Song Suggestion: Dennis Lloyd— "Snow White"

There are three worries a few of you have expressed:

Flint:

He will not be a love interest. And he's not random. He's very important to the story. Some of you have already partially guessed.

Too many villains:

One is a villain. The rest are grey characters. That is all I'm going to say without giving up the plot.

HEA:

I have two endings written. One is HEA. One is semi-HEA. I haven't decided which one fits better yet.

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Lock and Key

Draco

"Why the fuck was Marcus Flint here?"

Hermione's eyes widened.

"Who?"

"Flint," he spat with vitriol he hadn't displayed for a long time. "That gaudy dragon tattoo gave him away. I'm going to ask you again, and I demand an answer, why was that snaggle-toothed wizard dressed as a Death Eater and fighting Rosewood?"

"I—I'm not sure." She looked shaken. "But I intend to find out."

Hermione turned without any extra explanation, still dripping wet with water and remnants of slime, and began to walk up the trail, this time towards the castle instead of the whomping willow. He followed behind her, anger growing with each step she refused to answer, because she hid something from him. Something secret and important. Her parents he understood… but Marcus Flint?

He rifled through his memories, snagging on the time in Romania. Flint had held Granger during Nott's ceremony. He had made note of it at the time because of the manner of her escape.

Flint let Granger go.

It didn't make any sense, but there was no other conclusion. The only question left was why. Flint was the worst of the purebloods growing up, even for his taste. He joined the death eaters straight away after Hogwarts, joining his monstrous father in killing muggles without hesitation. The Dark Lord even commended Flint on his vicious cruelty, saying the younger generation could learn lessons from him.

After the Final Battle, Flint escaped unscathed, falling into the strange crack of wizards that did terrible things but didn't have enough evidence or weren't high enough in the ranks for a trial, much like Umbridge. Since then, Draco lost track of him and didn't care to seek him out. Rumor has it he shut himself up in his old, rotting mansion like a weird hermit.

What did someone like Flint want with Granger? Were they seeing each other behind his back?

Flint said Hermione. Not Granger. Not Mudblood. Hermione. In a familiar, stomach-churning way.

Something cold went through him.

Granger wouldn't answer him. Not with the single-minded determination she displayed as she walked back to the castle. In this mood, she filtered out all the world, trapped in her brain, solving some puzzle he wasn't privy to.

Rage simmered inside him as they walked through the hallways. No one was in the Gryffindor common room to wonder why Draco Malfoy stalked behind Hermione Granger like a shadow up towards the dorm.

When they entered her dorm, she walked over to her desk. He shut the door and leaned against it, tucking his hands into his pockets, studying her.

He'd been in her room since that fatal kiss. Not many times, but enough to recognize the details. Hermione was a creature of comfort. The decorations were sparse but meaningful: a plush chair next to the leaded window, a small desk, a shelf of books, flickering candles, fluffy blankets, photographs of friends, and a few strange muggle items.

Hermione rifled around in her desk and then paused.

"What are you thinking?" He asked.

"If I can trust you."

The words stabbed, even if he wasn't sure if he deserved her trust or not. He pressed his lips into a thin line and then sent a cleaning and drying spell toward her, erasing the signs of previous trauma.

She didn't react to the spells, just looked at him a long time before nodding, answering her own question.

Her hands went into the desk drawer and came out with a thick book. He recognized it immediately as a grimoire—an ancient one. Maybe even older than the Malfoy one locked in his father's study, or the Black one tucked away in a Gringott's vault.

He walked closer to view the cover. A golden dragon slithered along the edges. He placed a finger to the dark leather, crinkled from years of hard use, and the dragon attempted to bite his finger.

"Where did you get this?" He whispered in reverence.

He'd rarely seen a real one in person. His father taught him the spells from an early age—their strength and their consequences. But Draco never dared touch the real thing. They were dangerous to mess with. A wizard without sufficient power in their veins could succumb to the blood magic. Because of this, and their rarity, pureblood families kept them under lock and key.

"It was slipped into my book bag at the beginning of term…likely at Kings cross station."

Draco's eyebrows shot skyward.

"And this is where you encountered the Anima Vinculum spell?"

At least, that was one mystery solved.

She gave a sharp nod of her head.

"Foolish, witch." He stepped away from the book. "The consequences of casting wrong could have been dire. With your blood status, you never read passed the first sentence without it scrambling the text. You—"

"I know," she said. "It was irresponsible. Just… confirm it for me. I need to know. You've been tutored on all the families since birth. Is this the Flint grimoire?"

Draco shook his head, eyes back on the golden dragon. He understood now why Granger showed it to him. His knowledge of pureblood families was vast.

"That's the same dragon tattoo on his arm, but that's not the Flint's." His eyes narrowed. "It's not any of the sacred twenty-eights either."

"So it's foreign?"

"Most likely," he hesitated. "Though… I know most Pureblood families in the world, and I've never seen one like that."

"So what does that mean?"

The dragon on the cover stared back at him, as if sentient, as if measuring if he was worthy. The book looked ancient, at least several thousand years old. Older than Hogwarts. Older than England itself. The markings around the edges were old druid runes, dating maybe as far back as the Roman era.

Maybe older still.

Draco wasn't sure if he'd seen anything like it before. Most of the great wizarding texts had been destroyed by Solomon the Barbarian in the sixth century. Very few escaped the inferno.

"It means it's most likely from an extinct family. There are several bloodlines that have been eclipsed across the ages."

Draco walked over to it. He opened the top drawer and placed the grimoire inside it. The Dragon gave a silent roar just as he shut it. After, Draco cast a stronger ward than the one Granger used. He bit his lip hard enough to draw blood and spat on the drawer, using blood magic. It glowed blue before dissipating.

"Don't show that to anyone else." He pointed at the desk. "Is this what Rosewood's after? Is this why he tracked you down?"

He had been in survival mode, so he didn't notice the oddity of it until now. Why was Rosewood attempting to capture Granger? Was it to lure and bribe him? Or was it something more sinister? The book itself was enough motivation. One this old—linked to an extinct pureblood family—would be beyond priceless. The only other one he knew of belonged to the French ministry.

"I'm not sure how he'd know I even had it. No…" Her eyebrows crinkled together. "No, I think… well, I think he just wanted me."

"That doesn't make any sense."

He had a sixth sense that he held all the keys. But none of them fit any of the locks. It swirled in his head, until his heart pounded, and he felt like blasting something.

Each time it came back to the same thing.

Save Hermione.

Hermione.

As if Flint cared and knew her.

He walked across the room and grabbed Granger by the shoulders. Her eyes widened at his sudden movement. He brought her close, nose to nose, so he could see the minute reactions. So he could see if she lied to him.

"Are you fucking Marcus Flint?"

It might be an unfair. She gave a little gasp, sounding outraged. But he still had to know. His bones felt heavy waiting for her answer.

Her shoulders gave a shrug, causing him to lose his grip, and then her hand flew in the air and smacked across his mouth, hitting him as hard as third year. His jaw throbbed, and he resisted the desire to cradle it.

"How dare you ask me that," Hermione growled back, eyes leveling at him like a dragon, one second from erupting into fire. "How dare you! After everything, you have the audacity to question whether I've been with someone else?"

He finally rubbed at his jaw, letting the silence after linger. Then he lunged, pushing her into the wall and slamming their lips together. Showing her exactly how much he loathed and wanted her for everything she put him through. The day's events shifted something inside him. He couldn't put a name to it, but he understood nothing would be the same again.

She hit at his shoulders making him stumble back. They stood there trembling and panting, staring at each other. The link between them zinged with energy, lust and anger and pain. How could he explain how it felt to stumble into the clearing?

"I thought you were dead," Draco voice caught in his throat. "I thought…" He couldn't finish.

Hermione made a little noise in her throat, like a sigh, and then she lunged at him.

Their movements were frantic, stripping their clothes off with a fury, pushing away any boundary, uncaring of nakedness. He'd memorized her body long ago, every freckle and scar, traced the story they made across her skin. They didn't even bother lying back down, the sudden need for closeness so intense. When his cock found its home deep inside Granger, she made the same little noise in the back of her throat that made everything inside him fracture. Her nails made marks on his back, as his hands threaded through her hair, tugging backward so her throat was exposed to his lips, dragging his teeth gently across the tiny ridges, letting his lips rest on the soft spot under her ear that made her clench around him.

It wasn't enough. He needed more. Much more than heat or pleasure could give.

"Say you're mine," he said.

He hadn't asked her this since the first time they'd had sex, months ago. At the time, he wanted to own a part of her. Today he needed to hear it, a need as strong and real as thirst and hunger. He wanted to bury himself inside her, carve their souls together.

He didn't know how to ask what he wanted. The words weren't in his vocabulary.

He lifted away from the wall, and her legs tightened on his hips as he walked over to the bed and laid her down on the crimson coverlet. Her hair fanned out in a wild halo, and her breasts were in the perfect position to place in his mouth. His pace slowed, letting his thumbs brush over her hipbones with each thrust. He felt every inch of her, scorching across his skin.

"Say you're mine." It sounded like a plea, almost desperation. He hated the way it sliced a knife across his chest to expose his insides.

His hand went up and clasped on her throat. She hummed in pleasure and turned her head down just enough to give a gentle kiss on the skin of his wrist.

"I'm yours," she whispered in a raw voice, as if she just used it to scream.

It was supposed to be abhorrent, this relationship with Granger. It was against nature, against the natural order of things.

But with two words, his soul burst. He'd never fucked her like this, in a quiet agony, the only relief the strokes of heat and warmth and Granger's quiet moans until they shattered around each other.

In the aftermath, they lay breathless. He lazily tasted the skin of her throat and breasts as she traced patterns into the heated skin of his shoulders.

Finally, he whispered into hair.

"Promise you won't leave me."

Her arms wrapped around his upper body as if to pull him back into her.

But she paused, understanding what he asked. Graduation was upon them. Despite Rosewood, despite the other mysteries surrounding them, they also had real life to contend with.

The storm was coming.

Did she want to stand in the rain for him?

"I won't leave you," she said.

"Don't lie to me," he warned. "Don't you dare fucking lie to me."

"I'm not lying."

He did not want to look at her, to see if she looked away or flinched. He wanted to believe her.

"You're going to need to be brave. It will not be easy. There might be sacrifice along the way."

He hoped she understood what he asked her. A pureblood would, but he wondered if she understood the layers to his statement. Her chest went up and down, up and down. He watched her breath, watched it hitch with his words.

"Of course I'm brave, I'm a Gryffindor."

"That's what I'm afraid of. Gryffindors see everything in black and white. They don't know how to bend."

She gave a little snort of laughter.

"I think I've proven multiple times I can bend quite well."

He smirked against the skin of her throat, liking the sound her laughter made in her chest, feeling completely relaxed and somehow whole for the first time in a long time.

"I'm serious, Granger."

He raised himself just enough, so that his weight was caught by his elbows. She wore a soft smile, an expression he wasn't sure if he'd ever seen before. He wished to capture it in a painting. It was more intimate than a kiss, almost causing him to look away from the sincerity.

"You idiot." She cupped his cheek with her palm. "Don't you see I've fallen for you?"

She said it in such a matter-of-fact-Gryffindor-feeling way, unafraid of the consequences. As casually as if he was Ronald Weasley. It was completely idiotic thing to do. Didn't she have any self-preservation?

But shivers danced up his spine. He gave a small laugh and leaned down and kissed her, not knowing what to do with this sudden spike of happiness inside him. It filled every crevice of his soul, wanting to surge through the walls he set up.

Hermione playfully grabbed his hair and they once again were lost in each other.

Much later, as he watched her sleep, curled into her crimson covers, the happiness turned to a sharp dread, knowing they couldn't stay in their little bubble much longer.