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He’s covered in blood, though not his own.
A spray of crimson stands out in sharp contrast to the paleness of his skin and the stark white of his shirt. Once crisp, it’s now wrinkled and torn, burnt and stained.
His chest expands with the remains of his adrenaline, taking deep lungfuls of air with nostrils flared, and it pulls at the leather wand holster wrapped across his shoulders. Hermione’s gaze follows the spatter that dots his neck and up to his face, cataloguing the damage that’s been done. A split, slightly swollen lip and the purple bloom of a bruise against the sharp bone of his cheek seem to be the worst of his visible injuries. There’s a rough, raw patch of skin on his jaw, though she can’t tell if it’s a burn or a scrape. Motion catches her eye and she follows the lines of his body back down his arm until she sees his long fingers, flexing around his wand at his side. He’s got bloodied knuckles and protruding veins that track up his hand and forearms, and a new set of scratches that will likely add to the map of his existing scars. But once he sees her, his body goes still.
It doesn’t matter. None of it matters.
Malfoy’s alive, and he’s found her. Just like he always does.
She can almost hear the way he would greet her if she were closer, whispering so low that no one else would know he came for her specifically. The way he has so many times before, with that knowing smirk that heats her all the way to her bones.
“There you are, Granger.”
Hermione swallows at the memory, anticipation brewing.
St. Mungo’s is a flurry of chaos, with Healers and Aurors rushing to and from the rapidly filling rooms, but Hermione doesn’t register any of it. Not with the way Malfoy is looking at her. She can feel his tension bleeding into her own veins even from across the impromptu triage area. Her heart and stomach were already in knots from the wait, but the sight of him doesn’t relax her in the slightest. The few tendrils of control that were keeping her together for the last eight hours threaten to snap under the strain, and she takes one step back.
Malfoy follows.
She doesn’t question where they’re headed, nor does she look back to know that he’s likely falling into step just behind her. She can feel him, his presence, and knows well enough by now what is about to happen. What needs to happen.
Relief quickly transforms into something else, something heavier inside her chest that sinks all the way down through her abdomen. She can’t question it, not when her heart is pounding in her throat, but she knows that later she won’t be able to properly identify the emotions either. They’re fleeting and intense, consuming in a way that she’s never felt before. It’s a fire in her blood that feels as necessary as the air in her lungs, and it’s only for him and only ever like this.
When her hands begin to shake, she balls them into fists so he doesn’t see. He’ll know soon enough, but for now she knows that she has to hold it together. At least until they’re alone.
Before she can ask whether he wants to floo to her flat or his, Malfoy wraps a strong hand around her upper arm and yanks her into the nearest private room—which happens to be a darkened supply closet.
“Malfoy—”
He silences her with a rough kiss, pressing her against the wall before the door has clicked shut. His body is a heavy weight against hers, and though his lips taste like blood and sweat, it doesn’t stop her from opening for him. The sound of his wand clattering against the floor is second to the feel of his tongue stroking against hers and the tug of his teeth against her lower lip. His hands bury in her hair, pulling so tight she has no choice but to claw at him in return.
This isn’t a tender lover’s kiss. It’s a glimpse of survival. Reflected against the pain of mortality, it’s the gasping desperation that there’s no certainty in living.
Only dying.
And Malfoy proves it to her with every ragged breath from his lungs.
Hermione doesn’t bother trying to soothe him—she’s already learned it’s a wasted attempt. He needs this right now, the frantic reminder that she’ll always be waiting for him, and she matches his kisses bite for bite, nip for nip. He doesn’t seem to care about the tender flesh of his split lip or the soreness of his bruises when her hands roam across his body. Each one has arousal twisting in her abdomen, and it isn’t long until they’re a tangle of limbs and gasping for air. One of her hands is tangled in the back of his shoulder holster and the other in his hair, while his roam, touching her everywhere. Down her neck and chest, squeezing her breasts through her Healer’s robes, before lifting her by the thighs so he can properly press himself against her core. The tacky warmth of blood sticks to her skin, transferred and stamped from his own body onto hers, and she readily shares the weight of it with him.
Heat builds between their bodies, and before she knows it she’s rocking against him, seeking friction from the thick ridge of his cock. He meets her, thrusting with hard snaps of his hips until she can feel pleasure sparking against her clit. Though it wouldn’t be the first time he’s gotten her off this way, she knows it's not what they both need.
“You know–” She barely pulls back before his lips chase hers, “–the rules, Malfoy.”
His frustrated groan sounds more like a growl.
“After,” he barters, dipping his head to suck a line of bruises down her neck.
“Now,” she corrects, curling her fingers into a fist against his scalp until he’s forced to look back at her. He makes it a point to take his time, releasing her with one last kiss and a sharp smile.
She only just notices the streaks of blood that stain his white blond hair. Though it matches the splotches on his neck and shirt and hands, it paints the picture of his latest mission into stark reality. As an Auror, he’s killed. Wounded. Maimed. And he’ll continue to do so, as long as he’s needed, or alive.
Because that’s what he’s good at.
Doing what no one else can, or wants to, do.
“It’s obviously not that bad,” Malfoy says, grinding his hips against hers until she shudders against him. It’s a moot point, and one she doesn’t care to fight over. Again. “Nothing a few potions can’t fix.”
When his tongue sweeps out to trace the cut on his lip, she grows even wetter.
“Potions don’t heal you,” she tells him sharply. “ I do.”
Because they both know that’s what gets her off. He gets broken, and she puts him back together. Ever since he first ended up in her care, still agitated from a fight, when he threatened to hex another Healer who tried to mend his broken hand. She was the only one who could back him into a corner and look at it long enough to cast the proper charms, and he’d glared at her the entire time. Her satisfaction had been palpable. After, once he’d been released, he’d waited for her shift to end and shagged her in an empty exam room with his hand over her mouth and her name on his lips.
He stares at her, blinking slowly, before ducking his chin just once. “Do your worst, Granger.”
Though it’s permission, he doesn’t help her in the slightest. He goes back to kissing her neck, his hands wandering up to unclasp the back of her Healer’s robes. She manages to snag her wand from her pocket before he pulls the sleeves down her arms, exposing her bare chest and bra to his mouth. With the material pooled around her waist and held up against the wall, she sets to work.
When she casts an Episky to a small cut on his neck, he nips at the top of her breast. When she heals the bruise above his cheek, he tugs on the material of his bra with his teeth.
In exchange for his patience, she lets him unclasp that as well. In return, she peels the holster from his shoulders and drops it to the floor. His shirt follows soon after. While she takes stock of the bruises that marr his ribs and sternum, his thumbs trace delicate symbols and shapes around her nipples until they’re peaked. Though his neck and hands are still stained with the remaining bits of dried blood, she doesn’t try to clean it or vanish it away. She needs it to serve as a reminder of who he is and what they are to each other.
“What happened?” she can’t help but ask.
His thumb and forefinger close around her nipple and pinch. The flash of pleasure is almost enough to distract her from his answer. “That’s classified.”
In response, she presses her thumb into the bruise at his ribs until he winces.
“I’m alive, aren’t I?” he asks with a raised brow. “That’s all that matters.”
“And what happens when you’re not? What happens when you don’t come back?” The questions slip out with more venom than she means, but a fury is building inside of her again.
Malfoy’s lips curl, and he lightly pinches the other nipple until she gasps. “Then I guess you’ll finally be free of me, Granger.”
“Don’t,” she warns him, though there’s a dozen unspoken meanings behind the singular word.
Don’t make light of the situation.
Don’t make yourself out to be the martyr.
Don’t make this into more than this is.
Don’t make me admit to wanting it.
Don’t leave me.
She doesn’t know what she’ll do when the day comes where he doesn’t come to find her. When he can’t.
Malfoy stills, seeming to understand what passses between them, and his features settle into the same reflection of intense, burning desire that he wore when they locked eyes in the waiting room.
The silence roars in her ears and throbs at the tips of her fingers, beating against his skin as she reaches to pull him closer. Releasing her breast, he drags his hand up to her neck and wraps it just beneath her jaw to hold her in place. He doesn’t squeeze, though it is a reminder of his power. Just barely restrained, and after the things she knows he’s just done…
His show of control makes her inner walls flutter with a new bout of unrepentant desire.
“It was never supposed to be like this.”
He says it so softly that she’s not completely sure if he meant for her to hear.
“I know,” she answers anyway.
Because despite his anger, and despite her better judgement, they can’t stop. They won’t stop. Nor do they want to.
Her words unleash the rest of his restraint, and he pulls her forward by the neck to kiss her once more. It reignites the flare of urgency between them immediately, and she’s swiftly consumed.
She feels a pull on her wand as he tugs it from her hand, and sets it on one of the supply shelves nearby. Then he nudges between her thighs and beneath the skirts of her robes before tearing her knickers off with one swift pull. She cries out into the kiss, sure that she’ll have reddened bruises later from the force of the fabric snapping so hard, but it will only be a minor mark in comparison to his own collection.
Arousal pools in her core, now bare and damp against his trousers, and she rocks against his hand as he struggles to pull his cock free.
If she were a better woman she might offer to help, but instead she latches her hands around the one that’s holding tight against her throat, and digs her fingernails into his skin.
He groans at the bite of pain, but nips her in return while he teases her with the head of his cock. She’s surprised by her own wetness already, and his cockhead is slick as he drags it through her folds and up to her clit, rubbing just enough that she whimpers into the kiss. Again and again, he teases her until she’s aching.
Tonight she needs no warm up. She doesn’t need to be eased into it, or slowly coaxed by his hand. No, she wants the reality of this—of them— in all of their combined brutality.
“Why did you even come?” she asks on a frustrated moan. “You’re obviously not that hurt.”
She’s seen him come back from missions in much worse condition than he is now, with lacerated organs from errant curses or blood poisons from a well-placed blade.
He has the gall to laugh, slowing the strokes of his cock to an agonising drag. When he pauses at her entrance, his grey eyes flick up to her face. With his hand still holding her in place, he watches her closely.
“So I could do this.”
He presses his length into her with a single, hard thrust. Once buried deep, she can’t tell her moan from his. His hand comes to rest around her thigh, flexing as he gives her a moment to adjust.
“If you–” Hermione begins to pant when he starts to move. The fullness in her core is enough to make her eyes flutter shut, and she struggles to stay focused. “–got hurt just to come and shag me, I’ll kill you myself.”
“I’d like to see you try.” The hard edge of the challenge is lost in the way Malfoy is already growing breathless, his jaw straining as he struggles to stay composed.
She takes it for what it is, and tightens her thighs around his waist. It tenses her core muscles, and his thrusts grow harder. Each breath expands her throat against his palm, but the warmth of it sends goosebumps rippling down to her nipples. When he tightens his fingers and strokes the sensitive spot below her ear with his thumb, she can feel the slight callus from his wand.
He fucks her just like that, pressed against the wall with one hand gripping her thigh and the other holding her head in place so he can kiss her the way he likes. The way he needs. So she takes as he gives, digging her heels into his lower back until her muscles begin to shake. She lets him take it out on her—every bit of hostility and aggression and fear and want. She recognises it for what it is because she feels it mirrored back in her own chest, understanding the kind of stress that comes with running headlong into a situation that can, and will, kill you.
She understands the tension that builds with every passing breath. With each stolen beat of your heart. With every spell cast and every step toward danger.
She knows better than anyone. She feels it herself, every day, even now, years after.
And that’s why she waits for him every time.
Each press of his body between her legs is a reminder of their vitality; physical proof of who they are and what they could be. Hermione lets her hands trace the muscles that wrap up his arms and to his shoulders, following the lines down to his chest and abdomen. Long since memorised, the familiarity settles something deep inside her.
Pulling her lower lip between her teeth, she fights to keep her whimpers quiet. He might have locked the door, but she knows he didn’t cast a silencing charm. Not with how quickly he was on her as soon as the latch clicked shut, and she knows that the noise from the triage area will only cover so far.
When she can’t stay silent, he does it for her. He kisses her again, softer this time, coaxing her lips open with the swipe of his tongue until their mouths slide together as easily as the rest of their bodies.
When his thrusts turn longer, his body beginning to roll against hers in a steady wave of friction and sensation, she feels her orgasm beginning to build. Her hand leaves his body, but his fingers release her neck to intercept it. A quick squeeze of her wrist is a warning—he knows exactly what she’d been planning to do, and when they’re together, that right is his alone. All the while he never stops kissing her.
Once released, he waits for her hand to return to his body before touching her in return. His fingers find her clit easily, stroking it lightly with the tip of his middle finger. The instant friction sends sparks of pleasure across her nerves, and she cries out. Her hips chase his hand, helping to press his thrusts even deeper, working in tandem with the press of his body.
“Right there, right there, right there,” she chants against his lips, breaking the kiss but not pulling back. He does as directed, focusing on the spot that makes her grow tense. Each pass of his fingers pushes her that much closer to the edge, and he slows his thrusts to emphasise the pleasure.
She loses her own momentum with the warmth that’s creeping up her spine, her hips beginning to shake as she tries to keep up with the chase.
“Go on, Granger,” Malfoy coaxes in a rough whisper. He sounds close to breaking himself, and judging by his earlier urgency, it doesn’t surprise her in the slightest. “Let go.”
Part of her wants to hang on, to refuse, to make this drag out as long as she can because there’s no telling when, or if, it might happen again. But the pleasure makes her delirious, and she can’t help but wrap her arms around his chest until she can feel the warmth of his skin against hers. With her fingers scratching new marks down his back, she can feel the heavy thud of his heart against her own ribcage, and the staccato beat matches her own. She can feel it everywhere—it’s all around them, thudding in her ears, tightening her lungs, pulsing deep in her core. It’s enough to send her over.
She muffles the sound of her keening moan by digging her teeth into the thick muscle of his shoulder. Pleasure bursts through her core, intense enough to make her whole body curl into his. It floods her veins and seeps through her muscles, the closest thing to pure magic that she’s ever known.
Malfoy bites out a curse, and the hand anchored to her thigh grips her tight enough that she counts it towards the evening’s tally of cuts and bruises. The thought of his fingerprints marking her so intimately makes her orgasm double over on itself, drawing out the sensations until she can’t feel anything but the thick press of his cock and the pulsing waves of her core around him.
He fucks her through it, holding up the remainder of her weight when her body goes boneless. Once she stops twitching against him and finds the energy to lift her head from the crook of his neck, he takes his hand from between her legs and uses it to grab her other thigh. Stepping forward, Malfoy uses his chest to anchor her torso against the wall and leverages her thighs open wider until her knees are draped over his forearms. Spread wide for him, she feels one last flutter of her cunt as he picks up speed.
“Look at me,” he demands, so she does. Her head rolls back against the wall, and she blinks through bleary lids to see the tension straining his features.
If she didn’t know better, she might assume that he’s angry. Perhaps on some level he is—but that’s the face he makes when he wants something so bad that he’s desperate for it. They might not have much, but she knows him well enough at this point.
Right now, he wants her. And he hates it.
The feeling is mutual.
His hips begin to stutter.
“Go on, then,” she tells him with a slow smile. She lifts her hands to his neck, taking her turn to hold his face in her palms. She forces him to look at her in return, serving back everything he’s ever given her. “Do your worst, Malfoy.”
Though he’s the one holding her up against the wall, she holds him in place while he falls apart. She sees his orgasm before she feels it, relaxing his features with a sudden intensity that he almost looks innocent for a brief moment. Then his entire body goes taut, burying his cock deep inside of her cunt while he comes with slow, hot pulses that she feels deep in her core.
That was the one thing she never expected—that a man who runs his mouth like Malfoy can turn so quiet the moment of orgasm, frozen into serenity by the pleasure that overtakes his body. It’s almost serene, and she savours each silent breath between them before he can recover.
In the time it takes him to recover, she pulls him forward to place a single slow kiss on his lips. It’s sweet, almost, in comparison to the rest of their kisses, but she doesn’t care. When she pulls away, she tells him the same thing she always does.
“If you want to save yourself the injuries, owl me next time.”
But she knows he won’t. It’s better this way.
