Why would he need one? Stroud had described him as perfectly virile. Exceptional.
Rape really wasn't his thing.
"Do—? Do I—? Should I be in the centre or on the edge of the bed?" Hermione forced herself to ask.
He stared at her.
"Centre," he finally said in a clipped voice. "Given that I'm ordered to be less detached."
Hermione turned toward her bed.
Her bed.
Where she slept every night.
The only place with any sense of solace or safety that she had left.
Her bed.
Where she was about to — to be? Was it rape if she'd rather it be him than his father?
She bit her lip and swallowed hard as she walked over to it and tried not to start crying.
She sat on the edge and then slid herself toward the approximate centre of it before forcing herself to lay back. Malfoy approached a moment later.
He'd removed the outer parts of his robes, just wearing a shirt and trousers.
She tensed as soon as he got close, trying not to grind her teeth as she felt her jaw lock. She fought not to hyperventilate as he got close to her, and she watched him with widening, terrified eyes.
Her appearance seemed to set him off.
"Just shut your eyes," he hissed. "I'm not going to hurt you."
She forced herself to close her eyes, and tried to focus on regulating her breathing as she felt the bed shift. She could smell him; the biting scent of the forest floor suddenly struck her as she tried not to hyperventilate.
There was a pause, and then she felt him slide her robes aside and move in between her legs.
Between her legs. Like Montague.
The sharp, cold little rocks.
She sobbed through her teeth and flinched. Her body was so tense she was shaking. She could feel her nails steadily cutting into the flesh of her palms as she fisted them tighter and tighter.
"I'm not going to hurt you." Malfoy breathed the words near her left ear.
She gave a tiny nod of acknowledgment. Better than Lucius. God — she couldn't even think about it. She jerked and fought back another sob. Trying to relax marginally.
"Just — breathe," he said.
She heard him mutter a lubrication charm the moment before he slid into her.
She tried to focus on breathing. To force herself to dwell on the feeling of her rib cage expanding and contracting. Or her nails in her palms.
She could feel Malfoy's breath on her face. She smelled cedarwood oil in his clothing. The weight of his body pressed down against her. The length of him inside her.
She didn't want to feel any of it. She couldn't not feel it. He was everywhere. Surrounding her. The sensation of him in her and his weight on her was inescapably real. She couldn't detach the way she'd learned to do on the table.
She wanted to beg him to stop.
She just wanted it to stop.
She didn't mean to, but she became aware that there were tears sliding down from the corners of her eyes as she struggled not to sob under him.
Finally he seized and came with a hiss.
The instant he did he ripped himself away from her and the bed.
Hermione opened her eyes and tried to steady her breathing. As she lay on the bed, she became aware of the sound of retching emerging from the bathroom.
As she laid there, she heard the toilet flush, and then the sound of water running from the faucet for several minutes.
She tried to compose herself, and not think about the fact she couldn't move. Not think about the physical experience of what had just happened.
He had been as considerate as he possibly could have been.
It was bizarre. He was a cold, indifferent, murderous person who could casually disembowel people, but rape crossed a line.
Did he always throw up afterward? Or was having to look at her making it worse?
Maybe something had happened to someone he knew. Someone he had cared about. Maybe it was related to his abilities with the killing curse.
He re-emerged from the bathroom. His tense expression seemed faded as though he couldn't quite maintain it. He was pale and exhausted, and more traumatised looking than she had ever seen him.
He'd never stayed after the fact before. He always left before she even saw him. Maybe he always looked that way afterwards.
He seemed — concerned about her. Not that he actually asked, but he was studying her carefully from across the room.
"I'm sorry," she found herself saying. She blinked.
Why was she apologising to Malfoy? It was as if the words had slipped out of their own volition. He stared at her with surprise. She tried to clarify.
"For crying. You were—" She had no idea how to describe him. Not the worst rapist?
"It all — just — It reminded me of Montague," she finally said, glancing away.
"Hopefully it will be easier tomorrow," he said in a hard voice. Then he summoned his robes, and stalked from the room without another word.
Hermione lay there, watching the hands on the clock slowly journey across its face. When ten minutes had elapsed she still didn't move. Maybe if she waited longer a pregnancy would take, and then she wouldn't have to lie there and endure being—