Vacivitas

Chapter Fifteen

All right, this is all the chapters I have so far! When I return from my trip, I will resume writing. Hopefully this chapter makes up for the small hiatus. 

Trigger Warnings: dub-con on Hermione's part because Draco is drunk.

Chapter Fifteen

Hermione has a difficult time sleeping that night.

He's somewhere in the house, she knows that. She can feel it. She skips dinner, not knowing if she can face him after what happened. It's not like he'd apologize, even though he should.

She sits at her vanity and stares at herself in the mirror. At her smooth brown skin and full lips. Her braids, organized in neat boxes on her scalp. The curves of her shoulders and breasts.

Wonders who she is.

She doesn't want to believe that Malfoy would have gone through with it. That he would bite her and use the biological response to force her. He's not like that. She can't believe he's like that. Because if she does, then she has to change her views on what her life will be like at the manor. Her friends living here won't matter. She'll be nothing but a blood slave.

Is that what he wants? Did he enjoy her being on the couch, trapped beneath him, pinned and at his mercy? Did he like the smell of her fear, the sight of her tears?

Would he truly not care if she died?

She supposes she should feel more traumatized. She should hate him.

But she doesn't. All she feels is sadness. Why did everything have to be like this? Why couldn't it just be like she wanted? Living here with Malfoy, Tillian, and Faye. Spending the days with her friends and evenings with Malfoy fulfilling her part of the agreement. And he'd been decent to her before, in a way that made her feel like giving him her blood was something to look forward to, not dread.

Now what's she supposed to feel?

The next day, she decides to throw herself into her potion making with Pinky. At some point, Pinky leaves to work on lunch. Hermione stays behind, taking notes on what she'd learned so far. The potion's coming along well enough. She's only got one more step to nail down, and then she'll be able to start the trials stage. Maybe this potion is the answer to her problems.

Maybe she shouldn't enjoy it.

The hair on Hermione's body prickles and she looks up, stumbling backward away from the table.

Malfoy's standing in the doorway dressed in black slack trousers and a dark green button-up. He's chewing on the inside of his mouth, watching her with a tentative expression. They gaze at one another across the room, him leaning his shoulder against the door frame and her holding her quill. Ink drips down to the floor, leaving spots of black to fade into the dark stone. The silence is thick, so thick.

She wants to ask him for the truth: would her death mean nothing to him?

He takes a step forward, into the room.

Hermione moves back quickly, hitting the wall beneath some shelves of potion ingredients.

Malfoy stops. He runs his fingers through his messy hair, averting his gaze. It sweeps over her work, over the cauldron and parchment and ingredients.

"What are you working on?" His voice sounds as quiet as it is when he's feeding.

"A potion," she replies, nearly snapping her quill from how hard she's holding it.