Secrets and Masks

24. Buried alive

TW; graphic depictions of death and asphyxiation

23rd April;

She shouldn't have kissed him.

She absolutely should not, under any fucking circumstance, have fucking kissed him.

It was a mistake. A bad idea. A momentary lapse in judgement. She didn't enjoy the kiss, she couldn't have. She must have been drunk. Yes - that was it. She was hammered off that ridiculously expensive whiskey that she'd been guzzling like it was no stronger than watered-down butterbeer.

She wasn't enticed by the taste of his lips; she was just drunk. No one could ever taste that good, she must have imagined it. Malfoy didn't taste powerful, the feel of his tongue dragging across hers wasn't maddeningly delicious. She didn't ache for more, didn't lean forward and kiss him more deeply because she wanted to, she just craved the whiskey that was clinging to his lips.

The way he'd grabbed the back of her neck and squeezed hadn't sent a thrill up her spine in the most appealing way. She was still just on edge, still clinging onto the aftershocks of adrenaline from the battle at Lincoln.

The way his body had reacted to her hadn't made her stomach coil in triumph.

The way his deadly muscles, those arms that'd killed thousands, had shivered and rippled under her palms, hadn't made her purr like a satisfied kitten. She was still just wired, on edge after seeing so much death on the battlefield that day. She'd just needed something to take the edge off, a release, and Malfoy just happened to be there.

And that was fine with Hermione. Completely fucking fine.

Heaven knew Malfoy had been using her as a tool to keep the Dark Lord's favour since the day he'd captured her. He'd turned her into a weapon, made her assassinate innocent muggle soldiers and forced her to kill Seamus. He'd used her, so she wouldn't feel guilty about using him, just this once.

She would be fine.

It was just a mistake. It wouldn't happen again; she wouldn't let it.

She wasn't dancing with the devil, just using one to exorcise her demons.

25th April

Fuck sake - he shouldn't have kissed her.

Fucking, shitting, bollocks!

He should have pulled away. Should have grabbed a fistful of her wild, fucking ridiculous curls and yanked her back, smacked her head against the wall and reminded her of her place. That she was in his house. That he was in charge. That he was the one in control.

He'd thought about it, planned on wiping that devious little smirk off her face the moment he'd noticed the stolen bottle in her paws. He fucking should have, had every intention of wrapping his fingers around her throat and squeezing, reminding her who he was, what he was capable of.

He'd charged towards her like a raging bull, anger flaring and blood boiling, but the instant she'd raised her leg and dug her heel into his skin, he was under her spell. And the very heartbeat she'd quirked her brow in a challenge and took another defiant swig, he knew he was fucked.

Aside from the Dark Lord himself, no one had challenged him like that in years. No one dared to. Not another Gold Mask, and certainly not a witch without a fucking wand. Bellatrix sometimes reared her head, but her tail always promptly flew between her legs whenever Draco so much as bared his teeth. She always fell back into line quickly, usually all it took was one spiteful glare from him.

And Theo - well, the theatrical Gold Mask was akin to that of a disgruntled teenager. He lashed out and had tantrums and challenged authority whenever the tide hit him the wrong way, but he didn't mean anything by it. It was all a show, another performance he put on for everyone else's benefit.