Chapter Text
Her Broken-Hearted Veela
Chapter I: Was his mind betraying him?
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I didn’t know I was alive in this world until I felt things hard enough to kill for them.
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“Weasley, Weasley, Weasley... Did you really think you could hurt my mate and I’d let you get away with it?”
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It was an old cup, golden and ancient.
Once upon a time, it had belonged to Helga Hufflepuff. And if she hadn’t known any better, she would’ve thought it was pretty interesting, but with nothing remarkable about it. It was just a cup. Old, golden and ancient, but just a cup.
But she knew better.
She knew better; she knew that it was so much more than just a simple cup. It was a Horcrux; and a piece of Lord Voldemort’s soul was hidden in it.
He’d foolishly believed that no one would ever find it. He was confident that the enchantments he’d placed on the cup were powerful, and he’d been so careful, so fucking careful, because he’d wanted to make sure that that part of him stayed protected for eternity. But that confidence was way too overblown and it led him to his own demise. Before long, he’d realise the price he was about to pay for it.
Hermione knew that that cup played a role in putting an end to the Wizarding War. She knew it would put a halt to the unnecessary bloodshed, the pain and the heartache; and for the dear life of her, she hoped it would bring peace. Because fuck if she didn’t need it.
She’d been on a rollercoaster of emotions for the last few months, not knowing what she felt anymore, and she was unbelievably tired. How she managed to wake up everyday, how she managed to get up and keep going, she didn’t know. Maybe she managed out of spite, just to piss off the enemy. Or maybe she managed for Harry, to continue to be his support, even if she felt more like a crutch. Not that it mattered, because whatever the reason, she managed. Whatever the fucking reason, she kept going.
But good fucking Merlin, she was exhausted, and she needed to put an end to it. Enough was enough.
And so, exhausted but determined, she had gone to the Chamber of Secrets, holding Helga Hufflepuff’s cup and the fang of the Basilisk.
The door to The Chamber of Secrets opened up after Hermione mimicked Parseltongue – A skill she’d sadly acquired listening to Harry’s nightmares, back in their tent. The hallway, long and dim, was decorated with open-mouthed snakes on both sides, and at its end, a marble bust, as high as the chamber itself –The ancient Statue of Slytherin.
Her every step echoed all around the hallway, proudly announcing that she, a Mudblood – and not the true heir of Slytherin – had entered the Chamber of Secrets.
But a sense of horror began to settle in.
The closer she got to the end of the hallway, the more it grew. And at first, she couldn’t make out what she saw. What even was that? It looked like a cluster of sticks under a sack. The sticks looked thick and spiky, but with every step she took, it became more and more clear that what she saw was a rotten corpse wearing a Gryffindor robe.
On that robe, one single hair.
It was red.
Hermione’s eyes widened in horror, the cup and the fang falling on the cold, dirty floor. The echo was so loud that it deafened her ears, but she never cared. Instead, she screamed. She screamed herself raw, until she felt like her throat had been set on fire, until her lungs burned and she couldn’t take it anymore.
Her screams were what nightmares were made of.
A wave of nausea took over her, and she put both hands in front of her mouth, pressing hard; trying her absolute fucking best not to vomit. Her legs trembled and her knees gave out, and she fell hard onto them, her gaze never leaving the rotten body before her. She broke a cold sweat, shivers running down her spine, and fuck, please, she didn’t want to vomit.
‘Please, don’t vomit.’ She thought, swallowing down a gulp of bile that threatened to rise up her throat, ‘And please, don’t cry.’
Behind her, she heard steps. She didn’t need to turn around to see it was her Veela, Draco Malfoy.
He knelt beside her and said nothing. He just wrapped an arm around her shoulders and pulled her close to him, trying his best to give her comfort. And she let him. She let him, even if deep down she knew what happened, she let him. Because he was her Veela. Because he needed it, and even though she hated herself for admitting it, she needed it, too.
But the silence was perturbing and the view was mortifying.
‘But it needs to be done.’
She met his eye, her hand sliding into her pocket and pulling out a flask. She handed it to him, and Draco stared right back at her, knowing perfectly well what potion was in the flask – What it did. What it meant.
Veritaserum.
Obediently, he took the vial and took a drop of the potion, and Hermione couldn’t help herself. Her hand cupped his cheek and caressed it, while she tried to burn into her mind just how soft his skin was, and how much she loved to touch him. Her hand cupped his cheek and caressed it, ignoring the cracks in her heart, ignoring the inevitable heartbreak that was about to crush her.
“Why?” She asked him, her voice a whisper, her thumb going over the velvet of his lips.
Draco closed his eyes, leaned into her hand and purred, “He hurt you, so I hurt him.”
She dreaded the next question, but she felt the morbid need to ask. That was the reason she’d given him the Veritaserum, after all. She needed that closure. She needed that peace, “How?”
She saw his lips move, his intense, possessive gaze never leaving hers.
Her ears rang, and she was crushed.
And yet, there she was, leaning her face closer to his, feeling his warm breath on her lips.
Hermione looked into his eyes before she kissed him. She saw those mesmerising pools of obsidian, a shade she grew to love, even if they harboured the most gruesome atrocities he’d ever committed, all in her name.
“Mine.” He murmured, finally closing the distance between them.
The kiss was like fire, like ashes combusting into flames; they relinquished all control and let passion do the talking, speak the words they didn’t dare to speak. She grabbed him by the hair and pulled, because she was angry and sad and terrified, and because fuck, she hated herself for loving him. For loving him so deeply, and so fucking painfully. She hated herself because she knew she would never love like this again. So she pulled, earning a painful groan from him, as he gripped her nape and drew her closer, rubbing her cheek with his thumb.
As the kiss came to an end, he heard her whisper, “I can’t do this.”
He knew where this conversation was headed and feared the worst.
“Hermione.” he pleaded, “Are you saying you’d let me die?”
One tear ran down her cheek, and she looked him in the eye.
“You broke my heart, Draco. It’s only fair I break yours.”
…
Third year
Malfoy, Crabbe and Goyle had been joking about Buckbeak’s execution when the Golden Trio appeared in the distance. Chuckling, Draco decided to give the Gryffindors what he called ‘a warm Slytherin welcome’.
"Ah! Come to see the show!”
“You.” A very angry Hermione flounced towards Draco, “You foul, loathsome, evil, little cockroach!”
As the Trio approached him, Draco couldn’t help but look at how she walked. Her arms flung around as she clumsily reached for her wand, her unruly curls bouncing with every step she took, making it look like a lion’s mane. It did unsettle him a little when he wasn’t appalled by the sight; there was something mysterious in the way she moved; something that intrigued him, something that lured him in, but for the dear life of him, he couldn’t pinpoint what it was.
Draco lost his train of thought when, in one quick move, the tip of her wand was under his chin, pinning him against the wall. Crabbe and Goyle, cowards that they were, stepped back. They knew Granger wasn’t afraid to hex them if she wanted to, and judging by the fury in her eyes, she was determined to curse Draco into fucking oblivion.
Hard as he tried, though, Draco didn’t understand. Why was she was so furious? That beast had attacked him, not the other way around!
And even if they weren’t friends, Draco knew that Granger had been worried about him. He knew she couldn’t help it, it was in her nature; she had been worried when said attack took place, crying out for Hagrid to take him to the Hospital Wing. So why was she so eager to hurt him?
Something in him shrank at that thought.
Why would she want to hurt him…?
Luckily for Draco, Harry and Ron convinced Hermione not to hex him. And, even if her eyes still shone with anger, Hermione seemed to calm down just about enough to decide against it. So as her wand went down – not without a healthy dose of reluctance, he noticed – Draco felt like he could breathe again.
But oh, he’d been ahead of himself.
He was almost celebrating with his friends when her knuckles met his nose, taking him by surprise. There was a loud crack, his knees gave in, and he groaned out in pain as he landed on the floor.
Ouch.
After the initial shock – and while Crabbe and Goyle took him away from the Gryffindors – Draco could have sworn he’d heard her say that punching him felt good. And while part of him knew that he should feel outraged at the audacity of her remark, a little voice in his head told him otherwise.
‘She touched me.’ And fuck he didn’t feel confused, ‘She touched me and her touch felt… good.’
He rubbed his broken nose, and even though it pained him, Draco found himself wanting more.
…
Fourth year
Draco had been pouring himself some pumpkin juice when, all of a sudden, loud whispers began to spread all around the Hall. Wondering what the commotion was about, he took a sip from his cup and turned on his heels to see what was going on.
His breath fell short. His jaw dropped slightly. His eyes were locked on her figure.
Granger looked divine.
She smiled at everyone sweetly, and Merlin, confidence looked good on her. It was so different than whenever she walked around the castle, holding onto her books for dear life. That night, she let her beauty speak for her as the floaty robes of her dress flowed effortlessly with her every step, and a couple of brown curls fell down her shoulders. And Merlin, those curls were so mesmerising; they looked like honeyed, golden waterfalls.
And her face… He could not stop looking at her face. He couldn't deny it, she looked beautiful.
Her skin looked like silk, it looked so smooth that all he wanted to do was cup her face and feel it under his thumb; stroke over that coral shade of blush she wore, so natural it was almost invisible. He just wanted to look into those eyes, framed by those eyelashes that were dark and thick, and lose himself in that golden gaze of hers. And fuck him sideways but he wanted to kiss her, because that hint of lip gloss made her lips look like a fucking sin.
He had no idea where that came from, but Draco felt compelled to step forward, completely forgetting that she was not his date. But out of nowhere, Viktor Krum showed up and bowed to her, ever Prince fucking Charming, kissing the back of her hand.
Draco hated it.
Honestly, what did she find in that guy? Granger wasn’t into Quidditch, so he couldn’t have impressed her there. Was it his looks? Probably not. He’d assumed that she’d be into Weasley, and Krum was a whole other type of man, so that couldn’t be it, either. The accent, maybe? Draco had overheard him mispronouncing her name, calling her ‘Hermyown’ instead of ‘Hermione’. Maybe she’d found that adorable?
Whatever it was, Draco didn’t like it.
Not. One. Bit.
If only for a second, he’d found himself drowning in a sea of jealousy, rage burning him from the inside out when Krum kissed her hand. Somewhere deep inside him, something stung. It felt like a dagger pierced through his heart, and he felt like it should’ve been him kissing her hand and having her as his date.
Not Krum.
Draco gasped, trying his best to mask the absolute horror he’d felt. The fuck was that about? He couldn’t believe he’d been admiring the Mudblood, much less that he’d just had a fit of jealousy over Krum giving her hand a peck.
What the hell just happened?
Was his mind betraying him?
He was so confused.
…
Fifth year
Rage, rage, rage.
When he heard that Dolohov had injured her, everything Draco felt was complete and utter rage.
He saw red.
Antonin Dolohov had the arrogance to hex her, with the intent to kill her. He hadn’t succeeded, but Dolohov had managed to hurt her badly.
He explained to Draco that Granger, along with her pathetic friends, had broken into the Ministry of Magic, thinking they could save Sirius Black. But then he told him that the Dark Lord had another thing in mind. He’d orchestrated a trap, successfully manipulating Potter and his friends to find a prophecy for him, luring them in. The thing was that while they were searching, the Death Eaters had been waiting for them. And as soon as they had the prophecy, the Death Eaters closed in and attacked.
But Draco felt proud when he heard that Granger had silenced Dolohov. He even found himself chuckling at Antonin when he told him that, because of the Mudblood’s curse, the other shelves had collapsed and crushed Nott.
The image of Nott being crushed by a shelve amused Draco, and his grin grew even wider, but Dolohov called him out on it and demanded he’d better stop grinning. His face darkened dangerously when he mentioned that Potter was still alive, which meant they’d failed. They’d failed, the Dark Lord had not been pleased, and every Death Eater got to suffer his wrath.
But Draco just shrugged. ‘Sounds like a you-problem’, he’d heard himself say. Because honestly, he couldn’t help but think that after hurting Granger, the Dark Lord’s rage had been justified. He would have done the same.
Wait, hold on. What?
What was it with his mind fabricating those fucking thoughts!?
Draco frowned. It wasn’t the first time he’d felt so possessive of her, and he was beginning to wonder why. He was beginning to wonder whether or not Granger had done something to him, anything that made him feel that way.
Anything at all.
Then again, he would remember if she’d done that. He would’ve noticed if Granger had done anything to him.
…Right?
What was with Granger lately, anyway? The witch was supposed to make him feel repulsed, but he’d been craving her touch ever since that punch in third year. She wasn’t supposed to make him feel attracted, she was supposed to have rabbit teeth and bushy hair!
And yet, at the Yule Ball, Granger had been the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen.
And now, she was supposed to be seriously injured, and he wasn’t supposed to care at all.
But there he was, enraged that she’d been hurt.
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Sixth year
The most powerful love potion in the world, Amortentia, smelled differently to everyone, according to whom a person felt attracted to. That’s how Granger landed twenty points to Gryffindor, anyway.
Draco closed his eyes and focused on the smell.
The woody scent of pages in a book, the sweet aroma of a warm cocoa with cinnamon, the aura of raindrops falling on a field full of orchids.
It hadn’t been the first time he’d smelled that, that he knew. Over the years, Draco had developed quite the delicate sense of smell – even after Granger had punched him – and he knew that that fragrance had been there every time she'd been around. Be it in the Great Hall, or anywhere else in the castle; Draco would smell that fragrance and feel infatuated by it.
And every single time, he’d look at Hermione and his mind would have these thoughts of wanting to possess her in every way possible, and wanting to kill anyone who dared as much as touch her. His rational self would cringe and shrug it off; but that primal self of his was becoming more and more persistent.
More and more… impatient.
But that beautiful fragrance tamed the beast within him. Every. Single. Time.
The woody scent of pages in a book, the sweet aroma of a warm cocoa with cinnamon, the aura of raindrops falling on a field full of orchids.
Truth to be told, his sense of smell hadn’t been the only thing that had changed. Draco noticed that, especially by the end of third year, he’d gone from looking like a boy – to looking like a man.
Draco’s hair was velvety and wavy, with shy locks gracing his face. His cheekbones were smooth and his jawline defined, and he knew that it made him look effortlessly attractive. His eyes were like pools of molten mercury, and his lips were slightly pouty; not too thick, and not too thin.
And just like Granger’s lips, they were irresistibly kissable.
He was handsome. Way more handsome than all of Slytherin’s men.
And that, for whatever reason, rubbed him the wrong way.
Draco frowned. What the fuck was going on?
…