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Little Grace

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The world around them had changed, Lucius knew. Everything had been born anew.



He rested his hands on the windowsill and felt the curve of the wood beneath his fingers. Ones like him, ones that made up the world so few knew, were courted and feared.



Vampires.



They were creatures that reveled in youthfulness, their lives a millennium compared to their muggle contemporaries, ones that past in the blink of a muddled eye. He lived life reveling in the purity of his line, the superiority of his species, and in his siren appeal. Quite the same as every Malfoy Lord had before him. He had been the heir his father had dreamed of, after his mother went through a succession of miscarriages, before bringing Lucius, and later, his brother Draco to the world. He had been feted and adored since birth and lived life exactly as he wished.



Without doubt, without downtrodden regret.



If he were like Severus, he would wonder if their unchanging natures were unnatural for the world around them, one that reveled in uncertainty and chaos. His friend had always been a thinker, Lucius frequently teasing him that his mouth would forever stay downward, and his dark eyes narrowed as if he were a churlish tutor; one that took pleasure only from rapping their students knuckles, and ripping apart the essays they labored over (even the purest heirs forced to endure private schooling). His friend had always laughed at that, reluctantly or not, neither of them able to imagine him tutoring anyone.



If he were Severus, he wouldn’t be alive at all.



His lips curved downward, at that.

 

"Shoo," he murmured as if he could blow his grim thoughts away, like the wolf in the muggle fairytale, that she delighted in making him read to her. He reveled in the sound of her laughter, and the feel of her cheek against his. Impatiently she waited for him to turn the pages, saying the words alongside him. “Shoo, shoo, shoo.”



But she - Hermione -



she could stay.

 




Salazar Slytherin had been the first among them to walk in the night, spurning the light of day. He’d feasted on the purest of humans, turning those deserving into his younglings. The Malfoys, the Notts, the Blacks, the Lestranges, and twenty-four other families knew that Salazar's blood ran through their veins. They were the sacred, the special, yet only the Gaunts had an undisturbed line, never marrying outside the family. They were revered, until the line had faltered, their last female, Merope, a frail, and appalling woman.



Regardless, someone had bedded her, and the result made Riddle, Lucius mused.



His mad mother had hidden him away, and he had lived at the fringe of the court, before coming of age, when he'd burst from his cage and on to the stage. Courtiers had smiled behind their hands, amused by the restrained, handsome youth who was said to have ambitions for the title of Sire. It was an honor given to the foremost amongst them, the one with the purest blood in their veins, a de facto crowning. They would be assured the loyalty of the pureblooded families and lead the coven as they wished. Their last Sire, Dippet, had been a weak, yet amusing creature, one that had passed after being rammed with a stake through his dusty heart.



Unfortunate, really. 



Leaving no heir behind, parties had quickly formed behind the aged, and grave Dumbledore and Riddle. Riddle was charming, and he was precise, even in his rages when he’d Crucio'd the elite among them during an intimate party, after one (desperately in his cups, after drinking muggle blood) had insinuated his bastard heritage.



Merope hadn’t been married to the man she’d laid with, had she?



No -



Riddle was a bastard, as pureblooded as he was (though, some whispered, his father hadn’t been one of them at all. After all, if one of theirs had fathered him, surely they would have claimed him by now; proud of the specimen that he was...).

 

Yet their smiles had faltered when the court had discovered Bellatrix Lestrange strung from her bed, with blood dripping from open veins in her wrists. She'd crowed before them all that she would tame the young Riddle through infatuation - through love - and none had doubted her. She’d always been disturbingly passionate about her ideas, just as she was in bed, as most among them knew. (Lucius was fortunate enough not to, aware enough of the madness that ran through the Black line. He’d rejected a betrothal to Bellatrix’ sister, Narcissa, allowing the honor to pass to his younger brother, Draco, instead).

 

It was doubtful Bellatrix had found success; her body abused and hung as it was.

 


Afterward, Riddle’s assumption came swiftly, and brutally; those who sided against him ruthlessly murdered: the Potters, the Weasleys, and Dumbledore himself came to their ends. It was then that his friend, Severus, went mad, and threw himself from the belfry, fool that he was.



He’d never gotten over Lily Potter, even as she’d accepted James’s proposal; a matter that Lucius had never understood. There were others, he’d told Severus, who’d never spoken to him again.


A matter that Lucius still ignored (his fingers curled inwards, and his nails pressed against the flesh of his palm when he thought of it). The court shone brilliantly under its new Sire, and manners reigned, with debauchery running beneath it all.



It was a matter of taste, Lucius thought, one that Riddle did well.

 

He took to ruling as if he were born to do it, wielding his power as one would a cane against their sniveling, hunting dog. Lucius had taken care to cultivate a relationship with his Sire, never one to shudder against shedding his skin for another. Self-preservation was a trait known to the Malfoys, ones that the dynasties murdered by Riddle had sneered at.



The Weasleys - the Potters - nearly the Notts and Longbottoms -



Lucius kept a list carved into his skin, one that he knew by heart. He wouldn’t see his dynasty amongst their name, not as he opened their magnificent library to their Sire, and shared the Malfoy stores of vintage blood to the court.



They would last, as they always had.



Endlessly. 


 

It was spring when the court found her.



Riddle flaunted her before them, his secret, his treasure.

 

With wild curls and honeyed eyes, Hermione danced before them, not one courtier snickering or sneering. They were entranced by their sire’s secret, his temptation, as he watched her with them. Secure in his power, he’d chosen to reveal her to them, the one he’d never wanted to share with another.




Why?



“We wish it,” Riddle had said simply, to one who’d dared to ask, as he sprawled on a velvet chaise, and his sister lay with her head in his lap. She'd said nothing, instead continued to turn the page alongside him, as if time itself was waiting to bend to their will.

 

They had the same eyes, the court whispered, as if they’d seen something horrible, something they could never let go of. Lucius knew every rumor as if they were ticks that burrowed beneath his skin and cultivated every whisper he’d heard.

 

He knew that the half-siblings were close, closer than anyone knew. Riddle had changed her, making her his first - his only youngling. He fed her from his own wrist, as she was loath to feed on humans, the true reason behind her absences from their feeding revels. He taunted her, and teased her, and whispered sweet nothings in her ear - Hermione, his precocious half-sister, a dhampir until he had made her whole.

 

Their mother had tangled with a muggle man, a human, and had born a child because of it. She was raised beside Riddle, some said, while others insisted she’d been smuggled away to some godforsaken country before Riddle had found her after their mother revealed his sister's existence on her death bed.

 

Hermione was their uncrowned queen, the only one who spent hours with their Sire alone, and spoke to him without care; ignoring if he scowled, and had a temper that matched his own. They were fierce in their passions, and in their thirst for knowledge, fascinating their court to exhaustion with their discussions. Often they seemed to forget the world about them, until Riddle pulled back, and welcomed the courtiers again.



Oh yes, Lucius watched them, missing nothing as Riddle tangled his hand in her curls, or when she leaned against him; her head nodding forward as the night bled into day, and a game piece or book dropped from her hand. She had little reservation, and little tact, charming and infuriating in turn.



Where her brother was cold, a fierce cold that settled into one’s bones, she was the fire that swept up the world whole. She was life amongst the court, threatening to burn them all, as she danced and played among them, making them question their beliefs.



Their reserved, and stiff-handed beliefs, the ones that Lucius himself unfailingly followed.  



Hermione,’ he thought, feeling the weight of her name on his thoughts. ‘Hermione, our little queen, our pretty play-thing.’ She fascinated him, the wretched, little thing.

 

She was said to make companions of the elves that served them (their blood unpalatable to their masters) and allowed one to hold her hand. It was unthinkable.

 

Monstrous.

 

And curious, Lucius said privately, to the peacock that laid its head in his lap, ‘was it not enough that she had a foul, furry beast at her side?’ The mangy kneazle had appalled the court, as it kept pace beside her, its enormous head and smashed face reaching her waist, and long tail frequently toyed with her curls.

 

And beside Hermione was their sire, the man that adored her. They said that Riddle delighted in her, trusting her as much, or perhaps more, than he did his familiar Nagini, a perverse snake that was said to delight in playing with its prey, before letting it pass between its jaws.

 

Did Hermione protest at that, Lucius wondered, as she did at drinking from humans?



"Tell me, little queen," he murmured and felt his lips curve upward.

 




He knew that she watched him, as he did her.

 

He felt her gaze on him when he practiced his archery, well aware of how his robes fit his elegant frame. He took care with his appearance and delighted in the long, platinum hair that he’d inherited from his father. It was stark amongst the bleakness of his robes and accentuated the paleness of his throat.

 

One that was without a mating mark, as hers was.

 

It was doubtful that Riddle would allow her to mate, tongues wagging that he would take her for himself before the next season began. Relationships between sires and their younglings were known, just as the Gaunt family was fond enough of its incest.

 

Still, Lucius found himself called to her; a black ribbon wound about his peacock’s wing, one that he saw often enough about her neck.



And he came, on his hands and knees, before her.

 


 

She was a girl, lost in the echoing room.

 

Her room was a marvel of green and gold, with the ceiling above them reflecting a moonlit sky, as if she were in the world outside. Books towered over every surface; her vanity, her nightstand, her bed, while a few, velvet-bound, classics were spread across the floor. Some were open, their silk pages lovingly worn, while others were closed, marked instead with black ribbons. And amidst it all, in the flickering candlelight, his little queen stood.

 

She wore a chaste nightgown, with ribbons that ran down the front. His fingers ached to untie them, and slip the gown from her shoulders, letting her stand before him in her naked state. They would be equal then, for as her eyes met his, he knew she saw through him.

 

"You came," she murmured.

 

He inclined his head. "Who would I be to refuse your request, Madam?"

 

Her title was acidic on his lips, yet she smiled still. She moved to her desk, where a caged dove rested, its head tucked against its breast. Hearing its mistress approach, their head raised, and they cooed; eagerly flapping their wings. And he felt himself come to her, standing beside her as if they were the same.

 

He teased her, remarking that it was strange she played with her food, the bird eliciting a low sting in his throat. There were lesser ones, dhampir, that were known to feast on four-legged creatures.

 

Lucius had never understood the call of furred or feathered skin, not when one could follow the graceful column of a human throat, and feel the softness of their skin before sinking one's teeth into their nectar.

 

"Do you enjoy a mouthful of feathers, Madam?"

 

Her eyes had darkened, but she'd said nothing as she crooked her finger, letting the pretty dove step on to her hand. It cooed and flapped its wings, making its owner laugh.

 

Her laughter was the same as the Madonna singing, and he felt his gaze harden as it rested on her.

 

"A charming display," he said, and she smiled as if they both knew he hated how truthfully he meant the words.

 

He pulled her against him before he left, in the moments before servants would come to her door. His fingers curled beneath her chin, and he tilted her face up to his. "Is this a game, Madam? Are you to be my cruel mistress? My new fate?"

 

"I won't be cruel," she replied simply, her lips curving into a smile. "I won't tame you, Lucius." Her hand cupped his cheek, and she stepped on the tips of her slippered toes. "I want you, as you are."

 

He kissed her then, his lips harshly tasting hers. She tasted of cherries, and spice, and sweet life; a taste that made him groan, and he hardened against her as if he were a youngling again.

 

"Say my name," he said then. He wouldn't be a replacement for another, not as he coveted the silly queen for herself.

 

"Lucius," she replied. "I want you, Lucius."

 

Then in her sweet, and terribly honest voice she said, "please."

 

And he was lost, and he was damned, a man made undone by the feel of her arms tangled about his neck, her lips at his temple. It wasn't about the saving of his skin or seeing his sister in law, Cissy's, pregnancy came to term, but the woman in his arms.

 

He knew only her, and nothing of the world. 


 

 And so, he was, as he found himself beside her.

 

Beneath her. Behind her. Against her. Any, and every way that he could have her, he did.



He adored his little bird and the sweet sounds she made. She came alive when she rutted against his hand, mewling as his bejeweled fingers spread her open, and played with her nub. She was wild and unfurled, catching his hand with her thighs, and holding it there as if she would have him pleasure her without end.

 

He happily would, for her.



Happiness - he felt it with her as if he were a fool again. He kept his chambers, as she did hers, but he knew the steps to her bed by heart. They tangled together, Hermione swathed in golden silks, while he cradled her against his somber finery. He adorned her skin in kisses, chaste and harsh; scraping his canines against the swell of her breast, and the curve of her calf. She laughed when he suckled on her fingers, her laughter turning into moans as he nipped at her skin and drew blood from her. It was ambrosia on his tongue, the honeyed taste like nothing he'd had before.

 

And he wanted nothing - no one - else.

 

They played in the bath as if they were both idle younglings; delighting in splashing water over each other, and covered their hands in foamy bubbles, eventually blowing them at each other. There was nothing he wouldn’t do with her, not even as she took him from behind, as if she owned him completely.



Perhaps she did.

 

He felt himself alight when she gasped, feeling the strap-on as she slipped it onto herself, before lubing the end of it. It was an allowance he'd allowed no lover before her and found he enjoyed it as she took him, wrapping his hair about her hand, and tugged his head back, forcing him to meet her entrancing eyes. He could lose himself in them, the pleasure that crested between them like nothing he’d enjoyed before. He knew her bed alone, and found that she was loyal to him in turn, though he knew she dallied with a Bulgarian, frequently giving him English lessons; and strolled the gardens with his own brother, though their relationship was nothing more than verbal sparring, and a shared competition at the games they played.

 

There was loneliness that burned within her, one that he wondered if anyone else, including her brother, saw. For no matter how the court adored her, she was a flame that one circled about but never drew closer. Except for him, and her brother, their taunting sire, who played with his sister as if she were his possession. Did he wonder about her feelings? Taste the salty tears that clung to her cheeks?

 

No - he knew that Riddle did.

 

Their Sire was playful and cruel, where his sister was lively without malice. Riddle coveted her as he did power, wanting to keep them beneath his heel, as a master would his heir or his hunting hounds. If there was tenderness between them, it was something Lucius never saw. Not even after he had Skeeter, in the form of a beetle, skitter beneath their door and watch from where she clung to the velvet curtains, what the siblings did when alone together. (Until he'd found her pretty wings slipped inside of his jewelry box and knew she'd been crushed beneath Riddle's heel).

 

There were times when she drew herself into his lap and tucked her head beneath his chin as if she were nothing more than a child, and he wrapped his arms about her as if he could shield her from the world. He'd take her like that, slipping beneath her skirts as she whimpered, and mewled when he played with her tender breasts, and kissed her cheeks, her freckled nose, her lips - as if she were his, and he was hers without another. Sometimes, he swore she looked like a cherub, with a faint blush streaking across her cheeks, and over her chest. He wanted more of her, more of her time, her body, her soul.

 

Her laugh entranced him, as she tickled her cheek with his hair; and peppered him with questions about where he'd been, who he'd been, and everything else that arose in her pretty, ever thinking head. There was nothing that he spared her from, though he never mentioned the lovers he had before. They were inconsequential in comparison to her; she was without equal. His words were thick with double entendre, and appeals to her heart, though he was loath to say so.



If she were his, he would have her mated, and bred before the next season; Lucius forever feeling himself harden at the thought.

 

What would it be like, he reasoned, to have her beside him without end?

 

He was sure that she’d gleaned it from his thoughts, the teasing, knowing minx that she was.



She wanted to open him up and dissect him as if she could understand who he was by the shape of his organs, and by tasting the blood that flowed through his pure veins. And he told her everything, in his charming, and cool way. His tell only she knew, noting the curve of his lips, and the way he quirked his brow, that he wanted to amuse her - tantalize her, like when he filled her with the filthy lives of the courtiers about them, and the games that they played.


She laughed uproariously when he told her of how the elder Avery was tangling with his heir's betrothed, running from her quarters in the evening to his own, before the house-elves came to call. He told her too, about those expecting, and those that were happy, though he was careful not to tease her with the injustices that happened; the serious quarrels, and grudges that families held toward another. His little queen had a soft heart, and he'd quickly found that she was eager to solve what she could as if she could single-handedly change the grudges between spurned heirs or broken-hearted mistresses. No, he kept her from the underbelly of their world, coaxing her to enjoy the games that others enmeshed themselves in.



As if they too, weren’t playing their own, greedy game. She wasn’t a bird, but a spider that had entangled him in her web, and he’d gone willingly. He made no move to fight her, nor did he support the Order that formed against her brother, not even when a childhood friend had invited him to join.

 

He’d known, without question what he wanted to do.

 

What he had to.


He found himself with his head buried between her legs, smirking against her sopping cunt, as she cried out his name, and tugged at his hair until he saw stars. He’d spilled everything to her and found the reward more pleasing than the sight of Riddle’s head rolling down the steps ever could.


And afterward, he’d stood behind her, as their Sire executed the ones who’d stood against him. 


Against them.

 

The marble floor had been painted in their blood, as it oozed from their severed necks.

 

Lucius felt her then, as she leaned against his back, and stretched upward on the tips of her toes, and covered his eyes with her hands. “Boo,” she said lightly, and he smiled, despite himself, and his cold pretenses. It was a muggle game, she’d explained, one that was played with children. (Once, she’d confided to him, as she cradled his cheeks and kissed the column of his throat, that it’d been her favorite game to play with her brother).

 


He was the one between them, the one that kept his fangs from sinking into the sweet curve of her neck.




It was his call that Hermione fluttered to, leaving him with her cum on his thighs, and a chaste kiss on his lips. He’d asked her, once, if she’d told Riddle about him.




“Of course,” she replied, as earnest as only she could be. There was little deception from her, no lies that clung to her like shimmering diamonds.



“Will he break me then, little bird?” He’d raised his brow, and hid his trembling fingers by cupping the back of her head and pressed her temple to his chest. He’d felt her laugh against him, and she shook her head.



“I won’t let him,” her arms wrapped about him, and pulled him closer still. He found that she delighted in being close to him, often tangling his arms about her waist, and his legs over hers, before drifting to sleep in his bed (often, with Crookshanks tucked against her feet, and Lucius barring his peacock from the room for its safety). “You make me happy, Lucius.”

 

Happier than she’d ever been.

 

“As if it easy,” he said, sneering at her view of happiness.

 

“But it is,” she replied simply, and he felt her kiss his shoulder blade. “It truly is, Lucius, if you trust me.”



He was silent, his teeth sinking into his bottom lip as if to keep himself from replying. Of course, he trusted her, his little fool, his teasing queen; and would spare himself the indignity of saying so, as if he'd lost his head the same as Severus once had.



Though, if he was honest, something he found dreadfully boring to be, he reveled in feeling alive with her, his little bird, his burning mistress.

 

His love.

 

“Just you."

 

"Lucius?"

 

"I do - trust you," he murmured, feeling his throat ache with need. "Only you, Hermione." 

 

 

 

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Spring Flowers Png

 

 

 

 

No one knew him as she did.



“Hermione,” Tom murmured, gracing her naked calf with his hand. She lay against him, with her leg tossed over his side, and her curls streaming about her; a pretty picture he would wish to remember forever if he allowed himself sentimental things.



He felt his gaze soften as she whispered his name, before tucking her head against his neck. He knew by the sheen of her cheeks that her throat was burning, her greed aching for relief. He moved to face her, laying on his side, and propped himself up with his elbow. He produced his wand and slowly dragged it along his wrist while muttering a continuous spell, blood trickling and spurting out as he placed it against her mouth.



He sighed as she began to suckle, the same as a helpless kitten feeding from its mother. He was the only one who fed her, who saw her when she was weakened and aching with need. Her tongue lapped at his skin, dainty, little licks that made him harden, and his arm slid about her waist, pulling her near. He wanted her by his side, even with the sheets tangled around them and the sun setting in the sky, as he knew from the crack in the curtains.



He had privately sneered at the courtiers who kept the ones that they fucked in their beds, knowing full well that was the way a man lost his head. There was little need for one to have company - when he’d fulfilled his needs, he’d seen his partners as prey to use, leaving none of himself with them. They’d never slept beside him, nor pressed their body close to his while they slept, their hands entangled together. No, there had never been another before her.



No one was like her.



Hermione.



His eyes darkened as he watched her feed, her throat rippling as she swallowed. Her tongue caressed his wound, and he stilled himself from flinching as her canines sank into his flesh. It only took him teasing her with his scent for her to long for more - and take it.



“It’s yours,” he said, and he meant it. “All of it, little dear.”



His sweet, precocious sister.

 


 



No one had known, no one had cared, to know what Merope hid.



She had one heir, a son begotten from an affair that she’d never spoke about. The ghosts that haunted the Gaunt Manor heard her weeping; her sorrow entrenched in its dark walls.



She was a fool, Tom thought, one who had never learned from her folly.



It was this thought that permeated his very senses, ever since he had been in the cradle, with his mother cooing down upon him with her marred face. She sought the illusion of love; as he later learned, poisoning a human she saw from her window with a love potion. Its effects had lasted long enough for the man to sire Tom, though not to stay.



Something Merope hadn’t expected, Tom knew.


Her ill and twisted body was nothing for the man, and he had learned at how she grasped for him - desperately offering him immortality, an offer that had made the man spit in her face, before fleeing. It was this weakness that Tom could never forgive Merope for, siring him not as a pureblood heir, but as a bastard, one that was unwanted, and unneeded.



Worse, he’d been born as a halfling, a dhampir, until he’d come of age and forced his uncle to change him. It’d been simple enough to Imperio the man, and Tom remembered sneering at him that it was best ‘to keep his transformation within the family’, both knowing how his uncle had feverish designs for the Gaunt’s purity.



He’d awoken to his inheritance as a beast crazed with hunger, one soon saturated in the blood of his family.



His mother, one long gone to madness crumpled beneath his talons, while his uncle and grandfather he’d crushed beneath his heel and relished the sustenance he took from them. Their blood ran within his veins, the ones they’d always sought to deny and burn from him.



Hermione,” he’d called, as he held himself against the stairwell. “It’s only us now.”



And his sister had come, with trembling steps, and her head held high to the top of the stairs. Her eye was swollen still from where she’d been struck by their grandfather, and she took tentative steps down -



As he climbed upward and opened his arms.



She threw herself into his hold, regardless of the blood that soaked his collar, the sin that stained his skin. She had no regard for it, only regard for him as she nuzzled her cheek against his chest. “Oh Tom,” she whispered, and he tangled his fingers in her curls. “What have you done?



You knew that I meant it,” he murmured, unrepentant. “You knew that I would.”



He knew that she’d feared the plan as he told it to her, the one that would make them orphans, alone in the world. Their mother had absconded from court decades prior, shunned by the stunning pure-bloods, while their uncle and grandfather had become scorned relics. No one would miss them, no one would care, as Tom’s ascent had begun to rise at court. No one knew as he threw himself into revelry and delighted in hunting parties that he was a halfling; one that was one of them, and not. He’d maintained an era of mystery and charm and had been popularized for it.



And now he was the same as the courtiers that gathered to him, as he began to gain support among them. The Malfoys had begun to bask in his light, just as Mulciber had come to heel. There were few protests, only whispers behind their champagne glasses, amidst celebrations of their monarch’s golden reign.



A monarch that was soon to pass, if his sources were correct.

 


 



“I did it for us,” Tom said, as his sister’s eyes fluttered open. “You knew that then, as you know it now, don’t you? There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you.”



Hermione yawned, her lips gloriously swollen, as she snuggled against him. Her body was warm where he was cold, a chill in his chest that he could never rid himself of.



Her eyes met his, and he knew that she was unafraid, as only his sister could be. “If only that were true,” she said, so quietly he tilted his head toward her. “You sold your soul, Tom.”



He made no move to disagree, instead tracing circles on her hip with his hand. Her skin was soft and smooth beneath his touch, her fair skin made for adornment. He’d said he’d give her the world, once, when she sobbed in his lap that their mother loved them not.



She loves no one,” he’d told her, his eyes cold as he glared at the family portrait that hung above the fireplace. Their absence - his and his sister’s - was mocking in the picture it gave. “Not grandfather or uncle, or you, or even me. The Gaunt heir,” he said, his tone mocking. After his grandfather passed, the Gaunt name would be passed to his uncle, and after him - no one, if he died without issue. Merope couldn’t carry the Gaunt name, nor could he carry it, with his bastard status, and his sister -



No one even knew of his sister, while his Uncle had already made introductions for him, with the idea that he would fulfil a position there, never too young to act as a pleasing courtier. Tom was loath to leave his sister, her body bearing the same scars as his did.

 

He didn’t say that the only one Merope could love was a muggle-born man, one that had eyes as dark as his, and a mouth that was given to expression, as he’d seen in the sole picture Merope had of his father. There were things he told no one, not even his sister, as he held her petite body in his arms, and felt her heartbeat in her chest.



She was the same as he was, coming nearly a decade after his birth when his mother had accosted another muggle man. The man was a blind beggar, one who’d stumbled across the manor, and into her bed. She made little entreaty for him to stay, as he kissed the deformed flesh that made her cheek and slipped from her bed, taking the few coins she’d given him. Hermione had been born from a loveless romp and was more of a bastard than he was.



Her father without name entirely, and without place.

 

Tom had scorned the news that his mother was pregnant and had felt his stomach coil as he heard his mother singing in her room. She protected the baby as she hadn’t protected him, hiding from his uncle when he fell into his rages, and never neared his grandfather. “This baby will change things,” she’d told him, as she laid his hand across her distended belly, and rocked in her chair.



And Tom remembered thinking, for who?



“Have you ever cared for me?” Hermione asked, her hand trembling as she cupped his cheek. He leaned into her touch, never having pushed her away, not even as a child when she’d stumbled after him. He’d wanted to hate her, the child who’d stolen his mother away, until he’d leaned over her crib, pillow in-hand, and her eyes had met his.



They held the same expression, of one who had been abandoned.



“You know better than to ask,” he tutted. “Have I not allowed you everything, sister?”



He’d made the court into a home for her, as she was given every due and respect that would suit his consort and more. He acted as if she were his equal, and the courtiers followed suit; bending as low to her as they did him.  She was the mistress of the coven as he was its master, and he held her beside him, though she was without title.



Yet they both knew, he meant more than that.



“He said- “



Her teeth sunk into her bottom lip, toying with the darkened flesh. He was drawn to the movement and rested his temple against hers; no space between them. “What did Malfoy say?”



He said his name in mockery, the bitter taste dancing on his tongue. He wished he could hang the man from the Great Hall, watching as his sister discovered his swinging, husk of a body. It was a wish that he would never fulfill, not unless she asked it of him, for he knew murder was a tirelessly moralistic subject with Hermione as if she wasn’t poisoning him with her affair.



Her eyes flicked away before returning to his, and he knew then, that he would loathe the words that she said next. She’d never lied to him; the only one who understood him and everything he longed for. “He said -“ He sensed as she summoned the courage, rolling the words around in her mouth, before pushing them through her teeth with her tongue.



“He loved me.”



Love.



The word made him sick with the weakness it entailed. He wanted to sneer at her and brandish his canines, the same as he would at an irritant hound.



It had ruined their mother, just as it had ruined countless others throughout their species. Vampires were given to their passionate nature as they indulged themselves freely. They had not thought of what came after, or what their word meant. Their intention was only for heedless pleasure, one they would lose themselves to, letting opportunity slip between their fingers the same as filthy blood would.



No, Tom knew, love was the antithesis of everything he longed for.



Tom knew too, that he was a liar, as he watched the flush in his sister’s cheeks and kept her unwavering gaze. He wanted to say that Malfoy was a liar, the man shedding his skin more often than Tom did. He was ruled by his ambition, the same as his forefathers had been, and was a man made to serve because of it.



Malfoy was an allowance he had made his sister, as he knew her heart was filled with him. He had a place inside of her that no one else did, the same as she had in him. There was no escape from the other; their very skin entwined with another. There was no parting, no ignoring who they were.



“And I- “



Siblings.



“I wanted to believe him.”



Equals.



He felt his fingers curl inward, his nails scraping against the tender flesh of his palm. Not all of his wounds were inflicted at the hands of his uncle, or his grandfather, or even his halfwit mother, but himself.



He thought then, of when his sister had found him with a knife in hand, watching as rivets of blood ran down his wrist. Crimson drops had dripped on to the porcelain floor, a picture he found prettier than he cared to admire. She’d taken the knife from him, just as she’d taken his soul, and wrapped his wrist with strips of her nightgown, before pulling him down to the bloodied floor beside her. “You need to be good, Tom,” she’d told him solemnly, and fixed her eyes upon him. “You can’t do this - you can’t misbehave.”



He hadn’t asked her why, as he let his head fall against her shoulder, and inhaled the sweet scent of her. She was clean and bright, the same as when his mother had once hugged him before he’d felt disgusted at her arms around him. “You need to be good,” Hermione said again, her voice trembling. He asked then, why she wanted him to, and she’d half-choked on a sob as she hugged him to her.

 


I need you,” she’d replied, her hands fisting his shirt. “You can’t leave me, Tom.”



No, he hadn’t been filled with disgust as she brought him closer, closer, closer until he was nearly in her lap and she had her arms around his neck and pulled herself flush against him. “I know you need me too,” she’d whispered, and he hadn’t disagreed.



It was the truth, stark and shameful in its nakedness, with no one but them to hear.



They remained alone in the powder room for hours until their knees grew stiff, and their skin grew cold, neither wanting to disentangle from the other. They were the only ones who understood the other, the only ones in the world they could rely on. It was a belief both had that they should have been twins, coming to life, side-by-side before springing into the darkness of the world.



They couldn’t be parted, they wouldn’t be parted.



Not in marriage or mating or fucking another, no, they would be apart of each other that no one could tear asunder.



“I want to,” she corrected herself, and he felt how her body trembled against his. She’d always adored pretty things; standing on her tiptoes and tracing the knick-knacks that littered their mother’s room, adoring them the same way she cherished the books he shared with her. “I…”



She licked her lips and swallowed tautly.



“I want to feel, as he does.”



as we could.



He’d pleasured her before, making her orgasms his as she rode his fingers, him suckling on her pulse, her neck covered in dark marks from his attention. He was rough and demanding, and soft and almost sweet, taking all of her until she had no room to think of another, but him.



He wanted to set her body aflame, knowing that when she saw him; she thought of his mouth against her cunt, and how he whispered filthy things into her ear until she pressed her sopping cunt against his hand and begged for him to fuck her.



Yet he’d never had her entirely, never burrowed himself inside her and fucked her with abandon.



He’d never -



Never given her everything she wanted, nor needed, as her heats came. She ached, she said, and he knew that she was in anguish, as he wet one of his cloaks and mopped her brow. Vampiric females were made to be protected, made to be cherished and held. Their blood was meant to replicate, their purity passed on to another.


He’d denied her, the same as he’d denied himself.



“What did you say?”



Hermione shook her head as if she could keep the words to herself.



He wanted to tear the words from her and watch as her eyes widened. “What did you say, Hermione?”



“That I didn’t know,” she said quietly as if the very words pained her - and they did, he knew they did, and relished in it. “That I knew only my feelings for my master, the one who owned us both.”


He made a noise in the back of his throat, a bundle of emotions that he wouldn’t give voice to.



“I would have all of you,” he murmured, his hand slipping between her legs. He felt the apex of her curls and heard her inhale. “All of you sister, as I never have before. Your heart, your soul- ” everything he’d longed for, and more.



“Take me,” she said, and pressed her thighs against his hand, “if you want me, Tom.”



And their eyes, their dark eyes, said the same.



Please. 

 


 



She had little warning, as he considered her, the same way a predator would its prey. She shivered, wondering if it was the same at the blood revelries -



No, nothing could ever be the same as they had.



“Do you want this, sister?”



He moved to straddle her, pressing his nakedness against her. “Be sure, before you fall down this rabbit hole,” he mused, cupping her cheek in his hand. His fingers stroked her pretty lips as if he could coax her into saying the words he wanted, the ones that he longed, more than anything to hear.



He wanted her to be his, in flesh as she was in blood.



“I do,” she whispered and parted her lips around his pressing ring finger. Her mouth was warm about his shivering flesh, and her tongue stroked his finger; teasing, smooth licks that made him groan.



Her legs widened beneath him, as he pressed his cock against her opening. She was wet, sopping for him, and his eyes smoldered as he looked down at her. “Have you always been like this?” He asked, and her cheeks flushed scarlet, knowing what he meant. He slipped his finger from her mouth and looked at her with expectation.



He wondered who she thought of then and felt his stomach curl at the thought of her comparing him with Lucius. He’d allowed him to give her what he couldn’t, though he took pleasure in making the man walk behind them, allowing only his sister to stand beside him. He’d ripped apart his room before, breaking his glass mirror with his bleeding fist, and set his four-poster bed aflame. He’d watched as the silk tapestries had burned, and felt his pleasure go with it - he wanted his sister not with another lover.



Nor any lover, but him.



“He was braver than you,” she said, and moaned as he slid inside her. He wanted to take her without mercy, see her on her hands and knees, and feel as she fell apart beneath him. He imagined himself with his hands around her pretty neck, squeezing until she gasped his name -



His, his, his.



“Where is he now?” He replied, and her silence was deafening.



It was a dangerous game, he knew, as he felt himself thrust inside her. Her cunt was the same as ambrosia, pleasure flushing through his veins. He palmed her breasts with his hand and heard her gasp as he pinched her perked nipple, squeezing it sharply. “Tom!” She cried, slick gushing from her cunt.



He wanted to take her gently, cradling her against him as he took her from behind. He wanted her to hear his name on her lips, and feel her tremble against him, losing herself in pleasure as he had her.



No -



He swallowed and felt his canines drag against his cheek, tasting the metallic taste of his blood.



He wanted to make love to her, worshipping her caramel tresses and spell out his name with his tongue on her chest, right above where her beating heart nested. He wanted to be everything she wanted and lose himself without falling into hatred.



He began to thrust inside her, bucking his hips as she squirmed against the silken sheets. Her hands grasped at the pillows and pulled one close to her as if it could help her. Her pulse stuttered as his cock dragged against her walls, and he groaned as he felt her cunt tightly grasp him; as if she would hold him inside her, as if she could keep him with her. “I’m not scared of you,” she panted, beads of sweat rolling down her cheek. “I won’t hate you, Tom, I w-won’t- “



They both moaned as she rolled her hips against his and arched her back to let him move inside her more. She was wet and grasping and perfect, as she soaked his cock in her slick, and it dripped on the sheets beneath her. His hand stroked from her breasts down to the plane of her stomach, before it settled amidst her curls. He wanted to toy with her curls and pleasure her nub with his fingers, feeling as her clit became a bundle of overstimulated nerves.



“Hate me,” Tom said, his voice thick with something he wouldn’t put a name to. “Hate me, Hermione, so I may have you- “



They both cried out as he leaned forward, holding himself above her with his forearms. His body was a work of art, his shoulders rippling with taut muscles, and sweat drew to his collarbone. Their eyes never broke their gaze, each reflecting the same.



hold on to me.



They entwined their bodies; their pleasure, and their moans coming as one. It was all they could feel, all they could know, as they focused on the other and the feel of their body pressed together -



It was all they wanted.



Tom shuddered, feeling his cock ache inside of her. “I’m close- “



“Come inside me,” she said, “Please.”



He was damned, and he was hers. He came with a strangled cry, ropes of cum spurting inside her while she wrapped her legs around his and held him against her. Her arms looped around his neck and forced his head down to hers, where she kissed him as if she wanted no other.



Only him.



She came after he did, her cunt engulfed with their juices. He collapsed on top of her and rolled to his side, bringing her with him. He buried his face against her neck and traced her aching gland with his tongue, they both felt his canines lengthen.



“You can’t,” Hermione whispered, her hand entwining with his. Their fingers trembled the same, and she squeezed his fingers gently.



“I can.”



“You can’t, Tom,” she said again, her voice firmer. “Not…until you’re sure,” she hesitated and tilted her head, letting him kiss her gland fully. “You won’t forgive me if you do it now.” She knew his nature as she knew her own, and pressed her thighs together, feeling his spend inside of her.



He didn’t disagree, no -



He drew his lips from her gland, across the curve of her jaw, and up to her lips. “I do know,” he murmured, his lips a space away from her own, “that I love you.”



“I know,” she whispered, and his lips curled into a smirk.



“Does this know-it-all feel the same?”



She kissed him then, pouring her love into it. She loved him then, just as she always had and she always would, feeling his hand squeeze hers again.



always.

 

 

 

Chapter Text

 

 

 

 

 

 

Spring Flowers Png

 

 

 

 

Hermione gasped, dropping her silver brush. “Snape -“



“Severus, my sweet sister,” Tom corrected his sister gently.



He watched as her eyes widened, flitting from him to the naked man who stood before him. She’d been seated at her vanity, brushing her wild curls until he’d arrived with a man long thought dead.



“What did you do?” Hermione whispered; her lips parted in surprise. “Tom -“



He knew her tone, the same that he’d heard as a child and she’d thought he was doing something he shouldn’t. She’d never been afraid of him, no, perhaps the only person in the world who never had been, and, he knew, never would.



“Have you not wondered why your half-kneazle clung to your side?” Tom replied, a cloying smile playing at his lips. He remembered still when he’d brought the half-kneazle to her, intending it to be her familiar. The mangled creature had proved as loyal and bloodthirsty as his kind were known for, as the creature clung to her side, and snarled at any, aside from her brother, who came near. “Why he watched over you with such ferocity and took to no other?”



Half-kneazle the creature might be, it defined the characteristics of its breed; heated devotion to their owner, a keen intelligence, and a fierce possessiveness. Even the kneazle’s acceptance of him had come from his sister’s scolding when it snarled, and her outraged cry when it’d attempted to strike him. Hermione had scolded her familiar, picking him up and holding him firmly against her (and away from her brother). “You have to behave,” she’d told him sternly, and he’d meowed loudly in protest.



But he’d obeyed -



Just as he did everything Hermione told him, the kneazle listening as if he were human.



Hermione was the same as he was; as possessive and controlling as he admitted to be, while she buried it deep inside. “Crooks?” she asked, her voice trembling as she rose to her bare feet. Her toenails were painted a pretty, light pink, making Tom smile at the sight. He often painted her nails himself, holding her feet in his lap while he pressed kisses to her heel, or painted her fingernails and dusted sweet kisses across her knuckles.



Her nightgown shimmered as she walked, the sight of her naked body beneath making him swallow. Her rosy nipples perked against the fabric, yet she took no notice of it; instead pausing before the two men. She reached her arm out to Severus, her hand faltering before his cheek. “Were…are…you...Crooks?" 



“What do you think, sister dear?” Tom asked, quirking his brow. “Did I not promise you the world?”



Wordlessly the man beside him tilted his head downward, making no remark as Hermione cupped his cheek. Her thumb stroked his cupid’s brow, the same as she would when he was in kneazle form. “The court believes him dead,” she said, never taking her eyes from her former familiar, who shuddered and closed his eyes at her touch.



Tom hadn’t allowed the man to die, not by his own hand.



He’d found him in a pool of blood, soon after the death of the Potters, and knew of his devotion to the foolish, Lily Potter. He’d saw potential in remaking the man; a bleeding husk that he could carve according to his wishes. The beast remembered little of the man, only garbled fragments of his life before. His sister needed a familiar of her own, one that could serve per his wishes, and watch over her as closely as he would.



And so, he’d bent death to his will.



“Who are we to cast away their dreams?” Tom teased, a playful expression on his features. It was a tone he reserved only for his sister, a teasing sense of humor without the cruel intent that others experienced from him. He had nothing like that towards her, his soul barren of harshness towards her.



“Will you enjoy my gift, Hermione?”



Her eyes met his again, curiosity tinging her gaze.



“Is he mine still, brother?” she asked, tossing her curls over her shoulder. Her dark hair was thick and free from plaited braids, reaching nearly her waist. He longed to comb his fingers through it, and grip fistfuls of it while she keened over his cock. “Is he my familiar or your slave?”



Tom chuckled, before moving to press a kiss to her temple. "He's yours, Hermione." His hands settled on her waist, as he pressed her back against his chest. "I have no need for a slave when I have you."



They both knew it was true.



“Let me stay,” Tom whispered, nipping at her ear. He sucked on her earlobe, delighted as he felt her shiver in his hold. “Let me see you enjoy my gift, sister.”



Severus was unmoving before them, aside from his breath that came in shuddering gasps. “Will he speak?” Hermione asked, slick dribbling down her naked thigh. She couldn’t help but feel drawn to the man whose portrait she’d often seen in Lucius’ rooms, the painted man’s dark eyes studying hers. “Will he…will he have a choice?”



Tom tutted, rubbing circles against her side.



“As if I would give you a gift that would harm,” he replied, his tone mocking. He, like the man before them, scented her arousal in the air; a cloying sweetness that made him harden against her backside. “He will do as you wish, little one. He desires to do so,” he added, knowing her silly feelings about consent.



She’d turned her head at his offer to make Lucius say, under Imperius, an Unforgiveable he was willing to cast if she wished. For all the magic that she had, she had little will for volatile spells, the ones that teased at her morals and played with her feelings. It was one that Tom had mastered, knowing that he gave a piece of himself with each spell that he cast, and enchantment that he wound around another.  


He made little mention of the other gift he'd permitted her, the one that she'd chosen for herself, and broken her heart. Lucius had taken a leave of absence from the court after he'd asked his Sire's permission. Tom had allowed it, though he kept Draco and Narcissa encased amidst their courtly duties. He would allow no rebellion to form, fanned by the flames of Lucius’ bitterness.



Oh, he knew how the pureblood hated him.


It was a feeling that Tom reveled in, knowing that the strength of the court was behind him, and Lucius only had their envy. They envied him for his bloodline and his seated power, but most of all, they hated him for having Hermione's cunt. She was their little Mistress, the enchanting queen of their black hearts, and they wanted all of her. She could take many lovers among them, allowing her body to be in constant throes of passion, and her heart caressed by grasping hands, and bleeding souls.



Tom knew they would devour her if he allowed it.



As it was, Tom moved to the velvet chaise that faced her bed.



“Take him, Hermione,” he murmured, slipping his hand beneath his robes. He was aching to have her but wanted to see her ravished by Severus even more. He knew his sister needed a distraction, as she perched on the edge of her bed. “Do with him as you wish.”



“Crooks,” she said, her gaze flitting to the man before her. She’d taken his large hand in hers, feeling his calloused skin. “S…Severus. Do you want this?”



The man returned her gaze, his dark eyes smoldering as he sank to his knees. He pushed her thighs aside, letting her rest them on his shoulders as he pressed his face between her thighs. Her cunt dripped with slick, as he bumped his aristocratic nose against it. Hermione trembled, her heart fluttering in her chest.

 


"Please," she whispered and keened as he licked a long, heady stripe over her clit. Her folds were sopping beneath his tongue, slick staining her dark curls.



She rocked her hips against her pet’s face, panting as he buried his tongue inside her. He was greedy and demanding, his touch firm as he suckled on her hood. She bucked her hips when he nipped at her hood, his teeth sinking into her sensitive skin. Her nails sank into his scalp as she pressed him closer, closer, closer -



“S-Severus,” she cried. “Please -“



Blearily, she met her brother’s gaze.



“See how well he fucks you?” Tom asked, his hand curling around his cock. He was hard as steel for her, his foreskin like velvet as he played with himself. He wanted to bury his cock inside her and feel as she quaked around him. He loved his little queen, his blessed sister, and felt a burn in his throat as he watched her.


 Her cheeks flushed as Severus continued to fuck her with his mouth, suckling and licking away at her cunt as if he wanted for nothing else. Tom's grunts filled the room, too, aside Hermione's sweet cries, as he fondled his cock. He saw Severus's cock as it hardened, his erection pressing against his taut stomach.



“Oh! There,” Hermione moaned, thrashing against her pet. His hands moved to hold her thighs open wider and began to thrust his tongue in and out of her. He swallowed mouthfuls of her slick, the musky, honey-like substance one he couldn't get enough of. It dripped from his lips and slobbered down his chin as he tasted her, lavishing her with attention as if he could do nothing else.



And he couldn’t -



“I brought him back for you,” Tom murmured, his voice husky. “He was made for you, my sweet sister, and will do as you wish.”



He’d been surprised at Severus’s depth of devotion to his sister, the kneazle quickly taking to her. He knew he wouldn’t hurt her, no, he never would; yet Tom had little idea if the pseudo beast would like her. And yet he did, the sorrowful man, the twisted beast, taking to his sister as if he adored her.



Silly fool.



Hermione arched against her pet’s demanding mouth, warm delight dancing in her belly. She was coming, slick pouring from her cunt. “A-Ah!” she cried as Severus crooked his tongue inside her. He played with her pearl, her little, glistening bud that made her writhe in pleasure. It was a spot that she could never quite reach on her own; one that her lovers were making their own.



It became too much as he toyed with her pearl, unrelenting as he sucked on it. She felt as if she would break beneath him; her release building as warmth flared through her pelvis. It was a burn that she longed to feel, one that flooded her senses, and made her heart quicken.



“S-Severus! Gods -“



“There’s no god here,” Tom murmured, his cool tones unshaken as he watched her come apart.



She saw stars as she came, her eyes closing as cum spurted from her. It was warm and sticky, her release covering Severus's face. He hummed as he swallowed it all, the same as if she'd demanded him to before he lapped at her trembling cunt after.



“T-Too much! Oh -“ Hermione’s hands bunched in the sheets as he licked at her release, dragging his tongue across her folds. She couldn’t move beneath him, held in place by his firm hands, and firmer touch - she couldn’t get away, even as she tried to twist and buck her hips. It stung as he pleasured her still, gulping down her release as if it was the only thing that would satisfy him; the only thing that would keep him tethered to her.


 Over his shoulder, she met the eyes of her brother again, who smirked as she whispered his name. She was breathless with feeling and soon felt herself cumming again under Severus's ministrations. She couldn't hold back, no -



Her cheeks flushed scarlet as she came again and covered her pet’s face in her release. She was shameless in her pleasure, taking it as if she would take everything from Severus; his name, and his place, and his soul filling it with her own. She covered her face with her hand, and could think of nothing, could feel nothing except Severus -



And his blessed, greedy mouth.


 Later, she would tell Tom that she wanted to make him a collar, and a leash. Her bedpost would have a place to hang the leash, keeping Severus in place as she relentlessly rode his face, and listened to him moan and lap against her glistening cunt. She determined then, as he pleasured her, that she never wanted him to go; not if he could pleasure her as he could every time.



As she collapsed against the bed, her body wracked with trembles as if she’d been Crucio’d she called him up to the bed. He slowly came beside her, and she felt his hardness against her soaked thigh. "Tom?" she called softly, watching as her brother grunted, and came in his hand. "Take me," she whispered. "Please -"



“Who am I to deny you, little one?”



Tom came to her, soon crawling across her body as if he wanted her beneath him always. His hand touched her cunt, his fingers streaking through her wet folds. She gasped at the feeling, his fingers longer, yet slimmer than Severus’ were. He brought his fingers up to her lips, and hummed as she sucked on them; tasting and swallowing without pause, her own cum.



“Thank you,” she murmured, and he knew that she liked her pet, his little gift to her.



“He’s yours,” he promised, having little intention to take Severus away from her. He knew that her heart was in his hands, just as he knew that a part of it stayed with Lucius too. “Take him, sister.”


He placed his palms on either side of her and soon pressed his hips against her own. He held her against the V of his legs, allowing her to feel his cock, and know that his desire was because of her. He had no interest in others, his attentions for her alone. They both gasped as he sank into her clinging depths, and her cunt soaked his cock in her juices. She was hungry for him, kissing and nipping at his nipples as he covered her body with his own.



He wanted to hide her from the world, coveting her from the court, as if she were entirely his own. She moaned his name as he moved inside her, his cock swelling with renewed desire. They soon came together, their hips slapping against each other, as she tangled her arms around him, and pulled his head down to her. He buried his face against her neck, and drew his teeth against her gland, drawing blood to the surface.



He wanted to taste her, drawing his tongue over her soft skin. Her blood was ambrosia; sugared honey dancing across his tongue and made him moan at the blissful taste. He could drown in her depths, fucking her relentlessly, if she would have him.



And she would, he knew without doubt that she would.


 She was born to be his, his mother's indiscretion resulting in his beloved sister. It was the only reason why he hadn't made his mother suffer, his interest in her demise waning as he became absorbed in his little one. She was a gift for him, the only one who understood his bleak soul. He was without regrets, without morals, and knew her soul as he did his own. She was grasping, longing to be tethered, to be owned, and he would fulfill her as no one else would. No one else could.



Tom moved to push her on to her hands and her knees and placed himself behind her. She wiggled her bottom, as eager as a bitch in heat to be taken, while the pet beside them watched them with delirious desire. He kneeled as he dragged his cock against her rear before he thrusted into her wetness. She was warm and welcoming, her cunt imprinted as his home.



“You may fuck her mouth,” Tom directed Severus, and the man scrambled to obey. He crawled like a dog to Hermione, his movements twisting the silk sheets. Hermione lifted her head, licking her lips at the sight of Severus’ erection, wanting to taste him. There was an intimacy about giving head that she ached for, nothing the same after Lucius had left her. Severus’ cock was long and girthy, his head weeping at the sight of her pouting lips.  



She was surprised that her brother was sharing her yet wanted to pleasure the man who’d given himself to her. She cooed in encouragement as he sank his fingers in her hair and bent her head forward. She was wet and willing as she licked his tip, before easing it into her mouth. It was something she’d delighted in doing to Lucius, and she wanted to give it to Severus too.



He was her familiar, her pet, and she wanted to take care of him.



Her tongue caressed his velvety shaft, and she tasted the salty aroma that clung to him. He groaned as she began to suckle him in earnest and shivered as she lightly scraped her teeth over his tip. He was hard beneath her touch, his hips slowly rolling against her mouth. She adored the weight of him against her and the feel of his sac against her chin.



Nor could she forget the feeling of Tom’s cock as he fucked her, her cunt stretched and full as he filled her. He knew what made her ache, and whimper as his hand moved to palm her breast and played with her nipple. He knew how to take care of her, he always had.



She moaned his name as she licked and suckled Severus’s cock, her body flush with pleasure. She was forced back and forth between the two men, as they fucked her; Severus’ grip painful as he forced her to take more of him. Tears gathered in her eyes as his cock nearly touched her throat, yet she struggled to accommodate all of him; not wanting to stop.



The room was filled with the sounds of their fucking; Tom’s hips slapping against hers, his head thrown back and grunts escaping his lips, while Severus moaned in bliss. They were an ecstatic trio; all of them beginning to cum as their pleasurable game continued. Severus rubbed circles on her scalp as his cock swelled in her mouth, and she hollowed her cheeks, continuing to suckle as he gave a strangled moan. She knew that he was so, so close and doubled her efforts; bobbing her head in earnest as he clutched her tighter.



And Tom -



She keened as he toyed with her clit, plunging two fingers inside her as he fucked her. The feeling of his cock and his fingers was indescribable; an incredible bliss that she’d rarely known from him. Her legs shook as she felt her body tighten, and knew that her release was coming.



If she hadn’t been held by Tom, his left hand gripping her buttocks, and her mouth wasn’t busy with Severus’ cock, she would have fallen against the bed; burying her face in the sheets at the pleasure she was feeling. She was there for their pleasure, just as they existed for hers, and it was a Heaven she never wanted to abandon.


“Hermione,” Severus panted, a warmth she’d never imagined lacing his tone. It gave her the same feeling as when Crookshanks curled in her lap, while she read, and buried his smushed face against her arm. It made her feel warm and fuzzy inside, her heart aching as the two men continued to push her back and forth. “Gods, Hermione -“



She wrenched her head back as Severus came, his release spurting across her face, and her breasts. The thick, warm seed was one she wanted to roll around in, coating herself in it entirely.



Tom roared as he came inside her, redoubling his attention to her clit. Slick covered his fingers and dribbled down his wrist; knowledge that made Hermione keen in delirious ecstasy. She wanted the world to know that Tom was hers, the thought of him with another making her eyes burn. She loved him, she did.


She did - she did.


She screamed as he stroked her clit with his thumb while crooking his fingers inside her. He found her g-spot, his attentions making her alight with a lustful fire. It made her weak at the knees, as she felt herself covered in Severus' release, while Tom pumped away inside of her. With his name on her lips, she collapsed against Severus; who took her into his arms and harshly captured her lips. He tasted like fire whiskey and desire, his tongue stroking the seam of her lips. She let him in, and their tongues tangled together; their teeth clashing as they kissed.


She was weak from their fucking and felt Tom as he weighed against her. She loved the feeling of being pinned beneath him, safe and coddled as he swept kisses against her spine. He was gentle in the moments after his orgasm, showering her with attention that no one would ever know. He kissed his way up to her shoulder blades before he pressed a kiss to the back of her neck and stilled.



“Perfection,” he murmured, and she knew that he meant the words.



“I love you,” she whispered, and she felt as he pressed kisses against her scalp. She knew that he couldn’t say the words, a curdling weakness he’d never admit to, yet she knew too, that his heart was with hers.



And Crookshanks - Severus -



He let go of her lips, saliva strewn between their lips.



“Mistress,” he said, his voice hoarse from overuse. “I belong to you.”


She knew that was true too; the insufferable know-it-all that she was. Severus drew her upward and into his arms, laying on his side, while Tom came to lay behind her. Her eyes fluttered closed, as she felt her brother’s release dripping between her thighs, and her pet’s release seeping into her chest. It felt right, in a way that made her stomach twist, as if it didn’t feel right on her skin. Unwillingly her thoughts turned to Lucius, the pureblood that was ever at her thoughts, and his name weighed on her tongue.


He'd left court after his confession, and she'd burned countless reams of parchment paper, attempting to write to him. She'd considered sending her Patronus, though she wasn't sure what to say - what could she say when she hadn't said she loved him back? She knew that she did, her feelings for him entwined about her heart, but knew too that her brother would never let her go.



And nor did she want him to, as selfish as it was.


She turned her head, and Tom pressed his lips against hers; his teeth sinking into her bottom lip. Crimson danced on his tongue, ambrosia that he adored, and she let him take from her. "Tom," she murmured, her voice muffled against his mouth. "Please -"



give me everything.

 




Hermione opened her eyes.



There was an empty place beside her, the sheets mussed where her brother had slept. She slid her hand across the sheets and felt how they were warm still.



He’d only just left, moonlight flooding the room.



She wondered if the Council had called him and traced her index finger across her swollen lips. She tasted him still; crisp parchment paper and a burning fire, and the possessive love he had for her. It made her ache, with slick pooled between her legs. She wanted her brother, Tom, and she wanted her lover, Lucius.



But she knew, she could only have one.



Down at her feet slept her familiar, Crookshanks, who lazily raised his head, cracking open his eyes to glance at her, before settling down again. His tail thumped against the bed, as if he wanted her, too, to sleep again. Instead, she slipped from the bed and covered herself with her lacy robe. She belted it loosely, and tugged at the hem, the fabric gracing her thigh.



“I’ll come back,” she murmured to Crooks.  



She knew who she wanted, and who she would have.

 

 

Chapter Text

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Spring Flowers Png

 

 

 

 

 

“This is wrong,” Hermione said.

 

She knew that she could be better, that she should be, as she felt his release between her thighs, and smeared across her stomach. He'd taken her after her bath when he'd come back from the court revelry. He'd been dripping in blood, stained and messy as he never allowed himself to be. She'd known the game that he was playing, as she felt her throat burn, and she'd willingly embraced him.

 

She drank from only him still, the pulse at his wrist the sweetest place to take from. “Hermione,” he’d murmured, and she’d been lost in his arms, and weak in his hold; willing to let him have her as he wished. He’d taken her until she was screaming his name, and her nails had raked across his shoulders, while he panted in her ear. Neither of them would ever be clean, their hearts as black as the other.

 

"Is it?" he purred, and she knew without looking, that he was laughing at her. The sheets pooled about their waists, as soft and silky as she remembered.

 

She shivered as he traced circles across her skin, his hand moving from the small of her back to the curve of her neck. He let his hand rest there, his fingers curling around her neck, and held her there. She knew that he could do as he liked to her, with his restraint toward Lucius solely in her hands.

 

Her hands were greedy, grasping things, that she kept beneath the water, and scrubbed with foaming soap until she couldn’t take the scalding water any longer. Her brother always chided her after, drawing his tongue across her bleeding palms, and healing them with his touch. It was the right of her Sire to heal her as he wished, and make her body as his own, though he whispered that he preferred her as she was.

 

I have no wish for another,” he’d told her, “silly girl.”

 

When she’d left, she’d willingly taken her familiar with her, knowing that her brother would have eyes into her household. He would see all of her with her lover, the one she professed to choose above him. She hadn’t chosen to leave a spy behind, wishing to have little voice in the court, or hear whispers of her brother, if he’d taken another.

 

She'd broken a champagne glass at the thought of it, calling for one of the house-elves to clean the mess, before Lucius saw. "We were born to be the other half of each other," Tom had always told her as a child. "There will never be another between us, never another like us, Hermione.”

 

He toyed with her thatch of curls with his free hand, and she nipped her lip to keep from moaning. She thought then, of how he'd said sweet nothings to her once; how he adored her glistening cunt and the honeyed curls she kept for him. "Tom," she said, her voice far breathier than she would have liked.

 

"Mhm?"

 

He knew how to touch her, how to entice her until she was as helpless as a puppet on a string and nestled back into his arms. He was safe and warm, and she wanted to hate herself for it.

 

For what they were.

 

"There's no one like us," he murmured, his lips kissing her ear. Her jaw. Her cupid's bow and she was below him, while he held himself by his forearms above her.

 

"I know this, Hermione, as you do."

 

She wanted to look away, as his lips crooked into a familiar, arrogant smile. It was one that dripped with charm, one that she’d seen him wear since he was a child and he found he could charm the house-elves to lie to their Uncle, saying they had little idea where the boy or his sister hid. Tom had held his hand over her mouth while the house-elves were beaten, their Uncle roaring that he knew the children were about. He’d never found them hidden in the closet, a place they often chose as their hiding place.  

 

She wanted to tell him that he was wrong, that there was another who knew her body, and her heart. Her soul.

 

She knew he was right.

 

"He loves me," she settled on, the words acid on her tongue.

 

Tom cradled her cheeks in his hands, rubbing his thumbs against her freckles as if he would memorize them. "He does," he cooed as if she'd told him something inconsequential, something that didn't matter. "Do you?"

 

She shifted beneath him until his knee drew between her legs. She gasped, as she felt the weight of him there, and he chuckled as her cunt dampened.

 

"Stop it, Tom," she hissed, her curls flaring as she shook her head. She was the same as a kitten batting against a panther for all that it did her, as he lazily ground his knee against her slickness. Her body craved him more than it had ever craved another, the want in her like a fire beneath her skin, one that made her burn for him. “I -“

 

Her nightgown was a pathetic veneer against his attentions, his gaze roaming her flushed cheeks down to her chest, where her nipples strained against the lacy fabric. He continued his attentions still, all while watching her reaction. She knew that he missed nothing, knowing the imprint he’d made in her heart, one that he cruelly reveled in.

 

"Please," she exhaled, and he met her gaze again. He saw through her, she knew he did, yet she clung to her fragile convictions all the same. "Lucius has done nothing-"

 

"Ah, ah," Tom tutted, and the cruel look she'd seen him use on courtiers returned. It aged his handsome face, making him resemble their mad Uncle, more than she cared to remember. "He coveted what wasn't his, pet."

 

"You allowed it," she countered, drawing her hands up to cover her chest. "You allowed him to covet me, Tom, and fuck me-"

 

Love me.

 

Unbridled rage touched him before he drew his lips to her raw gland. Lucius hasn't marked her, the one concession he'd made when he'd taken her away.

 

They'd played Lord and his Lady at his ancestral estate, and made love until the dawn came. She hadn't told him she loved him, no, but had pressed his hand against her heart and whispered to him that she felt him there.

 

He had a piece of her, always, one that wouldn't - couldn't - be cut free.

 

"I doubted you'd leave," her brother confessed, drawing his canines against her gland. It took her breath away, and she bucked her hips beneath him. Pleasure rose, warm and low in her belly, as he rolled her gland between his teeth, and teased the skin with his tongue.

 

She heard the naked truth in his voice still and flinched as she saw the boy that he had been. He had been her world, the only one that she'd known who understood her and wanted her. Craved her, even, as she'd danced before the court and taken Lucius, and her familiar into her bed.

 

Yet he hadn't claimed her in the way that mattered, the way that she had wanted him to. She had burned countless reams of parchment paper, when she'd thought written to him, beseeching her to let her come home.

 

To him.

 

She'd burned the dreams that couldn't be, and the life that would never come to pass. She'd buried her brother in her heart, and gayly laughed when she played at being the country maiden when Lucius took her on horseback to oversee the family's winery.

 

She had a future with him, and the family they would make.

 

She'd tasted blood on her lips when she'd miscarried and had cried for the one that she wanted, the one that wasn't sleeping beside her.

 

Lucius had taken care of her, cosseting, and teasing her into life again. He'd ordered the nursery they'd prepared to be burnt and had kept her from the past. He'd accepted her seeking companionship with the house-elves with only a raised eyebrow and had allowed her the pleasantries she wished. She read with abandon, and published treatises under the Malfoy name, believing that she could find a cure for the infertility that affected their kind.

 

It was a curse of their blood, she wrote, cells that turned on themselves and the new life that they made. The blood of the purest sire could counteract it if the woman regularly drank from them. Lucius had been sullen at the news, arguing that he was part of the sacred families. And he was, Hermione, admitted, before divulging that she'd studied his family tree and found that one of his forefathers had lain with a muggle-born woman. 

 

She hadn’t had to explain that his purity had been diluted, the so-called curse introduced through there. Lucius had ignored her for days, though he laid beside her at night, and held her hand in his. He’d retreated further, when they heard that Narcissa had struggled through her last term, nearly miscarrying several times. The resulting child had been a daughter they named Lyra, and they’d invited Lucius and Hermione to stand as her grandparents.

 

They’d accepted, though neither had gone to court for the baptism. Instead, Lucius had gone to a great hunt in the North, while Hermione buried herself away in the library, and continued with her findings. The curse had caught her interest, the grief she felt in her womb one that followed her. She found herself longing for children, and frequently visited the grave for their child, one that overlooked the blooming, wild gardens.

 

Still, she didn’t write to the one who could provide her a cure, instead pouring her thoughts into her research, and rewriting it countless times. Ink stained her fingers, and smudged across her cheek, while the house-elves brought her countless reams of parchment paper, and cups of Earl Grey, prepared as she liked. She was lost in her thoughts, and forgot to eat, until one of her favorite house-elves, Poppy, tugged at her skirts and offered her sugar quills that she’d personally ordered from Honey Dukes.

 

Hermione had hugged her tightly, before finishing the last sentence. Her paper was one that St. Mungo's had expressed interest in, as she'd owl'd their healers for their own opinions before she'd finished the paper.

 

And when it was published, she found hundreds of black roses in her room, and a crimson vial left on her vanity.

 

To the future, the unmistakable cursive said, to life.

 

She'd tucked the vial in a hollowed novel, one that her lover would never read, and a house-elf would never retrieve for her.

 

She wanted to forget it all while knowing it was impossible.

 

"Do you miss the life you had?" Tom mused, releasing her gland. The taste of her was sinful honey on his lips, a taste that he would never have enough of. "Was it enough to fulfill you, sister?"

 

"Was he?"

 

She'd had two years with Lucius, before half the Lords arrived at their estate, with an order for Lucius's arrest, one bearing his crest.

 

Tom.

 

She'd held the house elves to her, allowing them to clutch at her skirts, while Lord Dolohov had approached her. He'd knelt before her and graced her hand with a ring she knew well. She'd played with it as a child and sworn mock vows of loyalty and love upon it when she and her brother had promised to mate another. “I want you, Tom,” she ‘d said, before kissing his cheek. “Just you.”

 

She slipped it on her ring finger, the ring easily sliding past her knuckle.

 

It had always been too large for her, while it fit her brother as if it had been made for him.

 

"Don't hurt him," she said then, just as she said now with her brother wrapping his arms around her. "I'm the one you want to hurt."

 

"Mhm," he murmured, before kissing her lips sweetly. He could be as harsh and cruel as he was tender and sweet. "I could hate you, Hermione, if I didn't adore you."

 

Her eyes fluttered closed as he rocked his knee between her legs and drew soft moans from her. She longed to feel him inside her, drawing his cock between her folds until she couldn’t take it anymore, and he buried himself to the hilt. He made her feel more than she thought possible, more than she wanted to, yet he knew how to care for her. He made her weak, with his kisses, and his tugs at her hair. He knew what she could take, taking care to push past her fears, without tipping her over the edge.

 

He knew how to play her. He always had.

 

"I mean it, you know," he said, and she felt the warmth of his cheek as he rested it against hers. "I adore you, Hermione. I…feel more for you than I do another." his lips curved about the next words, as if in a self-mocking grimace. "I confess that I care for you, sister."

 

Her hand cupped the back of his head, her fingers combing through his hair.

 

"I won't let you go," he said lowly, both knowing his words were true. "You're a part of me, sister, as I'm apart of you. We were meant for each other, no matter your views on divination."

 

She didn't think of her once lover, who she had laughed with and played with, and loved in her own way. Lucius had been stripped of his title and his ancestral inheritance, left to languish in his former court rooms -

 

Until she'd agreed to stay with her brother, the one she would never, ever leave again.

 

Then Lucius had found himself free, his inheritance restored, the same as his title. He was ordered to stay at court, forced to see the woman who he adored at his Sire's side, the only one who was allowed to court her.

 

Covet her.

 

Sometimes, Hermione doubted if she'd made the right choice at all regarding her former lover. Sometimes, Hemione thought she should have begged Tom to free him entirely, sending him from court, and allow him to live life as he wished.

 

"Nothing would please him more than to see me writhing and dying like a skinned muggle-born," Tom had told her when she'd asked him about Lucius. "He gave up everything for you, sister, and hates me for it."

 

He'd leveled a truthful, calculating gaze upon her. "Perhaps he hates you too."

 

Words that she should have said, ones defending her former lover, and the life they’d shared faltered on her lips. She knew she’d been happy with him. She knew that.

 

Just as she knew she’d denied the one she was made for, the one before her that had been on his knees and laid his cheek against her waist when they’d met again. “They should have been ours,” Tom had whispered, as she held him, and allowed herself to cry for what they’d lost.

 

They couldn’t have the past back, no, some things could never be undone.

 

They were both different then, as she'd lost the traces of childhood, and the insistent air that she'd worn before as if anything she'd wanted would have come to her. And her brother, her sire, he was leaner and meaner than he’d been before, raking his claws deeply within her as if he refused to let her go again.

 

You can’t leave,” he’d told her. “I'll take everything from you, Hermione if you even think of it.”

 

She'd known he wasn't playing a game then, his words wrapped in a harsh truth for him too. At least, she'd reasoned, if he was playing a game, it was on a level of deception that even he didn't recognize; a game that would ruin him as much as it would ruin her. There would be no parting between them, no severance or bitter parting. There would be, there was, nothing but a tie between them that wouldn't be undone.

 

Tom ran his tongue over her soft lips and traced the seam of them.

 

"Do you love me still?" he asked her, as if he were idly curious, adopting the same attitude he did when he drank from lesser beings. He had mastered at a young age to hold him apart from others, a skill that his sweet sister had never learned. She wore her emotions on her sleeve, and he knew every nuance and flicker that crossed her face. "After everything, Hermione?"

 

She knew more than to lie to him, no matter how she might lie to herself.

 

"I do," she said as if she were uttering a sacred vow. "I do, Tom."

 

"I know," he replied, his voice tentative as if he didn't know at all. He was the lost boy then, the little, lost boy that had been as unloved as she had. Only he’d experienced years of abuse alone, before their mother had lain with another filthy muggle, and brought her into the world as his companion, his sister, his friend.

 

It was why she opened her thoughts to him and allowed him to see inside her thoughts. Her heart.

 

Her soul.

 

He drew back after he rutted inside her, the same as an animal would, without mercy. She knew more than to flinch afterward as if he had hurt her - and gods, he had, but she wouldn't let him know, not then. "You do," he murmured, gracing her throat with his attentions again.

 

He kissed her delicate skin, leaving a trail of bruises to her virgin gland. She accepted his attentions, his harsh kisses, wanting all of them and more.

 

"Please," she whispered, as he tenderly licked her gland. She ached for him, and burned for him, the same as she longed to die in his arms and live again.

 

For him.

 

"I know," he said again. Surer and honest that time. "I know, sweet sister."

 

He sank his canines into her gland, making her fall apart beneath him. They came together, free and unbound, as he made her his; again, and again.

 

“T-Tom -“

 

“Hermione,” he keened, her blood on his lips, and her heart apart of his. “Hermione, my love.”