The Shattered Dragon

Chapter 8: The Upper Hand

He lay beside her awake for some time, still holding tight to her wrist, anchoring her to the bed as if she would disappear, float away, dissolve like a dream if he weren't touching her. She moved to curl against his side, molding herself to his body with one leg thrown casually over his...entirely comfortable, completely at peace. He didn't think it was possible.

Still he refused to close his eyes, to let his muscles soften, to allow the warm, thrumming glow in his blood lull him to sleep. He'd seen the look on her face when he'd fallen asleep beside her in his office; the horror in her eyes at seeing him screaming in his sleep, and it wasn't something he'd put her through again. No matter what she thought, an hour of euphoric bliss wasn't going to wash the darkness out of his mind. She had made him feel better though, more than he had expected. When he told her that he couldn't be gentle with her he'd expected her to be afraid, to pull away from his grip, his teeth sinking into her skin, his hands pinning her down, and yet she'd only wanted more...begged for more: harder, deeper. Perhaps she was just as twisted as he was, perhaps they'd all been ruined.

The fire died down to embers and beside him her leg twitched, a long sigh rushing from her parted lips. The sheet had fallen away to reveal her breasts, stomach, the dip of her waist. For the first time he looked closely at the pale, silvered scars that slashed across her abdomen and arms, running his fingertips over the raised skin down to the bone of her hip. They were remnants of spells thrown in battle, each one unique: the small starburst shape of a stupefy, the jagged, forking lightning strike of a cruciatus. He bore the same lines, carried the same history. A fresh bruise was blooming on the side of her neck where he'd bitten and sucked at her flesh just to hear her moan, whining with need. He felt no shame at leaving it; in fact it made him want more. The sight of his mark on her made him want to brand every inch of her as his alone, something he knew he couldn't do. He'd grown so adept at showing people what they needed to see, becoming the Draco that was expected that he could easily switch masks revealing only what was necessary. The things he wanted, truly wanted from Hermione, he had no right to ask and he knew she'd never give.

Careful not to wake her, Draco slid out of bed, wrapping himself in the black satin robe hanging in the bathroom. He'd chosen room five because it was so close to the main staircase and he'd be able to leave and slink back to his room, silent and undetected. With one last glance at his Sparrow in her nest of crumpled sheets, he kissed her bare shoulder and left, making his way to the front hall. It was nearly two a.m.

"Mr. Malfoy?"

He froze halfway up the staircase, Felicia standing in front of him in her pajamas, her arms tightly crossed over her chest as she was padding down the cold marble stairs barefoot.

"What are you doing up, love?" He asked, running a hand through his hair, trying to smooth it, pulling his robe tightly closed.

Wren cocked her head to the side and examined him for a moment before yawning. It was a Wednesday night and the club rooms had closed early, the house had been dark for hours.

"I couldn't sleep. I was going to see if the elves had a sleeping draught. Why are you up?"

"Same reason I'm afraid," he said, exhaling in relief. "Go on then, I'll see you in the morning."

He pulled her into a hug and kissed the crown of her head before she shuffled past him down the stairs on her way to the kitchens. Still half asleep, she nearly tripped over Claire, who had been sitting alone in the dark having a cigarette, just outside room four.

Hermione woke up in the dark, the other side of the bed empty, pillows straightened, the duvet tucked in. He'd left. The antique clock above the mantel read five thirty and the sky outside was inky black, dotted with winter stars. The pillow he rested his head on still smelled like his soap...or was it cologne? Or just him? Whatever it was it was bright, spicy, woody cedar and citrus, the smell of deep winter. Burrowing beneath the down duvet, she pulled his pillow into her arms and went back to sleep, imagining she wasn't alone.