I've ached for you

for a lifetime
I've waited

I've grown weary
but I haven't forgotten

Grace
Mercy
Deliverance

You are all I have left
in the storms
that separated us
and the fragile calm
that comes after it

- a safe haven; hope

1.

"At least try to look a little less uninterested, Hermione," Lavender hissed.

"But I am terribly uninterested," the other witch replied, smiling and desperately trying not to roll her eyes.

With a flick of her ornate fan, the blonde giggled. "Then pretend you aren't."

The pair stood in silence for a full minute before Lavender made another attempt at a scandalized whisper, "You needn't be so picky; how on earth will you ever find love dismissing every man who looks at you?"

Considering Lavender was the slag her ex-boyfriend cheated on her with, the irony was not lost on Hermione, though aloud she informed their audience, "I don't even know what I'm doing here."

The small crowd gathered around tittered in amusement. Isn't she so funny? See how modest she is? Merlin, she wanted to punch a wall.

Society, however, would look down their noses at such an act of violence, particularly of Hermione's caliber: top of her class, "Brightest Witch of Her Age", war heroine, one-third of The Golden Trio, and fast-rising Ministry official in the Department of Magical Creatures.

It wouldn't do by any stretch of the imagination to cause a scene, not when she was guaranteed that promotion, which was, coincidentally, the only reason she was attending this event in the first place, and wasting her time with the likes of Lavender Brown, of all people, lecturing her on love of all things.

"If you'll excuse me," she said, bowing out gracefully from the conversation she had mentally checked out of ages ago.

The thought of such wasted time made her huff, hand brushing absentmindedly at her hair in frustration but making contact with the mask affixed over her eyes instead.

It was charmed not to come off until their host decreed it; a mysterious man who had not even made his appearance, as far as anyone knew, despite the hour of the party. Such was the life of a wealthy benefactor, Hermione mused; be as rude as possible and have it labeled 'eccentric'.

Rich people were so strange.

"He's the single most influential man in all of Wizarding Britain, arguably the whole of Europe. He's odd though; typical," Bertina, Hermione's boss, scoffed as she paced the length of her office. Her plans of running into the illustrious benefactor had failed yet again, and another event was to go by where she wasn't in the know purely because one man had decided he didn't want her there.

The defeat had Bertina chaffing against the invisible restraints holding her back against gaining political footing; cutting the new interns to pieces for the smallest things which was why Hermione had come in, tone placating. "Is he difficult to reason with?"

"He might be or he might not. No one knows who he is, least of all me."

She raised a brow but said no more. It was her second year in the department and she'd heard enough of Bertina's lamentations not to take her caustic sarcasm to heart. But there would be no end to the complaints flooding in if Bertina's bad mood continued; HR was already threatening to cut the interns list in half to save the "fragile" ones, and the office was still understaffed.

"What if I could get you into one of his events?"

Bertina scoffed again.

"He may be the most influential man in all of Wizarding Britain but his existence is just as good as any myth. He could be anyone."

"I'm still not seeing how you'd be able to get an invitation to his event, then," her boss said flatly.

"He could be anyone, but I'm not, I'm Hermione Granger, and everyone in Wizarding Britain knows exactly who I am. I'll get us in." If she could get into the Restricted Section at age eleven and the impenetrable Gringotts Vault at seventeen, she could get into anywhere. Arguably, this would be a lot easier than either. With a cheerful exhale as she stood from her chair, Hermione re-buttoned her blazer. "Just be prepared, the bloke is probably a lot less interesting in person."

Though, his actions said otherwise.

The benefactor provided financial backing to everything that suited him, from capturing and trialing Death Eaters; the care of children whose parents were lost in the Second Wizarding War; the increased funding for the research and treatment of dark curses; the reformation of Hogwarts' education system.

No one knew who he was, but money talked in every language and serenaded in every ideology; to get invited to any of his soirees was to be allowed to affect even just a ripple in the sea that was the benefactor's influence.

All these good deeds, whether paid in penance or not, had little effect on the guest lists to his parties.

The summons said it was a Valentine's Ball but Hermione had never seen anything like it.

The portkey, which doubled as invitations, had swept her away to a darkened room that welcomed guests with a ceiling alight with stars. Chandeliers, floating in mid-air, twinkled from their place amongst the infinity of constellations.

It seemed the benefactor had decided on an abandoned, decayed, greenhouse look as ivy crawled and smothered marble columns; trees, with their bare branches like lingering fingers, stretched like a thorny crown above the room. The plants that bloomed, both magical and mundane, were fully grown and elegantly displayed as they burst brightly in various shades of burgundy, gold, and blue.

The centerpiece of this darker Eden was a pomegranate tree, whose fruits were redder than a pumping heart.

All things considered it seemed like the last place to have any sort of romantic gathering.

Hermione, however, found the room curiously enticing; it whispered danger in its darkness, yet still managed to coax an almost perverse sense of sexuality as partygoers embraced in the lingering shadows; bare skin seeming to wink at her from just beyond her vision.

The masks provided anonymity to those who were looking for it, seemingly to hint at all the scandalous things one could get up to if no one knew who you were.

Hermione shook her head and narrowly avoided Cormac McLaggen, again.

She had no idea how he got in, but they had gone on a date a few weeks after she and Ron had split and Hermione almost regretted sleeping with him.

The sex had been fine, although it wasn't anything special. Clearly, he begged to differ, going to great lengths to make sure all and sundry knew he had bedded the great Hermione Granger.

Perching herself beneath the pomegranate tree, mindful of the small twigs being weighed down by its labor, Hermione sipped her Pinotage, grateful for the mask that concealed her. She wasn't fussed about wearing it in the first place but, now, she was silently thanking it for keeping her hidden from Cormac.

It occurred to her, as she reached up to touch the adornment with her fingers, just how appropriately it matched the theme of the room. The mask spread from her forehead, over her dark eyes, down to her cheekbones. It was edged in gold trim and speckled with honeyed glitter. Peacock feathers were attached to the left side, entwining themselves around Hermione's natural curls. The right side had leaves extending out, patterned with gold and shimmering crystals that hung back around her temple in a circlet, a crown; an Eve for Eden.

Several guests thereafter approached her for conversation or, as she had found out earlier when she was standing with Lavender, to spend the night with her. Hermione simply waved them off.

"The point of a party is to mingle, you know," a stranger informed her as he sat beside her with little care to whether she wanted his company or not.

"I'm not interested in mingling."

"No?" Hermione fancied that, if she could see his eyebrows beneath his admittedly terrifying mask, they would be raised in surprise.

"No. Everyone here either wants to network or shag and, frankly, I'm not in the mood for either."

"I'd think someone like you would at least be open to one of them."

Her brows knitted and the grip on her wine glass tightened just a smidge. "Someone like me?"

"Ambitious, career driven; wouldn't you just jump at the opportunity to get to know your bosses better?" Oh.

"Usually," she replied, "but I've found that it pays not to know them too well. My moral compass is rather bothersome."

"Oh? Do tell."

Hermione considered him. Masquerade ball and charmed masks or not, she had no doubt that her identity was easy enough to decipher for anyone actually looking for her. The guests around her had immediately congregated to their typical groups after all, and she could guess – just by walking passed them – who everyone was. If she flapped her gab, what would be the downside?

Her perfect image tarnished? The promise of her promotion revoked? Perhaps they'd rethink doling her out as a form of appeasement to the displaced and largely unhappy Muggle-born community, but she highly doubted that.

"I needed a signature from one of my colleagues in order to get a law passed, he refused," she began slowly.

"And?"

"I threatened to tell his wife that she was competing with a man, not a woman for his affection. I may have also implied, correctly," she added, "that he had only married her to secure his family's fortune."

"He's likely pure-blood then," the man answered thoughtfully, "but the possibility of them marrying purely for him to have children is not uncommon."

"I had considered that," she allowed, "though my attempts to get to know him several events before led me to the conclusion that that was not the arrangement he had with his wife."

"He convinced her he loved her," her companion decided after a moment's contemplation.

"Precisely," she concurred. "He wasn't indifferent to her, though not necessarily in the way she wanted, so I threatened to her tell if he didn't sign. Words cut deeper when they're true and, having met her myself, it's a suspicion she's been denying for a long time; to be forced to face it would destroy her."

"I never took you for someone cruel."

She shrugged. "Getting the law passed was important; it was the right thing to do."

A small twig fell onto her lap; the pomegranate as small as a berry and as dark as a spot of blood on the white dress she had chosen to wear.

He chuckled lowly. "And here I thought you were sitting alone to look dull and uninteresting."

"Aren't I?"

"No, actually," he murmured, his voice deep, warm, and smooth. "I find you fascinating."

"Why is that?"

"Because here you are; the most beautiful woman in the room and you're alone."

"By choice," she conceded, swirling her glass and admiring his reflection through it.

He was taller than her and had to stretch his legs out a little as he sat; his shoulders broad and his dress robes perfectly tailored in charcoal, stretching across his chest with every movement of his hands. She noted that he tended to gesture when he spoke and that he wore a solid black ring on his left ring finger which contrasted sharply with his marble white skin, drawing attention to the largeness of his palms and the length of his fingers.

"Can I persuade you to change your mind?"

She placed her glass on the lip of the planter beside her and turned to look at him properly.

He was handsome, even with the top half of his face hidden from her. Tugging the pomegranate from the twig that held it, Hermione brought it to her lips. He had a straight nose, high cheekbones, and a strong jaw; though to say he simply had these things was an understatement, he had it in the same way that his very existence had witches stopping to stare at him. She licked a stray drop of the fruit's juice. "You are already sitting next to me, aren't you?"

"That's not necessarily all I want to do to you."

Hermione felt that incessant pull at her belly as she threw one leg over the other, conscious of the way the material of her dress slid luxuriously to the side exposing her tanned skin. To his credit, his eyes didn't leave her face. She chuckled. "I thought I told you I wasn't interested in networking, or shagging."

"You aren't here with anyone," he observed. He did well not to glance at her bare leg; his distance from her was controlled. Slowly, Hermione caught her bottom lip between her teeth.

"It doesn't mean I'm going to leave with anyone either."

It was his turn to chuckle as he stood, offering her a hand. "Who said anything about leaving?"

"Unless you're planning on a romp in the coat closet," she began, accepting, "I'd take a guess and say you're our gracious benefactor."

His lips lifted in a smirk as if she was supposed to know that from the beginning. "You are the Brightest Witch of Our Age."

Tucking her hand in his arm, a gesture Hermione acknowledged was common in pure-blood breeding, although hardly displayed by the likes of Ron Weasley and Cormac McLaggen, her partner led her towards the end of the room where they ascended the staircase quietly.

"Do you make it a habit of leaving your parties unannounced?"

"Considering I arrive at them unannounced, I'm sure no one will care. Though if you'd rather, I can get rid of them?"

As they stood over the landing, Ministry officials and esteemed members of their community spread out to them, too caught up to notice that they were being watched, Hermione noted, "I go to work with these people every day – we share elevators, we pass each other in hallways, we debate meetings, we sit across from one another at lunch or in the bullpen, and they probably remember me best for my association with Harry Potter and Ronald Weasley."

"Yet, you're darker than all the good you've done for them," he noted. "The pursuit of knowledge and power rarely ever keeps one innocent."

She looked up at him. "Are you disappointed that you aren't leading an angel to ruin by seducing me then?"

"Not at all," he said, "I have a feeling you'll still corrupt me whether you've got horns or a halo."

"Hmm, I suppose we'll find out, won't we, Malfoy?"

He smirked and ran a finger over her mask. She was unsurprised when the charm gave way as he slipped the disguise down to cover her lips and bare her eyes. His fingers nudged her chin up. "You're beautiful when you're brilliant."

He replaced the mask over her eyes and took her hand.

.

As expected, he led her to his bedroom, but instead of directing her immediately to the bed, he gestured to a pair of French doors off to the side as he informed her that they were adjacent to the library.

"I sincerely hope you don't think my performance needs an added boost of enthusiasm," Hermione quipped. She lingered at the doorway where, with widened eyes, she realized that his room overlooked bookcases that put Hogwarts' library to shame in terms of sheer length and breadth.

"I wonder if it'll work," he mused, removing his outer robe and draping it over the chair he'd chosen to sit on; his arm resting on the top of the chair with the back of fingers obscuring his mouth as he observed her.

Leaning against the door jam, she enquired, "Heard bad things about me?"

"On the contrary, I saw McLaggen chasing after you like a puppy. You've had him, what? Once?"

She rolled her eyes. "Regrettably."

Hermione had no doubt Cormac would talk and that was partly why she had agreed to go out with him; he did the work for her. She was bored of hearing the whispers, from, "Ron cheated on the poor thing" to "McLaggen shagged Miss Goody-Two-Shoes". Although it vexed her that she was a constant source of gossip, it royally pissed off Ronald.

Malfoy added, practically reading her mind, "You could have shagged me. Weasel would've gone into cardiac arrest considering how high his blood pressure would have shot."

Thinking of McLaggen boasting to whoever would listen compared to Malfoy with his sophisticated passive-aggressive tactics and methodical 'punch them in the heart' approach, Hermione shook her head. "I wanted him angry, not dead. There's no fun in that. Besides, you seemed more of a 'main event' than an 'opening act'."

"Ah," he echoed, his smirk lifting the corner of his lips as his hand fell to rest on the arm of the chair.

"I don't know why I bother to compliment you," she lamented, "if you think I need a library to get me going."

"I just wanted to see you happy, really. I haven't seen you happy in a while," he explained as she approached him, unaware that the straps of her dress had loosened. "I want you to be happy, Hermione."

"Have you been watching me?"

"Wouldn't you like to know?" He tilted his head as she straddled his lap, keeping his eyes on hers as she settled herself; smoldering heat over firm hardness.

Her fingers trailed the nape of his neck, the smoothed edges of her nails scraping distractingly against the atlas of his spine. She smiled as she watched his Adam's apple bob once before she reached behind her to undo what remained of her dress. In a whisper it fell between them, sagging only slightly where the curve of her arse prevented it from slipping completely off.

His hand cupped back of her head and brought her lips to his, practically groaning with approval at the sheer taste of her.

The slightly roughened skin of his palm brushed against her vertebrae and she shivered at the contrast, widening her legs slightly as she pulled herself closer to him on the chair; her nakedness pressing against his clothed body. His fingers trailed further up, however, mussing her dark hair to remove her mask with ease from over it, the thin material of it fluttering to the ground beside them.

Hand ghosting over his chest, Hermione fingered the buttons of his shirt before peeling at the gaps proffered. She lightly grazed his skin beneath before ripping the buttons lose, watching with amusement as he withdrew to survey the damage.

Not particularly concerned, his eyes focused on the delicate rise of her chest, held in its precarious place by a white bra with similar detailing to the mask he had removed. He fingered the hooks behind the obstacle thoughtfully as his other hand trailed over her arse, offering a generous squeeze of one cheek before slipping under the dress to finger the cavern of moist warmth beneath.

Easily, his fingers found purchase between the material of her underwear and the folds he was now aching to caress. At the touch of his index finger against her swollen lips, she gasped, jerking slightly.

"Shh," he soothed, tracing his nose against the column of her neck before finding the spot – right where her pulse thundered beneath her skin. He caressed the skin with his lips, inhaling a lingering scent of vanilla and jasmine, as his thumb pressed into a little bundle of nerves with every experimental thrust of his finger.

Too distracted by the various sensations to notice he had removed her bra, Hermione mewled as he bit hard on her nipple and replaced one finger with two.

Draco stilled for one beat, then a second, before soothing her breast with his tongue as his fingers pulsed in that achingly perfect come-hither motion. Impatient and so painfully tight inside, she rocked against him, gasping when his thumb brushed there-there-there while the tenting beneath her prodded her just-just-just-juust-

Suddenly she was lifted; his finger remained within her pulsing core as his free arm held her up. Her legs wrapped around his waist as he carried her further into the room. Hermione gasped as the bed, with its silken soft coverings, jarred her from the perfect friction against her body. She moaned as he removed the digit, pushing her legs apart in order to explore her with his mouth.

His tongue serenaded her with poetry as he lapped her up and drank her in until she was seeing stars behind her eyelids. "Draco!"

His groan vibrated between her legs. She threw her head back and gasped, hands reaching for something to hold on to as she felt the bruising pressure of his fingers on her hips, the tightening of his biceps beneath her thighs.

"Fuck," he exclaimed as if he had just discovered something new. Suddenly he was exploring it, worshipping it...pillaging it.

Her groans of protest, of wanting, of needing more-more-more, died on her tongue as everything came apart beneath her when his fingers joined his tongue in a liturgy.

La petite mort seized her briefly. The next thing she knew, Draco's lips were stroking her inner thigh, his thumbs soothing gentle circles as he moved to explore the rest of her body slowly. The weight of him on her abdomen made the heat within her liquefy all over again, his hardness pressed against her as he lathered attention on her pert breasts.

It wasn't fair, she decided as he rolled her nipples between his fingers, that she was completely bare and boneless and he was starving. He deserved her attentions.

Any attempt on her part, however, to flip him over was futile even as he paused to remove what remained of his shirt. She was his to worship.

The best she could do to honor him was lift her foot to rub against his hardened length. He raised his head and groaned in response before his eyes met hers once more.

Merlin, she was a vision. Her head was nestled amongst the stark-white pillows, dark curls loose and wild.

Draco lifted himself up to undress quickly, his mask discarded along with his robes. Hermione held her breath as she gazed at him; a dangerous model of physical perfection, paying reverence to the altar of her willing body.

The sleekness between her legs made sheathing himself easier despite his size. He filled her, every inch, wall to wall. It was perfect, whole, and – "God," she practically sobbed, "move, Draco, please!"

He growled, lifting her by the arse with one hand and gathering both her hands above her head in the other. Driving in and out of her with such ferocity, the bed rocked against the wall. Hermione gasped at the sudden shock of him emptying her and then filling her again and again in a dizzying rhythm she could only get swept away by.

His eyes were shut tight in ecstasy as he moved above, within, and against her. Hermione watched him in wonder; masculine and lethal and dripping sex from every pore – she was sure he was crafted and carved from marble – every muscle that trembled and tightened; every vein that protruded and thrummed was the culmination of some god's successful attempt to make a man so perfect that even angels would sin for a taste of him.

She wrapped her legs tightly around his waist, pushing and pulling with every tightening inch of her core, and he groaned nearing his peak.

Draco opened his mercurial eyes to peer at her then, his hooded lids slit like the moon from behind a cloud. There was no lust there for that brief moment, just pure and utter clarity; as if seeing the break in the sky for the first time in an endless storm; a safe harbor amongst the unforgiving rocks; sanctuary.

In the throes of something carnal, he gave her his devotion, and it was beautiful and strange, and that was when Hermione knew she was fucked in more ways than one.