he did not reply she continued. “For…” Pausing she
tried to search for the words. “For one to be without their maker?”
Blaise hummed, his footsteps echoing across the marble. As the night had progressed,
Hermione noticed her senses heightening. The way she knew that Blaise had gathered the
gown in his hands, how he favored his right leg over his left. Why, she could even detect the
servants below, one sweeping out the charcoal from the fireplace while another replaced the
candles along the wall of the salon.

“We are hunted like deer in the wood,” he murmured, stepping behind her. Pain dripped from
every word, his grief curling around her shoulders like a creature seeking warmth. Hermione
froze, images flicking into her mind unbidden. The faces of the countless immortals she had
slayed, the ghost of their blood suddenly itching on her hands. “In this time immortality is
merely a way to quantify that one will not succumb to illness or age. Arms up.”

She obeyed lifting her arms to allow him to dress her. His hands gently tugged the bodice
down, fastening it with quick, easy movements, faster than any human could, the fine skirt
following after.

“I am sorry,” she whispered.

His hand stilled and though she could not see him, she knew his thick brows had ticked up in
surprise. “Are you?”

Hermione pursed her lips, searching the hollow thrum in her chest. “I… I do not know. Only
that I am sorry that you have suffered. That you have lost one you loved.”

Slowly, Blaise circled to stand in front of her. The movement was an echo of their first
meeting, when his cold eyes had appraised her as one might a prized mare. This time there
was no ice within his features, merely a hollow sort of grief she thought she knew quite well.

“I cannot imagine it is easy to become that which you have feared for so long.”

“I did not fear—”

He cut her off with a sharp look, his full lips pursing. “Why else would your kind destroy us
if not fear?”

A deep breath rattled in her chest. “Vampires are monsters,” she replied without thought.
“They kill—”

“We kill,” Blaise interrupted, eyes flashing a deep ochre. Her jaw snapped shut with a click.
“We kill to survive, to live. Though you might find that most civilized vampires — ones who
are at least past their fledgling years — try our very best to refrain from the kill if we can.”

“And yet you still take life,” she countered.

He dipped his chin, humming his agreement. “Do you murder the wolf when he devours the
sheep? Or the butcher when he bludgeons the cow?”

Confusion rippled down her spine, a stillness creeping through her bones. Blaise took a step
closer, forcing her gaze up to meet his.
 “Despite what you wish was true, you are one of us now. I do not expect you to leave this
room accepting what we are with an open heart — or Draco for that matter. But do not
confuse cruelty with virtue depending on whose hand holds the knife.”

He touched his knuckle once to her chin, a playful smile replacing the solemn expression on
his face. Without another word he darted to the door, giving her a small bow.

“It is your choice, Hermione. But there is a monster in us all — there is no use in pretending
any different.”

Chapter End Notes

Hello!! I hope y'all have been having a wonderful few weeks & also enjoyed the
conclusion of coffin sex lol. This piece of dialogue between Hermione & Blaise is I
think one of the things I'm most proud of within this entire fic. Next chapter will be out
in a few weeks, as I am knee-deep in stuff for my book coming out this fall so I
appreciate your patience!

If you'd like to stay up to date with this work & my other projects, please consider
following me on TikTok (@gillianeliza_) & Instagram (@gillianeliza) or joining my
mailing list to be the first to know about my upcoming traditional novel.
 The Point of Death
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

Paris.

The city was an uncut jewel, glittering with harsh edges and shallow gouges. Hermione
followed a step behind Draco as they wandered the Boulevard du Temple amidst the throng
of theatre-goers and street performers. They had spoken not a word, not even when Blaise
delivered Hermione onto the high terrace over the east wing. Draco had only given her a
cursory glance before gathering her in his arms and setting off into the night sky.

She had to admit he was an impressive figure, gliding through the crowds like a sharpened
blade. The high collar of his velvet roquelaure covered the lower half of his face from view,
but his hair was white fire swirling in the wind, barely contained by the black ribbon tied at
his nape. Men and women both stopped to admire him as they passed, their attention flicking
over his fine boots, the glittering rings on his long-fingered hands, the exquisite line of his
cheekbones.

Not that Hermione was admiring those things. Not when her heart thrummed with fear even
as her throat burned. For if she played her hand well this night, she thought perhaps she
would be free of him. It would not be difficult to lose herself within a crowd like this, or else
slip away when he was lost in the hunt.

Draco stopped beneath a large pollard tree, hand sliding around her waist to tug Hermione
closer to him. His nose brushed the space below her ear, breath heavy on her skin. Sparks
cascaded down her spine, her mind going blissfully blank at his touch before roaring back to
life. The connection between maker and fledgling was astounding, the way her body
responded to him — craved him.

“Look at them, sparrow,” Draco murmured, his deep voice falling beneath the din of
carriages and crowds. But when Hermione merely blinked at him, he took her chin between
his fingers, pointing it towards the humans bustling by.

There were dozens upon dozens, all spilling out of the theatres or else gathering around the
street performers. Thirst climbed through her throat, the fiendfyre raging in her lungs at their
scent. Before, as they had wandered through the crowd, Hermione thought she had mastered
the longing, but now it was there on the tip of her tongue.

“What do you see?” he asked, lips brushing the shell of her ear.

She shivered. “People…” When he only gave a sound of annoyance in response she
swallowed, her throat clicking around the scorching dryness of the thirst. “People going from
the theatre to their homes, or else to a tavern…”
Draco hummed, stepping closer, hand curling around her hip beneath her cloak. “Do you see
the man on the corner?” She nodded. The man was leaning against one of the plaster walls,
eyes flicking across the crowd. “Can you scent the blade hidden in his palm?” Her brows
furrowed. She could not. “Look into his mind, sparrow, if you cannot find his misdeeds on
the surface. It is a similar skill to occlumency, only now you are not restricted by distance or
eye contact. What do you see?”

Hermione stared at the man, her eyes widening as the taste of acid coated her tongue. The
bitterness of existence, of greed, of pain. Now she could scent the blade, but it was the one he
carried in his heart.

“I see one who kills to survive,” she answered finally.

Do you murder the wolf when he devours the sheep?

Pressure lanced against her hip where Draco’s hold tightened. Lips caressed just beneath her
jaw. The featherlight scrape of fangs against her skin.

“As do we all, sparrow. There is your meal.” Slowly, he guided them across the Boulevard,
slipping between the horses. “There is an alley with a dead end around this corner. Take him.”

Her heels pushed into the ground, trying to stop their approach. She could not do this, could
not lure a man into a darkened street to take his life.

“No.” The word was ash on her tongue, destroyed by the thirst.

Draco spun them, pressing her shoulders into the small alcove within the Salle des Grands
Danseurs, the bustle of activity hiding them from view. Pressure clamped over her throat, his
hand bracketing her neck, tilting her head up with his index and thumb.

Silver shined within the sparse candlelight, fangs flashing in a snarl. “Would you rather
wither? Would you rather succumb to the thirst until you grow mad with it? Until you throw
yourself into the flames?”

His wrist was cool beneath her palm as she tried to remove his hand, but she could have
moved the stone beside her before ever moving him. “I would have rather never been made
into what I am.”

There was a soft click of his tongue, eyes narrowing into slits. “And yet here you are, burning
with the thirst.”

“I will not kill an innocent—”

“That man has killed more than even you, sparrow,” Draco cut across her. “Even his clothes
reek of the blood of innocents. That man is evil. He will kill you merely for the silk on your
back but not before he took his pleasure of the flesh. And if not you, then another.”

Hermione blinked, lips parting before closing. Draco stepped even closer until his breath
ghosted across her face, hand squeezing just enough to give a whisper of his immortal
strength.
“When we drink… When we kill, it is the evil doer we take to the grave.” Surprise froze her
where she stood, a preternatural stillness she had never known in life.

Draco’s attention flicked across her face, reading whatever it was that lay in her heart. Yet all
she could wonder was if it was true. And if it was true that vampires only killed evil doers
then did that mean they were on the side of goodness?

“It has nothing do to with goodness, sparrow. There are no sides, not here — it is merely
about survival.” The hand across her throat tensed before softening until it became merely a
caress. “Kill the innocent long enough and one will go mad, the guilt will weigh upon your
soul until you are begging to be destroyed. We might take a drop from many throughout a
night, but never the full meal.” He dropped his face until they were eye level. “It is evil alone
that we take the full measure from.”

“But the man last night…” Her voice was a whisper. Her victim. The man she had drained of
his life.

She thought she might have felt the soft stroke of Draco’s thumb against her cheek, but a
muscle in his jaw tightened.

“Blaise found that man lying in wait only paces from our gate to ambush carriages on their
way out of the chateau, a flintlock pistol in his coat.” The image of that man swam between
them and she knew Draco could see it too. Ginger hair across her lap, the soft hum of a docile
creature preparing for forever sleep. “I subdued him with my power… To make it easier for
you.”

Hermione scoffed. “Easier.”

Easier would have been not to bring him in at all. Not to slash his throat with her silver
dagger and force her to drink.

His hand slipped from her throat, slapping onto the stones behind her. “I can only sustain you
for so long, you need human blood.” She lifted her chin in defiance, mouth settling into a thin
line and Draco raised a brow. “We are at an impasse, hm? There will be no persuading you?”

Dread trickled down the back of her neck as a resolve hardened Draco’s features. He
straightened, hands sliding from the wall before he raked one through his hair, combing back
the pieces that had fallen around his face. She thought, perhaps, there was something like
regret clinging to the corners of his eyes for half a heartbeat before it vanished.

“You took my life,” she breathed, the words spilling out in a harsh whisper before she could
call them back. “I was not a willing fledgling, not one offering themselves up to the night.
Nor was I at the point of death—”

“Yes, you were, sparrow,” he replied, voice hollow. When she shook her head, he pushed on.
“You came into my house with a silver blade strapped to your thigh and orders from Albus
Dumbledore to destroy me.” His gaze, which had slipped to the man he would no doubt kill,
flicked back to her. “There was no walking out of my chateau alive.”
 A soft breeze rippled through the alcove, swirling the fabric of her gown, the velvet of his
roquelaure. It should have been chilling, the wind, she should have shivered from the cold,
pulled her cloak tighter around her chest. Yet the chill did not touch her — not in this
immortal body, not with this gift she could not cherish.

“Then why not kill me?” she pushed. “Why not destroy the threat rather than create a
fledgling? One who you will watch eventually wither and d—”

His hand clapped around her mouth, face suddenly centimeters from her own. The silver in
his gaze flared, as if lit by candles, a growl rumbling in the dark. Draco’s mouth opened, then
closed with a snap. But he did not speak, only searched her face, the vein in his throat pulsing
a heavy rhythm that set her throat to aching once more.

With a grind of his heel he turned, cloak curling around her hips before he strode off at a
mortal’s pace towards the man on the corner. A puppet on a string, Hermione followed,
attention fixed on the head of white-blonde hair until it disappeared around the corner. The
man, their mark, had vanished. Her heartbeat roared in her ears — around her was the scent
of humans, their sweat, perfumes, the powdered wigs of the upper-class, and the hint of their
blood running through their veins. Yet as she turned the corner down the dark, dead end, the
ache in her throat burned until she bit her tongue to cut off her scream.

Draco held the man in his arms, pressed against the damp stones of the small rue. They could
have been lovers, the way her maker cradled him, the way his mouth was pressed to his
throat as if in a caress. But the scent of blood was heavy on the air and growing deeper by the
minute. With wide eyes she tracked the pale hand sliding up the man’s chest, fingertips
pressing against his sternum before disappearing beneath the fabric of his dirty shirt.

A small gasp, followed by a sickening gurgle was wrenched from the mortal’s lips, eyes
ballooning in his sockets before there was a snap that, for all its softness, echoed through the
alley. Draco’s hand withdrew, fingers dripping with blood, the man’s heart giving off one
lifeless twitch in his palm.

She took one step closer, her thirst a heavy collar around her throat, urging her forward. The
thoughts were so loud, so instinctual that she struggled against them, struggled to keep a hold
on what she knew was right. Was it not right that she should partake in this feast? That she
should give in to what her body craved? To what her soul desired? There her maker stood,
only paces away, offering the gift of eternal life and she was squandering it.

Drink, the dark said. Drink and live.

Her eyes squeezed shut, hands fisting at her sides, and before she could move any farther into
the alley, she turned and fled.

Chapter End Notes

Hi there! Our girl is really going through it right now, isn't she? Couple of things: I tried
to be as time accurate as possible with the landmarks within Paris in the 1700s.
Boulevard du Temple was a popular street for live theatre at a time when there were
strict laws as to who could & could not perform real theatre (most of these theaters
performed comedy shows with live acrobats/jugglers/singing etc). In my research I also
found that pollard trees lined the Boulevard du Temple. I'm not 100% sure about my
placement of Salle des Grands Danseurs but I think things are kinda in the right place?
So apologies if you know a lot about this time period & it wasn't quite right, I tried my
very best!

Thank you all so much for your patience, things have been really crazy behind the
scenes but I think I'm going to be able to swing every other Friday uploads moving
forward, so this fic will be fully uploaded on May 31st. My plan right now is to start
uploads on my sugar daddy Dramione fic once my copy edits & cover/interior design is
done for my book, just because I know I'm gonna be super stressed. So that should start
mid-June & I'll probably do every other week as well just to give myself some breathing
room.

Anyways, that was a lot of information y'all didn't ask for but I always want to be as
transparent as possible about uploads & expectations! As always, thank you so, so much
for reading! If you'd like to stay up to date with this work & my other projects, please
consider following me on TikTok (@gillianeliza_) & Instagram (@gillianeliza) or
joining my mailing list to be the first to know about my upcoming indie novel. Love
y'all.
 The Greater Good
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

The world was a blur of color and light around her.

Hermione found that the more she ran, the faster her feet carried her until she was streaking
around corners and slicing between carriages too fast for the mortal eye to see. Every cell in
her body screamed, ached, cried out for her to return not only to the feast that awaited her but
to Draco — to her maker.

The first time she stopped was on a busy streetcorner surrounded by mortals. One woman
cried out at her sudden appearance, a man gripped his companion by the shoulder, pulling
him back. The thirst had almost taken hold, her hands flexing to grab the woman by her
slender neck, to sink her fangs into the smooth flesh of her throat.

And so, she ran again.

By the time she found herself standing beside the water of the Seine it was in the dark hours
before morning. Most humans were tucked away in their beds and out of reach. Hermione
stood upon a stone bridge, hands wrapped around the cool railing, breathing deep the scent of
the water below. The decay and sickness of Paris, anything but blood.

She took another slow breath, trying to calm her racing heart. The rhythm had nothing to do
with her running, but with the discomfort roiling beneath her skin.

“Hermione?”

With a gasp, she turned, hand flying to her mouth — it was not Draco as she had expected.
Bright green eyes behind smudged spectacles stared back, messy black hair pushed away
from his face and tucked behind his ears. The overcoat he wore was shabby, boots a bit
scuffed, but beneath it a fine waistcoat and breeches peeked out.

“Harry…” she breathed.

He was gazing upon her with greedy, relieved eyes before he closed the space between them
and wrapped her in his arms. She froze, holding her breath before she could inhale the scent
of him, but his warmth was an ember against her skin.

“But you are freezing, Hermione! How long have you been out here?” His hands rubbed up
her arms before tucking the cloak tighter around her.

“What are you doing here?” she finally managed.

He should have been in London with the others.

Here in the low light, she was sure Harry could not see the change in her features. The
smoothness of her skin, the sparkle of her eyes, her fingernails. For he only ran a hair through
his messy hair, flashing her a sheepish grin.

“Padma reported you had not returned to the safe house last night and…” Harry stepped
forward, wrapping her hands in his. “We were so worried, Hermione. Dumbledore was afraid
something might have happened, that perhaps that monster—”

Dread curled in her stomach and on instinct she snatched her hands back.

“—did something to you…” Harry finished slowly. “Did he… do something to you?”

Harry looked at her fully then, squinting in the darkness to make out her features. But
Hermione shook her head, some forgotten instinct to survive smoothing her voice.

“No, Harry, but the night it took its toll. He is—was,” she corrected herself quickly, “strong.
The strongest immortal I had ever faced.”

With a nod, he tucked her hand in the crook of his elbow and Hermione allowed him to guide
her over the bridge and into Île Saint Louis where the safe house was nestled. Gritting her
teeth, she realized she had all but flung herself into the Order’s waiting arms and now… now
she would have to find a way out before morning or else she be destroyed.

But that was what she wanted, was it not? To be released from this horrible existence?

Harry was murmuring some platitudes of her strength, how of course she would have found a
place to recover before facing those she had traveled here with. How Fleur and William had
been beside themselves with worry, having sent Harry another patronus that morning with the
news she still had not returned.

The sitting room of the safe house was lit with only a few candles and the hearth roaring in
the fireplace by the time Harry ushered her through the door. Though he had tried to divest
her of her cloak, she had clutched it to her chest, whispering of the cold and the chill she
could not seem to shake. Harry had nodded, touching her chin softly with his knuckle before
guiding her in.

At once, Fleur, William, Charles, and Padma jumped to their feet, exclaiming their relief at
her reappearance. It was a cacophony of sound as arms wrapped around her shoulders and
Hermione held her breath against the torrent of blood crashing upon her. Fire scorched her
lungs and she feared if she opened her mouth, it would be to scream in agony.

The dark power that had wrapped itself around her like a second skin flexed within the space,
whispering to her of others in the bedroom above sound asleep. How strange to have such
magic within her, to experience a knowing without an incantation.

“S'asseoir,” Fleur invited, guiding Hermione to one of the wing back chairs beside the fire.
“You must be exhausted, have you eaten yet, ma belle?”
The thirst sank its claws into her throat and Hermione shook her head. No, she had not eaten,
not truly. And now every instinct told her that in Fleur she would find her satisfaction, or
perhaps in the men behind her. She licked her lips, taking a soft, shallow breath.

“No, thank you, Fleur,” she managed, rising to her feet. “I would rather rest.”

“Before you do…” William started, freckled forearms exposed from where he’d rolled his
shirtsleeves. Something twinged within her chest at the sight of his red hair tied back at his
neck, the pale skin across his cheeks. The man she had killed last night could have been his
brother from another life they looked so similar. “Tell us what happened.”

“Bill, surely this can w—” Harry began, stopping at once when William lifted a hand in
silence.

Slowly, Hermione lowered herself back into the chair. William was the leader of the safe
house in Paris and though she might have outranked him on English soil, here they were
under his command. Long scars marred his pale face, sliding down his left arm, and she
wondered if the monster in him would be able to sense the one in her. If once he truly looked,
he would see her for what she now was.

“I was admitted entry as planned. Monsieur Zabini was easily located and swayed.”
Hermione grimaced slightly, a strange slice of betrayal in her belly. “And I was taken into a
chamber with perhaps six or seven others. He… chose me.”

He had — had he not? Draco had chosen her above all others, knowing what she was, what
she was there to do. Though she wanted to believe he changed her as punishment, she could
not believe that was the whole truth. Not with the way he held her, the way it felt when he
gave her the blood. The mind-numbing ecstasy of his touch, how he held her close.

You are mine, he had said. And a small part of her whispered back: You are mine, too.

William was leaning forward in the chair he had taken across from her, scarred elbows
resting on his thighs, hands clasped together. Behind him with a hand on the chair stood
Fleur, her blonde hair swept up in an elegant updo, pale blue gown nearly as fine as hers.
Both of their attentions were fixed unblinkingly upon Hermione.

His nostrils flared. A soft growl rumbled through his chest.

“Bill…” Harry said, rising to his feet as William did. “Fleur, what is going on?”

But Fleur was staring, wide eyed at Hermione, a shaking hand slowly rising to cover her lips.
“Mon Dieu.”

The dark tendrils of her power rose like the hair on the back of her neck. Danger curled
around her in the chair, the tension suddenly oppressive in the small room.

“Accio knife,” William cried, hand outstretched.

She was on her feet in an instant, but it was Harry that stepped between them.
“Bill!” he cried. “What in Godri—”

“She is one of them,” he seethed, hand gripping the silver knife. It was almost identical to her
own, forgotten somewhere within the chateau far off beyond the ramparts. “Incarcerous.”

Black ropes conjured from his wand towards her. It was only a thought, a mere second, and
the ropes lay on the floor around her unmoving and curling into ash. She blinked, astounded
by the power, how innate her magic was to her will. Harry roared, wand tip jabbed beneath
William’s chin, hand outstretched to keep Fleur back.

Charles appeared beside them; hands raised. “Put down the wand.”

“She is still Hermione,” Harry roared.

A sob caught in her throat, mixing with the flames of her thirst. Even now, a small voice in
her head said she could kill them all in a matter of moments. Her friends no, her family. these
were the people who she had grown up with, who had taken her in as family when hers had
succumbed to the plague.

“Hermione is dead,” William spat. “What stands before us is merely a monstrous

approximation.”

Was that true? Though she could feel the monster inside, Hermione still felt like her. And yet
in his eyes she knew he could not find the girl he had grown up with, the girl he had taught to
break curses and fight dragons. There was no recognition in his gaze.

“She will kill,” Fleur said softly, almost placatingly before her cold blue eyes flicked to
Hermione. “Most likely she already has.”

Guilt was a living being inside of her, squirming through her organs. She could not deny it,
but how could she quantify the grief she felt. The heartache at being what she was, regardless
that she had not chosen it. Tears raised in her eyes, blurring the room red, and she could not
blame Padma when she gave a small gasp of fear.

Blood tears.

They streaked down her cheeks, falling onto the fabric of her gown, the swell of her breasts.
All stared in horror as she wept, even Harry could not hide his fear at such a confirmation of
her transformation.

“Please,” Hermione sobbed, the word catching in her throat as all raised their wands, save
Harry. She did not know what it was she was asking for. A bid for freedom? To make her
destruction swift and painless?

But hands merely gripped wands, white-knuckled. Fear soured the room, coating her tongue
until she wanted to retch. And she knew, now, she would not make it from this room alive.
That they saw her not as Hermione but as the enemy.

“Incendi—” Charles began.

 Black shadows exploded through the room, wood clattering upon the floor as their wands
went flying. All cried out, their bodies flung to the floor, the candlelight flickering as through
a great gust of wind had blown through.

And there, leaning beside the doorframe, stood a vampire in a velvet roquelaure, silver eyes
fixed upon her.

“Hello, sparrow.”

Chapter End Notes

WELP. Things are really coming to a head, friends! Next update will be on May 3rd!

Thank you so, so much for reading! If you'd like to stay up to date with this work & my
other projects, please consider following me on TikTok (@gillianeliza_) & Instagram
(@gillianeliza) or joining my mailing list to be the first to know about my debut novel.
I'll be announcing the title & some art on May 13th to my mailing list & May 15th to
social media.
 The Chill of Winter
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

Soft groans skittered across the floorboards as the members of the Order tried to rise.

Hermione’s heartbeat pounded in her ears. They are not dead, she continued to repeat in her
mind. Not yet, at least. She stood, frozen, staring upon her maker who strode confidently into
the room, one hand settled in his fine silk waistcoat.

“Did you think I would not find you?” Draco purred, silver eyes flicking over Hermione,
checking for injuries beneath her blood splattered cheeks. With a gentleman’s flare he
withdrew a handkerchief from an inner pocket, sliding his fingers into her hair as he wiped
her tears. “Do you see now, sparrow? You do not belong in their world.”

She choked on another sob, the realization that he had allowed her to be taken crashing over
in an almighty wave. Behind him, Charles was the first to rise, wand pointing at Draco’s
back.

“Incar—” A choking gasp filled the room, his freckled cheeks growing ruddy before his hand
flew to his throat. His fingers scrambled against his skin as if trying to remove an invisible
noose.

“Do not do this,” she pleaded, wrapping her hands around his cloak.

But Draco merely touched her cheek, a sad smile on his face. “You are the one who
consigned them to this fate.” An ominous silence fell, broken only by the harsh crackle of the
fire, as if all were waiting for Hermione’s response. When none came, Draco continued. “You
could give them a painless death, even a pleasurable one.”

If she were to drink, he meant, to usher them into the afterlife in a dazed dream. Blaise had
spoken to her of such a gift, that the blood drinker could decide whether or not the bite hurt
or sedated. That their power was only an extension of their will.

The thought twisted through her gut and she shook her head.

“Do not do this,” she could only repeat.

Gone was the fighter, now before her maker she was merely the ghost of who she had been in
life. Broken by the dark gift until only a shell remained. Perhaps he finally saw it within her
heart, for Draco’s lips pursed, a shadow of hurt crossing his features. Behind him, all began
to groan louder, trying to rise from where his power kept them prone upon the floor.

“Very well,” he breathed.

Another snap of darkness lashed from her maker and though all lay slumped to the ground,
she could still hear their heartbeats — still scent the life that curled around them. With a
gentleness that confused her, Draco wrapped a hand around her elbow, guiding her out the
door and onto the street as a mortal might, before gathering her in his arms and shooting into
the sky.

“You let them live…” she murmured; the words almost lost in the whipping of the wind.

Draco’s eyes were fixed upon the horizon, but he gave a soft hum of acknowledgement. The
lights of the city grew dim beneath them, giving way to the calm of the countryside and the
stone monastery where they would find their rest. For even now she could feel the
approaching dawn, the sun’s harsh rays already burning her eyes though they still had
perhaps three quarters of an hour before it woke from its nighttime slumber.

“For now,” he finally replied.

The stones were cool beneath her feet, her shoes lost somewhere over Paris in the wind.
Draco untied her cloak from her throat, allowing it to fall to the floor before her gown and
underthings followed until she stood only in her chemise.

“They will hunt you,” Draco said softly, removing the pins from her hair. “They will not stop
until you are destroyed.”

Hermione licked her lips, eyes fixed upon the sliver of skin exposed by the collar of his shirt.
The thirst hurt, it lived in her bones, tearing up her insides until it only shards remained. Yet
even now she could not abide the idea of drinking. Could not come to terms with taking life
to sustain herself.

“I would have let them destroy me, had you not come,” she admitted, refusing to meet his
gaze.

Draco froze, that preternatural stillness that only a blood drinker could obtain, as if he were a
statue carved in the act of undressing. And when his face lifted, when he searched her mind,
she knew he would find her truth.

That she could not survive as this creature. Not like this. Not when her choice had been taken
from her.

Slowly, he nodded. Guiding her with gentle hands into the coffin before wrapping her in his
arms. And she thought, perhaps, she could taste his grief on the air, though she could not read
his heart. That, in the darkness of the crypt, she could scent blood on the air that might have
been his tears.

“I wish we had met in another time…” she murmured while he drew her close. “One in
which you had lost the brutality that raised you. Where you might have seen me from a
distance, perusing the stalls of the Seine, and asked for my name. Perhaps spoken of what it
was our souls knew…”

A choked noise echoed in the dark, hands tightening their grip around her small frame.
The dawn was nearly sliding into the sky, the paralytic sleep of the day almost overtaking
them when she finally heard his voice, caught on the edge of a sob.

“As do I.”

Draco

The village in which Draco had lived his human life was nothing more than stones. Six
hundred years had lain waste to the thatched roofs and tilled fields until all that remained was
the woods. The woods in which he had been transformed into what he was now — offered up
by his father for the good of their people.

He and Hermione stood in a small clearing where the wide oak tree had once been, his hands
trembling as he laid the last pieces of wood in the center of the pile. The chill of winter had
slid into his very bones until he was surprised his heart could beat through the ice that locked
it in his chest. Dread was a hand upon one shoulder, death upon the other, staring across the
pyre towards the woman he had ruined.

And he could not say the words to convince her to remain. The words he should have said
before she was ever made: the reason he had given her the blood in the first place.

She was dressed in only her chemise, staring at the wood, unblinking and unmoving. Guilt
had its maw around his throat, for he had loved her fight and, in his desperation, had taken it
from her. It was just as she had said: he was merely a boy who snatched a flower from the
ground before it had bloomed, only to allow it to wither.

Power flicked out from his mind, the dry wood catching with the fire gift until flames were
licking towards the sky. In an instant, he was at her side, hands wrapping around her
shoulders, her face tinting red before clearing again.

“Do not do this,” he pleaded, wincing at the echo of her words from only last night.

A sad smile curled her lips and he grieved for the loss of never seeing a true one. Never
would he know the sound of her laugh, of what it was that brought her joy. If he could have
brought her those things. No, it would only be misery, only horror and heartache. Hermione
touched his cheek, his lips.

“Perhaps we will meet again,” she breathed, voice tired as if she had been screaming.

And she had. From the moment he had changed her, she had been screaming inside her mind.
Horrified by what she had become — what he had turned her into out of selfishness and
greed. The breath caught in Draco’s throat as he remembered last night. Her wish that they
had met in another time when he had shed his cruelty, where he could have given her the
choice to stay at his side for all eternity.
For a brief moment, she rose to her toes, mouth brushing his in a chaste kiss. His fingers
tightened around her shoulders, ready to deny her this fate, to wrap her in his arms. He could
lock her in his chateau, force her to drink. Eternity meant that anyone could change, that they
could change their fate. Yet, the moment he thought it, shame covered him like a shroud. This
would be yet another choice he would take from her if he bent to that whim.

So, he let her go and, with that same sad smile on her face, she stepped into the flames.

Hermione did not scream, in fact the cries that rent the night sky were not hers at all. Draco’s
hands tore at his chest, his hair, blood tears rushing down his cheeks. Just as she had that first
night she was made: Draco cried out to the fates for what he had done. For the hole, the
emptiness that had been left behind.

He felt the moment her soul left this plane. The mind-numbing pain of grief like a wet
blanket stuck to his very being.

The truth was there, settling into the place where his heart had lived. He was a monster —
had always been a monster. Draco had allowed the world to make him into what stood before
the flames. A creature that had truly believed that to survive mean to be cruel, cold, brutal.

One step forward.

Then another.

The heat seared across his skin and yet he did not falter. He opened his mouth to the flames,
crawling onto the pyre and finding the charred remains. Gathering them in his arms as they
reduced to embers, he gave in to the pain. He became the fire that might cleanse the world of
his monstrosity.

Perhaps they would meet again, brand new, in another time.

But as the fire raged, as the pain ate at his bones, Draco remained. Until the flames had
turned to coals beneath his charred flesh, the fine fabric of his clothes only remnants of ash
that he could not discern from the rest.

Pain could not quantify the agony that was merely existing. Draco could not breathe, could
not speak, and as the dawn rose in the sky — like the coward he was — he buried himself
deep within the earth to shield himself from the sun’s rays.

There he stayed, weeping, sobbing in the dirt for how long he could not say. Only that
awareness was merely the knowledge of pain, the memory of her face behind his lids. The
soft skin of her throat beneath his lips, her curls shining in the candlelight. How she had felt
dancing in his arms.

Why did you do this to me? She asked beyond the grave.

Even now he could not say the words, could only sigh as dirt coated his tongue. Fingers,
merely bones, flexed in the earth as though he could reach out to her. She had gone into the
 flames and he could not follow. Too strong, too old for such a release from this world.
Perhaps even the fire of the sun could not have killed him, only prolonged his agony.

It was Blaise who found him.

Blaise who dug with bare hands into the frozen earth, who wrapped Draco like a child in his
cloak and cradled his ruined body in his arms. Who cut his wrists and bade him to drink the
first of many draughts to bring him back to strength.

Centuries it took for his muscles to return, for his hair to return to its white-blonde sheen. For
his bones to mend and his skin to smooth.

Yet in all that time his heart never healed.

Chapter End Notes

Well... I hope y'all read the tags. This is without a doubt the darkest fic I've ever written.
When I told Dani (holygnocci) the plot of this fic, she asked me "you okay girl?" But I
just could not see a realistic scenario in which Hermione would give in to him & if she
did I think it would take a very, very long time. But just... STAY WITH ME OKAY?
The next chapter is an epilogue & then chapter nine is actually a bonus chapter that I
think you will like very much.

Anywho, thank you for reading & make sure to schedule your appointment with your
therapist. If you'd like to stay up to date with this work & my other projects, please
consider following me on TikTok (@gillianeliza_) & Instagram (@gillianeliza) or
joining my mailing list to be the first to know about my upcoming indie novel. My
mailing list will be finding out the title, blurb, & seeing some art from Karina Giada on
May 13th!
 Epilogue: The Walk
Chapter Summary

Mark the date at the beginning of the chapter so things aren't confusing!

Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

Winter 1999, Paris

“Take a walk.”

Draco did not stir from his seat beside the window, only stared out onto the river below. The
bitter cold of winter fogged against the glass, obscuring the busy street with its throng of
people — the life that lived on in Paris. His thumb brushed steadily across the oval in his
palm, an unconscious gesture that had worn a soft divot into the ivory over the centuries.

“I know you can hear me.”

The voice was patient — the kind of patience that comes with endless time, of knowing a
being better than they knew themselves. Blaise did not scream at Draco when he fell into
silence, did not shake him, only acted as he did now: with the calm resolve of one who had
time on his side. He circled the chair, squatting beside the arm and covering Draco’s hand
with his own.

“Take a walk. It’ll do you some good.”

Draco pursed his lips, his chest finally rising with a breath and Blaise let out his own relieved
sigh. He had not spoken for almost sixty years when Blaise first resurrected him from the
earth. It was Blaise who had hunted for him, cared for him as one might an invalid. Finally in
the spring of 1834 as they stared out over the waters of Venice, Draco said his first words,
voice raspy and quiet with disuse.

It is all my fault.

Blaise had not contradicted him, not offered him hollow platitudes of mistakes. He had only
nodded. Then learn from this horror you have bestowed upon us all.

They left France fifty years prior, as soon as Draco had been strong enough. First settling in
Italy, then Amsterdam, Madrid, Cairo, a small stint in the Americas, before a longer stay in
London. Only a month ago had Blaise brought up the idea of Paris and allowed Draco time to
think on it. But truly it was the former who guided them through the world, for Draco would
have been content to die on that ancient pyre in the middle of his ancestral lands.

He did not make another, did not even speak to other immortals save Blaise, who
occasionally brought the nomadic blood drinker into their home for rest and civilized
comfort. No, Draco now existed as a mere shell of himself which he felt was more than
justice.

“Come on, mate,” Blaise pushed gently, squeezing his hand again.

Draco wrinkled his nose as the word, hating the way Blaise took to modern speech and
British vernacular. But he allowed himself to be pulled to his feet and guided to the door
while being man handled into a soft overcoat. He ran his free hand through his hair, falling
loosely around his shoulders and the front of his white button down. The other was still
clutched tightly into a fist around the only physical belonging he cared for.

A cameo carved with the visage of Persephone. A token he should never have been allowed
to keep and one that never left his person. The scrap of lace it had been sewn to had long ago
yellowed with age, disintegrating into dust. But he held firm to this one piece of her he had
left, knowing Blaise had disposed of the silver dagger before he could try to end his existence
again.

“Go, hunt, I’ll catch up with you before dawn, Draco.”

With another push, he was forced through the door of their opulent apartment nestled within
Les Marais. With a sigh he gazed at the marble tiles beneath his feet, trying to muster the
strength to move, to leave, to exist in this world. After another heartbeat, he slipped the
cameo into the inner pocket of his overcoat and drew on the soft leather gloves Blaise had
bought him.

Paris. So different from his time with her motorcars and buses, the mortals whizzing by on
bicycles. Music that pumped from tiny portable music devices, or the television machines
that blared from countless shop windows. And yet, he could still find his Paris beneath the
rest as he crossed the bridge and wandered the quai beside the Seine. The scent of the water
was the same, the bustle of people, the magic that still hung in the air.

The streetlights were just flickering on with their modern electricity, giving the world a soft,
warm glow. Marvelous, this time, when everyday people could continue their shopping late
into the night with their modern miracles. And though the splendors of this life were there,
they could not touch him. There was no room left for wonder or dazzlement. Draco walked
slowly, his heart a steady rhythm in his chest, attention flicking to the stalls of art and books
that lined the river before he stumbled, freezing in his tracks.

A woman stood only a few paces away, hair a riotous mane of curls pulled back from her
face. Her slender frame shivered beneath a brown jacket as she flicked through the stacks of
books, oblivious to the impatient vendor ready to close up shop and go home. A soft crimson
scarf caught in a gust of wind before she tucked it back into her coat and in Draco’s mind, he
could see the old gown superimposed over her figure. His heart suddenly beat furiously, some
jolt of emotion he could only place as joy sparked through his chest.
A book slipped from her stiff fingers and Draco bent, catching it before she could turn.

“Oh! Thank you,” she cried, her voice, though edged with a slightly different accent, made
warmth curl through his bones.

The first warmth he’d felt in over two hundred years.

“I lost my gloves,” she continued, flexing her fingers, and Draco could tell it was in
embarrassment. “I told myself I would buy some new ones while I was here but I haven’t had
the chance.”

A soft smile was tugging at his cheeks as she continued a rapid monologue in English about
the winter and her clumsiness. Those eyes, he would know those eyes anywhere. Brown
flecked with gold, as if streaked with sunlight. The soft freckles that splattered her cheeks
like the finest constellations in the sky.

“Oh, god, here I’ve been babbling this whole time and you probably don’t even speak
English,” she finished, tilting her head forward with a thunk against her pile of books.

“I speak English,” Draco replied softly, as if he were afraid his timbre might spook her.

Instead, a soft flush reddened her already rosy cheeks and her pulse quickened in her neck.
Draco bit back a groan at her scent as it deepened between them, that sweet honeysuckle
perfume that haunted his dreams.

“Well… good,” she breathed, hiking the stack of books higher before finally placing them on
the small shelf beside her to reorganize.

She turned away, reluctantly placing one book back into the catalogue before weighing
another in her hand. He could have watched her forever weighing those books, the slight
furrow in her brow. Though he had long ago shut out the thoughts of mortals around him,
there was still a whisper of her floating through the air.

Was she magical as she had been before? Surely, she must be, for he could sense that same
power curled around her. Except now it was tamer, kept on a tighter leash, as if she did not
know the full extent of her strength.

“How are you enjoying Paris?” Draco asked, longing to hear her voice again.

She bit her lip, pink fingers playing with the corner of one of the books. Draco fought the
urge to tilt her chin back to him, mourning the loss of her golden-brown eyes. But then she
shrugged, gaze flicking around them before into his.

“It’s my first time here, but I’m enjoying it very much.” She paused, before continuing on as
if she could not help herself. “I took the train in this morning and spent the afternoon at the
Musée d’Orsay. Tomorrow I’m hoping to brave the lines for Shakespeare and Company.”

Draco’s brows flicked up. “And how did you like d’Orsay?”
Her eyes widened in excitement, a bright smile pulling at her cheeks. Draco nearly stumbled
back at the sight, resisting the urge to place his hand over his heart. Here was the smile he
had longed to see, the joy that he had dreamt of. In full flow, she regaled him with her
favorite pieces, the architecture, how she’d wished for more time.

“I feel like there is never quite enough of it,” she finished.

Draco hummed. “I agree. I find myself quite often wishing the same.”

For more time with you.

Another blush warmed her cheeks, hair whipping around her face in the sudden breeze and
almost toppling the books. “Well, I’d better be off before this man rips out my throat for
keeping him late.” She jerked her chin behind her to the vendor tapping his foot impatiently.

Panic surged through his veins. Draco could not let her go — not now that he had found her.
But, of course, that had been the problem all along, had it not? And so, he dipped his head,
carefully placing the book she had dropped onto the top of the stack, trying not to grin at the
title.

Interview with the Vampire.

“Of course, I won’t keep you,” Draco said, sincerity dripping from his words.

He would not make the same mistake twice. All he could hope was that the fates would put
her in his path once more if they deemed him worthy. Draco took one more deep breath,
savoring her scent and hoping it might sustain him, before turning away at a mortal pace.

“Wait!” she cried, and quicker than he should have, he turned on his heel.

One hand was outstretched towards him as she fumbled to place her books in her bag with
the other. Hope tangled in his chest like sparks of electricity, a zinging sort of pain after
centuries of only heartache. She almost skipped to his side as the vendor counted his cash and
pulled the covering over his stall.

“This is going to sound crazy, but… what’s your name? I mean… have we met before?” She
stuck out her hand, seeming to come to some sort of decision. “My name is Hermione.
Hermione Granger.”

Draco blinked, his throat catching on the words before he gently took her hand. “Draco
Malfoy.”

Her smile was blinding and for some reason, she did not draw away. “Have we met before,
Draco?”

Unable to resist any longer, he bent, brushing his lips against the back of her hand. “What
does your soul tell you?”

A soft gasp slipped through her lips. He could see it then as he straightened: the recognition
of her soul. With a soft smile, he brushed a curl from her cheek, tucking it behind her ear.
 “It feels as if I know you,” she replied softly leaning into his touch, an ancient longing in her
young voice. “Like my soul is saying hello after a long time away.”

Draco smiled, nodding.

“Hello, sparrow.”

Chapter End Notes

I hope you forgive me now! I really felt like for Draco, it would take something like this
for him to change & to see the errors of his ways & I wanted to showcase that with his
willingness to let her go.

Next week is a bonus chapter of chapter one from Draco's POV! After this I'll be
starting uploads on a brand new Dramione fic (I promise the sugar daddy one is coming
but I just wrote this one & I really want y'all to read it). It's a spin on a marriage law
trope, but there are some differences. So if you love a traumatized, hurt Draco, some
slow burn, & crying but all of it ending with an HEA, keep an eye out! I think I'm going
to start uploads on that in a few weeks, but I'll be announcing on my instagram & tiktok.

Speaking of announcing, my mailing list will be finding out the title, blurb, & see some
art by the incredible Karina Giada on May 13th, so if you want to see that as well as
some spicy art in the future, you can a href=[Link] here.
I will be announcing on socials, but the roll out of information will be slower.

Love y'all!
 Bonus Chapter: For All Eternity
Chapter Summary

Please note the date & location before reading!

Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

Winter 1774

Malfoy Chateau, Paris

Honeysuckle, like the vines that had overgrown in his home village.

Old parchment, the kind one must handle with gentleness, with care.

Sunlight, even from this distance it was tangible, taunting like a curse.

Draco wrinkled his nose. He’d scented the witch before she had ever crossed the ramparts.
The scents that tantalized him were not the ones who had announced her arrival. No, it was
the scent of fervor, the metallic tang of rust and wood mixed up in the plight of the greater
good.

The witch smelled of Albus Dumbledore, of his Order and their goodness. Yet there was
something else beneath it, something that made the blood roil in his veins, made his soul
twist and clench in agony. His hand tightened on the balcony as he stared unseeing into the
vast garden below. Servants skittered about, lighting the lamps that lined the walkways,
wandering the intricate maze to ensure no guest was lost.

A soft breeze curled around his cheeks, swirling up the hair that had fallen from the ribbon
tied at his nape. Draco closed his eyes, breathing in the scent of the clouds heavy with snow,
the tang of blood from the horses in the stables, the sweat of the bodies crushed together in
his ballroom.

Show me. He commanded his power. Even after so many centuries, the vampiric magic
continued to astound him. The way it bended to his mere will, without need for incantation or
conduit. The power was the darkness of shadows, strong enough to shatter stone, to break
bones, and sly enough to see through walls, to invade minds, to bend wills. It slithered
through the ballroom as a snake would in grass. Twining between clasped hands, over
shoulders laden with pearls, around hips heavy with jeweled swords until…
There.

There she was.

Draco’s hands curled around the stone railing until a soft crack echoed through his
consciousness. Dumbledore had chosen his assassin well, for she was as lovely and as deadly
as a poisonous flower. A veritable feast for the eyes and the senses.

Monsieur Slughorn. Her far-off greeting was soft as her skin, eyes downcast as she dropped
into a graceful curtsey. The silk of her dress shimmered in the candlelight, dripping like blood
from her shoulders and pooling around her hips. Draco’s cock twitched at the thought.

Satin and lace swirled around her, but she appeared untouched by the finery. A nettle in a
bouquet of roses. She was well trained — of course, they always were, were they not? Draco
had dispatched many an Order member into the yawning expanse of oblivion to which he
was barred. Though sometimes the thought called to him. How would it feel to throw himself
into the flames of a great pyre? To leave this world and find some solace in the afterlife. Yet
he knew there would be no such solace for him. Not for a monster with a monstrous appetite.

Regardless that the world had made him this way.

Sire, a voice silently called. Draco’s jaw tensed. He was not Blaise’s maker, merely one who
had guided an orphaned fledgling. There was a reverence, however, in the young vampire’s
tone that pricked at the back of his neck.

Through Blaise’s eyes he beheld the witch, gloved hand in his, the warmth of her skin a
flame that Draco ached to feel in person. To snuff out the candle himself.

How old are you, mademoiselle? Blaise asked, circling the witch slowly to allow Draco time
to see all of her.

Petite in frame but strong — deadly even. The young vampire scented the silver blade
strapped somewhere on her person, even down to the miniscule droplets of blood that still
clung to the metal. He gave a soft rumble of approval at Blaise’s finesse, at the strengthening
of his friend’s dark talents.

Twenty, monsieur. Her voice was windchimes, an incantation to craze the mind and split the
soul.

Draco took another deep breath, power racing to find her there, mingled with Blaise’s herbal
scent. Heat flared deep in his chest, an urge to throw himself between them so
incomprehensible it made him pause. Who was it he wanted to protect? Surely not the witch
with her silver dagger and magic so tightly wrapped around her she wore it as a second skin.

What would you have me do? Blaise asked, silent voice loud enough to break Draco from his
reverie.

There was no hesitation, for he knew what must be done.

“Bring her to me.” Draco’s voice rang in the quiet night as he opened his eyes.
Sliding a hand down the brocade of his waistcoat, he took another slow breath. He must be
cautious with this witch, lest she turn a civilized evening into a blood bath. Not that Draco
minded such a gaudy feast — only that in this time of worshipping the Christian god such
carnage was not easily overlooked. Not like the old days where he might bathe in the blood
of dozens, even hundreds, to sate his thirst while mortals left offerings to appease their angry
deities.

Thirst flared, burning through his throat, singing in his veins.

“Sire,” Blaise called softly from right behind him.

Draco hung his head. “I deserve no such title.”

He had never made another — would never make another.

A light chuckle skittered through the silence, the gentle rustling of fine fabric as Blaise slid
his hand down the line of his roquelaure. Draco turned, inhaling the witch lingering on the
young vampire’s clothes. His dark skin burned with power and Draco caught the deeper scent
of human blood coursing through his veins from the little drink his friend already taken
tonight. All the better to appear as a sheep instead of a wolf.

“I have gathered all you asked,” Blaise continued, ignoring Draco’s words. “Would you
rather I disband the group and bring only the witch?”

Pursing his lips, Draco’s attention slid to the door nestled in the opposite corner of the room,
past the gilded chess table, the ornate chairs and candelabras dripping with wax. “Bring the
lot, lest I finish with her early and require another.”

Blaise dipped his head, turning on his heel and disappearing with a mere whisper of silk. In
his wake, the music from the ballroom spilled through the crack in the door. With it, the
thoughts of hundreds rose like a tidal wave, threatening to crash over Draco until he stifled it,
squeezing his eyes shut against the tumult and pushing it away.

Shoes clicked against marble, a cacophony of heartbeats fluttering like bird’s wings in
anticipation. And one steady beat louder than the rest, the confidence and assuredness of the
greater good. Draco smirked, crossing to the hidden door and stepping through in half a
moment, pausing upon the threshold to gaze upon his offerings.

Beautiful, the lot of them. Young men and women, close to the very age Draco had been
turned. Pale skin from the leeching so fashionable in this time, rouged cheeks and lips — the
sparkle of diamonds almost hurt his eyes, glittering as they did upon throats and curls. All
bowed or curtsied, making his blood heat, the thirst flare deep in his chest. He strode into the
room, releasing the latch on his roquelaure and allowing it to fall to the floor. Only a few
looked up, lips parted and eyes wide.

He circled them slowly, stopping before two young men identical in stature down to the
beauty marks penciled beneath their left eye.

“You may go,” Draco said with a soft smile.

The men bowed deeply before allowing Blaise to guide them from the room. Draco turned
his attention to a blonde young thing, her frothy lavender dress bunched tightly within satin
gloves, and gestured for her to follow. He dispatched three more, ignoring the quiet thrum of
disappointment in the room, before his attention settled upon a dark-haired woman beside the
witch. Her innocence was nowhere to be found. A tiny quirk of her lips spoke of a
mischievousness Draco found… intriguing. Perhaps another night.

“You may leave.”

The woman frowned, brows pulling together in disapproval at his choice. She sniffed, lips
parting to argue when Blaise cleared his throat behind him. But Draco read the words easily
from his mind. He was making a mistake, for she could provide for him all that the witch
beside her could not. A small pulse of his power shimmered through the room, that menacing
darkness sinking into her skin until her eyes widened and she gave a quick curtsy, following
Blaise from the room. No doubt he would heal her broken heart.

When the din from the ballroom quieted, Draco slowly approached the witch. Amusement
stirred at the sight of her curtseying low; head bowed in respect. My, but she is quite the
talented actress, Draco mused silently, fingers curling around her chin to tilt her face to his.

Brown eyes, streaked with sunlight blinked up at him with surprise, lips parting on a gasp.
Gold danced in her irises as they skittered over his face, down to the dip of his throat, then
back up again. A porcelain cameo rested at the hollow of her throat, depicting Persephone’s
descent into the underworld. And something stirred deep within his chest, something he had
not felt in so long.

It felt a bit like hope.

Gently, he brushed the soft swell of her bottom lip. “Exquisite.”

The words left him before he could call them back, urged on by the traitorous sensation
clanging through his chest before he quashed the feeling. Here was his enemy wrapped in silk
and dripping in lies. Another dispatched to their death by only the most recent in a line of
men seeking power beyond their means. But Draco quietly observed that Dumbledore at the
very least sent gifts that tantalized him.

“Thank you, my lord,” the witch replied, pink tongue darting out to dampened her lower lip.

Her scent deepened as he observed her, sweetening until his fangs ached. Draco inhaled,
unable to stop himself from basking in her obvious arousal. Quickly he darted into her mind,
slicing through her walls as if they were wet clay, smoothing the gaps behind him. There she
was, he saw her now.

Hermione Granger. Orphaned, as all the highest members of The Order were, and desperate
for belonging. Desperate to be the best at any mission she was placed on. Blood coated her
hands from the countless immortals she had destroyed on the word of a man she held higher
than god.
Gently, he guided the witch to her feet, bowing low to brush his lips across the scorching
plane of her knuckles. She shivered, and Draco’s attention flicked up to catch the movement.
Her body betrayed her need, even if he had not been able to read it in her thoughts. She
wanted him, even as she despised him, even as she would destroy him.

Oh, this would be fun, indeed.

“Lord Draco Lucius Malfoy at your service, Miss Granger,” he purred, allowing his lips to
brush her skin once more before rising to his full height.

“And I am in yours,” Hermione answered a beat too late, bowing her head and placing her
free hand over her heart.

His mouth quirked up at the corner, thumb brushing against the back of her hand. There it
was again, as her golden flecked eyes found his. That sensation of hope digging its claws into
his chest.

He would kill it before the night found its end, just as he would destroy her.

“Oh, my sparrow, you certainly are.”

Draco waltzed through the motions as esteemed host. Guiding Hermione out onto the dance
floor amid the current of jealousy threatening to overtake them both. Did she notice how both
men and women stopped to watch her in fascination, in lust? How they sighed in jealousy at
her smooth complexion, the finery of her gown, as if she were Marie Antoinette herself?

Her body was soft in his arms, pliant and wanting as any mortal might appear. But he scented
the lies, could hear them behind the walls of opulent lace and gold she built. And when she
tilted her head to the side in that perfect act of submission, acid coated his tongue, his fangs
aching with the longing to rip into her throat. He would kill her for feigning such an act even
as her desire for him coursed through her veins, heating her blood and slipping between her
thighs.

His cock stirred at the thought of destroying the witch with her own desire.

In silence he guided her through the darkened hallways into the largest bedchamber in the
chateau. Of course, this was not where he took his daytime rest, merely another prop in the
human charade all immortals must play. Draco watched her step into the room, his power
closing the door shut behind them with a quiet click.

She observed everything the way a scholar might: noting each piece of glossy black furniture,
each window, each escape. Confidence dripped from her shoulders, believing her disguise in
place, that Draco would seduce her before sinking his teeth into her flesh.

Slowly, as a lover would, he slid his hands over the small curve of her waist, the boning of
her corset bending beneath his fingertips. Her heat burned as Draco dragged his nose up the
column of her neck, breathing deep the scent of her heated blood just beneath the surface of
her skin. Hermione tilted her head to the side and this time he bit back his grin at the
subconscious show of submission.

“You look like sunlight,” he crooned, placing a scorching open mouthed kiss to her shoulder.
He lapped at the space where her neck curved as if he could drink down the scent of her
blossoming arousal and it would sustain him. “You taste like the sweetest wine.” The lace
bodice of her gown rustled beneath his fingertips as he teased her nipples through the fabric.
A wanton moan tore up her throat.

A deadly smile pulled at his cheeks. “And yet you smell like him.”

Draco gripped her tighter, moving faster than the eye could see to break the cameo choker
around her neck and sink his teeth into her flesh. Hot blood flooded his mouth, sharpening his
senses and hardening his cock. He almost staggered as it flowed over him, as her lifeforce
thrummed through his veins. No… it could not be, and yet it appeared the fates still laughed
at him, at his plight upon the earth.

This witch was his mate.

A witch that had come to destroy him was his. A witch that now gasped in shock and pain
before turning, using her magic to shove him away. The tang of it coated his tongue just as
her blood had. Her gorgeous, beautiful blood that streamed over her shoulder and caught in
the swell of her breasts. But it was rage there in her eyes, disgust and anger twisted into a
dangerous pretty thing. For just a moment he considered telling her, considered falling to his
knees in beseeching supplication. But if it was the devil she wanted, well then it was the devil
he would play.

For that was all Draco was in any case.

He taunted her, using her master’s name to enrage her, belittling her overwhelming strength.
Had he been a fledgling, he would have been no match for her power. Blaise would have
been destroyed in a single blink. Toying with her, he allowed her hope that she would
overpower him. And each time she got too close, he would give himself a brief taste of that
fount. The spark of warmth that flared within his hollow heart that told him again and again:

She is mine.

“Exquisite,” he moaned as he lapped at the wound, drinking down her arousal as deeply as
her blood. His cock twitched, straining against his breeches.

“Your monstrous tricks will not work on me,” she spat, even as she whimpered when his
hand closed over her breast, rolling her nipple between his fingers.

Hermione could not see how her body needed him, how much her soul ached for him. But he
could. He could scent it, taste it, see it.

“They already are, sparrow.”

With the flick of his wrist, he divested her of her skirts, flinging them into some forgotten
corner of the room before catching the blade she attempted to drive down into his forearm.
Her hips pressed back against his groin of her own accord and he bit back a growl, cock
throbbing.

“You want this even as you fight it.”

Draco allowed her to break free from his hold, attention roving over the tattered remains of
the gown. The swell of her breasts barely covered by the lace of her bodice and corset.
Smooth, sculpted legs peeked beneath her crimson petticoat, a tumble of brown curls falling
down her neck and smearing her blood.

Like Persephone and her pomegranate seeds, on to the path of darkness.

Taunts slipped from his lips about the desire pooling between her thighs. Her creamy skin
flushed with righteous anger, rearing back to throw the silver dagger at his heart. He plucked
it from the air, weighing the metal within his hand. Each time she fought him he wondered if
this was all for naught, if he should allow Hermione to destroy him.

“You are a monster,” she hissed between clenched teeth.

Fury was a palpable being in the room, her hands fisting at her sides, reaching for her magic.
Draco could remember such rage, even over six hundred years later. How it felt to reach for
magic that was no longer there, that paled in comparison to the dark power of a creature of
the night.

And he knew then what his subconscious had known the moment her blood hit his lips: That
before this night was done, she would become the one thing she despised most.

He smiled at her tenacity, at the fight within her. She would surely survive all the night had in
store for them. With another flick of his wrist, he flipped her silver blade between his fingers,
lifting his attention back to her. Like a shadow, his magic pulsed between them as he
narrowed his gaze.

“Come here.” The command was effortless and try as she might, there would be no denying
it.

Pain skittered over her skin, behind her eyes, the back of her head — he could feel it as
though it were his own. He almost smiled when she fought every step, her mouth twisted into
a grimace, knuckles white and chest heaving. That same power slithered out again, wrapping
around her wrists and pinning them behind her back.

Hermione leant away from him even as he dipped his head, dragging her blade across the
delicate skin of her cheeks, down her throat, before slicing through her bodice. Draco touched
the boning of the corset beneath, the fastenings that strained with every breath.

“I admire your tenacity, sparrow. Even as your body aches for mine, you continue to fight
what your soul already knows,” Draco murmured, cupping one breast, running his thumb
across the tightened peak.
Something twinged deep within his chest as she turned her head away, as she continued to
deny him. Carefully, he bracketed her chin, turning her face back to his.

“And what is that?” Hermione had meant the words to be harsh, he could sense it in her
mind, but they came out breathy — needy.

Even now she was softening to him, the walls of silk and brocade falling to expose her
deepest, darkest desires. He could not help but smile at the sight while he dipped his head,
allowing her back to bow.

“That you are mine.” Draco caught the tip of one breast in his mouth, circling her nipple with
his tongue and drawing from her a deep, feral moan.

“I am not yours.”

The fabric of her petticoat rustled, her body weakening with desire, and Draco banded an arm
around her waist. Her need was heady in the air, deepening with each beat of her heart until
he could deny the thirst no longer. Blood hit his tongue, hot and thick, his teeth deep in her
breast. Hermione’s cry was a mix of rapture and retribution, her fingers tangling in his hair,
holding him close.

Draco gripped her tighter, rising to his full height to turn and sit upon the dark couch in front
of the bed, his witch straddling one of his wide thighs. Another moan slipped from her lips,
her hips rocking against him as his teeth slid from the wound at her breast. Lapping at the
blood sliding over her chest and down her belly, Draco pressed two fingers to the wound,
using the other hand to push her harder against his leg, encouraging the movement of her
hips.

“That’s it, sparrow,” he praised. “Your body knows, your soul knows.”

Hermione’s hands were soft against his face, her thumbs brushing the curve of his
cheekbones. Though she shook her head and cried out in negation, Draco shushed her with
gentle sounds, smiling as her lids fluttered and brows furrowed. The fire of her arousal
burned his leg, the wet slide of her cunt against the fabric of his breeches maddening him
until he was thrusting into the air, trying to chase his own pleasure.

She came with a cry and Draco thought he might tear his heart out to hear the sound again. In
desperation, he pulled her face down to his, swallowing the sound when his lips covered hers.
It was sunshine he tasted there, pressing deeper into her mouth to find the sweetness of her
soul, her breath filling his lungs. His hand tightened around her hip, continuing to rock her
against him, drawing out the breathy little mewls that he drank down as greedily as her blood.

Pulling the pins from her hair, he ran his fingers through the waves while she ground down
against him, body chasing her next release. He picked her up before she could reach her next
peak, flipping them until she rested on her back and easily tearing through the remainder of
her clothing. Creamy skin glittered in the candlelight from the gilded sconces, her chest
heaving with ragged breaths. What remained of his heart clenched painfully at the sight of the
arousal smeared between her thighs, those thighs that opened wider in invitation while he
gazed upon them. Draco slid to his knees like any pious man might before a goddess.
“Say it,” he pleaded, voice rough with desperation.

He tracked the movement of her head as she shook it, the blood dripping from her wounds to
pool on the hollow of her collarbones, the dip of her ribs. But the tiny movement of her hips
betrayed her as she reached for him. She might deny her needs, but her heart was no longer in
the negation. The scent of her need maddened him, pulled at the mating bond that was
unfulfilled, the small part of his dark soul that admonished him for leaving her wanting.

Mouth dipping to her core, he licked one long strip up her entrance, moaning at her taste. At
the sweetness tinged with magic between her thighs. Delicate fingers tangled into his hair
until the ribbon fell from his nape, drawing him up to her swollen clit. He sucked the swollen
bud between his teeth, her body shuddering above him. Her needy cunt swallowed his hand
greedily and he curled the two digits, pressing them against her front wall.

“No…No…” Her voice came out garbled, slurred with desire. “Just… No…”

“So wet, so needy, and yet still so stubborn,” he admonished, even as he crooked his fingers
tighter, massaging the spot that had her hips canting.

Arousal slid onto his hand as his fangs grazed her clit, miniscule droplets of blood landing
upon his tongue and making his cock ache. He palmed it with his free hand, one low moan
vibrating through his lips making her back arch, her walls flutter around his fingers. But
before she could find her release, he withdrew, licking the glimmering wetness from his
fingers as she gazed upon him with wide eyes.

“Kill me,” she pleaded.

Draco had meant to, truly he had. But now the mere thought surprised him, shook him to his
very core. He rose in one lithe motion, divesting himself of his waistcoat and shirt, blood
thrumming as her eyes took him in with the same greediness as her cunt had with his fingers.

“You think I mean to kill you?” He wasn’t sure why he said the words, only that he wanted
her to come to the realization on her own.

That now that he had her, she would never die.

Her throat worked with her swallow, eyes flicking between his, brilliant mind working so
quickly he almost missed her thoughts. With one hand he pulled her from the small couch
and deposited her onto the bed before stripping the remainder of his clothing off. Hermione
rose to her elbows, attention fixed on his stiff cock, a needy little whimper slipping through
her lips as he wrapped his hand around his length. Her hips canted when he gave his cock one
soft stroke, reading how her mind warred with her desire and her duty.

“It is the only logical way in which this ends,” she breathed, trying to scoot away and draw
her legs together.

Draco bit back a growl, his power snaking around her legs and arms to pin her to the bed. She
would not hide from him, would not deny him — not anymore. He snapped his fingers, the
small couch sliding to the opposite end of the room before he placed one knee on the bed
between her thighs.

“Is it sparrow?” His hand worked faster over his cock, hips rocking until he was fucking into
his hand. “Can you think of no other outcome other than your untimely demise?”

A needy little whimper of negation hung between them, but her eyes were fixed on his cock.
Dark red cunt weeping and crying out for him, ruining the tiniest shake of her head. Draco
could fill her in ways she could not imagine — he could take away her pain, her need, her
fears. All she needed was to…

“Open yourself to me,” he commanded, internally cringing at the lack of compulsion, at the
way his voice had a pleading note to it.

Hermione made him weak and the feeling chafed against his stone skin even as he moaned at
the sight of her cunt pulsing at the sound of his voice.

“No,” she answered automatically, but there, in her mind, he read quite the contrary.

She was opening, softening to him. Only a few tendrils of resistance remained, easy enough
to sever. The thought brought a smile to his lips, fangs flashing in the candle light.

“You will,” he moaned, “before this night is done.”

Sweat dewed upon her brow, over her chest, droplets mixing with her blood and falling onto
the dark coverlet beneath. Her hands clenched within her restraints, back arching to try to
reach him. Those soft lips worked with unspoken words before finally she whimpered,
“Please.”

Draco paused his hand on his throbbing cock, spine tingling with his impending release at the
mere whisper of begging from his mate. He raised a brow. “What is it, my darling?”

Her hips jumped as his hand begun one lazy stroke, thumb swiping over the head of his cock.

“Please,” she repeated.

Oh no, that was not nearly good enough. Draco could feel the last threads of resistance
snapping, her soul crying out for what was hers, slicing through her resolve, through all her
training. And though the words she wanted to say screamed at him from inside her mind —
Kill me, release me from this torment — it was the mating bond that took hold within her, that
spoke the longing she desperately craved.

“Claim me.”

A low rumble vibrated through his chest and Draco climbed the rest of the way onto the bed.
His hand fell away from his cock to slide up the smooth silk of her thighs, parting them wider
to accommodate him.

“Oh darling, I won’t just claim you — I will ruin you.”

For all others. For all time.

Carefully, he braced himself with a hand beside her head, using the other to drag the tip of his
cock through her arousal. His eyes fluttered at the scorching heat of her cunt, the tang of her
magic slithering over his skin, welcoming him home. The tendrils of his power released his
hold on her arms and legs, a soft hum of approval slipping through his lips when she bent her
knees, widening her thighs.

Notching the crown of his cock at her entrance, her hips tilted to guide him in. “That’s it,
sparrow,” he praised, “I will give you everything you want — you only have to ask.”

They must be joined, the mating bond thrummed deep inside his chest, forcing him forward
to sheath himself inside her tight, wet heat. In tandem they cried out, Hermione’s back
arching, head thrown back in a mix of pleasure and pain. Her hands scrambled over the
smooth stone of his skin, eyes squeezed shut. But Draco could not take it, could not take that
last, tiny piece of resistance that denied him. He gripped her chin as gently as his fervor could
allow, tilting her face back to his.

“Look at me,” he begged, no chagrin left for his weakness.

She was his mate. He would give her anything she needed.

“You say… you will give me — anything I ask for. And yet y—you will not… kill me.”

Anything but that.

Draco’s hand tightened on her cheeks, his hips churning in a devastating rhythm. “I will not
give you that,” he growled, “no matter how much you beg.” He dipped his head to lap at the
wound on her breast, blood sliding over his tongue and swelling his cock.

We are mated, you and I, he wanted to say, from this breath to our last, we will never be
parted.

The last piece of resistance fell away from Hermione’s heart, as if she had heard the silent
vow. Pressure built at the base of his spine as he slammed home deep inside her, wrenching
from her the gasps and moans that had his own pleasure cresting. Her hands slid tenderly
over his face, through his hair and he lifted himself to gaze down at his mate. The soft
crimson of her cheeks, the constellation of freckles almost hidden with the flush, and he bent
to press his mouth to hers.

Here was eternity, here was rapture, here was atonement for every monstrous thing he had
ever done. Tongues tangling, sharing the taste of her blood between them. He slid his hand
between their bodies, fingertips circling her swollen clit until her lips tensed and he was
swallowing her cries.

“There it is, give it to me,” he praised, lips brushing hers with every word.

“Draco,” she moaned, walls fluttering around his cock, squeezing him in a vise-like grip.
His name rung in his mind, her soul reaching out for his. The final pieces of her occlumency
walls shattered with the beginnings of her release until there was no barrier left between
them.

“Say it,” he begged, fingers moving faster against her clit.

The shredded pieces of his heart clenched when she cried out, the slick slide of her cunt
filling the silence of the air before she finally cried out:

“I am yours.”

He nodded, a brilliant smile pulling at his cheeks. “Yes, sparrow, yes you are.”

Reverently, Draco leant down, pressing a kiss to the hollow of her throat once, tongue
lapping at the sweat and dried blood upon her skin.

Mine, he vowed, for all eternity.

Blood cascaded over his tongue with the first bite, pulling from him the rapturous ecstasy of
release. There, in the blood, he found the secrets of her soul. The loneliness and heartache of
her childhood, the tenuous bonds from her school days, her fear of never being enough.
Dumbledore’s visage swam in and out of view, the fear of failure, of disappointment, of
succumbing to the darkness.

Draco would teach her the ways of the dark, would teach her of strength. Now she would
truly be powerful.

Carefully he slipped his teeth from the wound, drawing up to gaze down at her pale face,
arms weakly reaching for him. He turned, hand outstretched behind him, and summoned her
silver dagger from where it lay beside the cameo of Persephone on the floor. Her heart gave
an unsteady beat, the kettledrum of death beginning its steady song for her soul.

Darkness curled around his shoulders at the mere thought, desperation climbing his throat.
They would never be parted — death would relinquish its hold. With the flick of his wrist, he
slashed at the side of his throat, the pain a mere echo of the longing in his soul. Immortal
blood dripped over her chest, her cheeks, the corners of her lips.

Hermione’s eyes widened, her head turning to refuse the dark gift. Fear prickled through her
mind, her eyes and lips squeezed shut. But Draco gripped her chin, forcing her face back to
his, fingertips gently prying apart her lips so his gift could be received.

No, her mind cried out.

Yes, her soul sang in relief.

And then the blood took hold, the thirst rising up within her until her mouth closed over the
wound. Each great pull of his blood stirring his cock still nestled within her until he knew she
was taking the measure of him too. His loneliness, his longing, his horror. All her anger
washed away in the thirst, replaced only by the deep understanding that the dark gift could
give. Draco could only hope it would remain when the thirst abated, when her mind returned.
 “You are mine,” he vowed. “Now, always, and forever.”

Chapter End Notes

And with that, Desire & Destruction has come to an end! Thank you so much for
coming on this journey with me from this piece being a one shot into a nine chapter fic.
Fun facts — originally this chapter was actually going to be chapter 2. I wrote it with the
intention of the rest of the fic being from Draco's POV, however when I showed it to one
of my betas, we realized that it would be much more compelling from Hermione's as
she's really the one who is struggling within the story.

Next up is my dramione marriage law fic that will start uploads on May 24th & will be
finished by October 4th! The title is The Gallows & if you love a broken Draco
hopefully you'll love this.

As always, thank you so, so much for reading. I have a ton coming up with the
publication of my debut indie novel as well as this new fic, so if you want to stay up to
date with all of that consider following me on TikTok (@gillianeliza_) & Instagram
(@gillianeliza). You can also join my mailing list to be the first to know about pre-
orders, art, & tons of other info about the book that I'll be waiting to share on socials
until a little later.

Love y'all!
Please drop by the Archive and comment to let the creator know if you enjoyed their work!