A Clandestine Reality: 06. Turbulent Explanations

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He was silent, a blank, unseeing look on his face as he slowly lowered himself into a chair. It would have been better had he yelled, screamed at her about infidelity and betrayal. She could deal with his screams and hateful words, but this quiet, almost non-existent reaction – it broke her heart. Her voice had been clear despite the tears that marred her face. There was no way he hadn't heard what she'd said. Molly often joked that he had selective hearing and chose to hear only what he wanted. He'd heard her; she had no doubt about that. He was just in shock.
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The look on his face, it was like he'd become devoid of any and all emotion. She wanted him to say something, to at least react. The silence was killing her. She thought that maybe once she'd said the words she would feel relieved, as though a weight had been lifted off her shoulders. That was not the case. Hermione felt a little bit of relief at knowing that she didn't have to lie anymore, but that relief was drowned out by the overwhelming guilt she felt for hurting him the way she had. He'd always been there for her, a constant friend and pillar of strength for most of her life. But she repaid him with a broken heart and shattering lie. What type of person did that?
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Taking a deep breath, Hermione knelt down in front of him. "Ron, you need to say something," her hands were shaking, the bitter brown liquid in her coffee mug swaying precariously. "Please say something," things weren't turning out the way she expected them to and she felt helpless for it.
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"You're wrong," he looked up, eyes weary with doubt. "You are wrong. Rosie is my daughter," his voice shook with emotion, the conviction of his words causing her to wince painfully.
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"She is my daughter," he cut in, a pained expression on his face. "I was there when she said her first word, when she took her first steps. Her favourite colour is blue and she loves sneaking into our closet, trying on your clothes no matter how many times we tell her not to. She loves to paint and her favourite bedtime story is Lucy Ladybug. She hates eating her vegetables and always tries to hide them so we think she's eaten them. Her favourite TV show is the one with that bloody giant purple dinosaur, and she loves singing along with the songs at the top of her voice. Rose hates her hair being brushed and always tries to hide under her bed whenever she has to wear something she doesn't want to. Her favourite outfit is that fairy costume from last year my mother made her, and she tries to con us into letting her wear it whenever she can. When she smiles you can tell exactly what she's thinking, whether it be mischievous, playful or loving. Sometimes she laughs at something you've said simply because she doesn't understand and thinks it was meant to be funny. She chews on her bottom lip just like you do when she's concentrating on something, or worried about our reactions when she's done something wrong…" his voice trailed off, choked and hoarse.
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He had tears in his eyes and she knew that he was trying desperately to keep them at bay. Her own tears were cascading down her face relentlessly, make-up smearing as she wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. He loved Rose so ardently that he wouldn't accept the truth for what it was. She felt her heart break a little more, the desperate, pleading look in his blue eyes making her gasp, another sob wracking her body.
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"I'm sorry," she cried, the cup in her hands shattering as it fell to the ground, coffee staining the wooden floorboards.
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"I never meant for it to happen," she continued, her chest rising and falling rapidly with each harsh breath.
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"I…" he stood up abruptly, the chair falling back from the sudden movement and crashing to the floor.
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His shoulders were shaking, the effort to keep his anger in check causing him to grimace. She wanted to reach out to him, but he brushed passed her, silently making his way into their study. Ron closed the door before she could say anything, the action causing her knees to buckle. She was lucky the table was there, its sturdy support the only thing keeping her from collapsing. A crash came from the room, a strangled sob following moments later. Quietly lowering herself into a chair, her mind wandered back to that night, its memory far from easing her tears.
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Her heart was beating erratically, the quicksilver of his eyes darkening as she struggled to find her voice. He'd saved her. Despite their turbulent history, despite the war and all that stood between them, he had saved her. She struggled to find the right words, each thank you paling in comparison to the last. Words didn't seem to be enough, not when her life had been at stake. He had hated her and her kind for the better part of his life, yet for some unknown reason he chose to save her when he could have easily walked away. She wanted to ask him why? But a part of her already seemed to understand. They may have been on opposite sides of the war, enemies for as long as she could remember. But he had been forced into this life as had so many others. He hadn't had the chance to say no.
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The Order had done their research, investigating potential Death Eaters and their families. She knew from the files that he hadn't wanted to be a part of this war, but the rest of the Order seemed to ignore that little bit of information. He was Lucius Malfoy's son. That alone was a strike against his name.
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He looked older now, more worn. His eyes seemed to be hollow, their normally disdainful depths filled with only guilt and remorse. He was just like her. They were too young to be fighting in a war – a pointless one at that. She felt pity for him, pity for the cold life he'd been forced to live. But she knew to pity him would only provoke his anger. Hermione didn't know what to say to the boy – the man, who'd saved her life despite the consequences that would surely follow. He could be killed for just standing here.
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She didn't know why she did it – to say thank you, maybe. Her mind screamed at her to stop, to run away. She couldn't. Leaning forward, Hermione gently pressed her lips against his, surprised at how soft they seemed in comparison to his hardened exterior. It was a simple, chaste kiss. This was the only way she could think to say thank you without words. A simple gesture, meant to show him that she was grateful for the risk he had taken. It was simple, but effective.
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His eyes widened as she looked at him, biting her lower lip to keep from blurting out an apology. She had meant to kiss him, to say thank you without actually saying the words and she would not say sorry for that. A part of her wanted to kiss him again, to feel those surprisingly soft lips moving against her own. She wanted to kiss him, to feel something more than pain. She wanted that rush, that feeling of being alive. The guilt at wanting something she knew was taboo coursed through her veins. Ron had been nothing but faithful and loving toward her, yet she wanted another man's touch. She was betraying him by just thinking about it.
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His lips crashed down upon hers in one overpowering beat, the velvet warmth of his tongue taking advantage of her surprised gasp. Hermione knew she ought to struggle, to fight his invading warmth. But for some reason she couldn't bring herself to push him away, her arms winding around his neck instead, drawing him closer. She didn't know why she was kissing him back. She wasn't in her right mind. Her hands delved into his hair, nails digging in painfully against his scalp. What they were doing was wrong, but for the life of her, she couldn't bring herself to push him away. Draco groaned against her mouth, spinning them around so she was trapped between him and the cave wall. He was so desperate, so despondent, the needy emotion emanating from him in waves.
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Hermione pulled back, her chest rising and falling rapidly as she tried to regain her breath. His lips ghosted over her neck, soft and gentle in comparison to the harshness of his teeth. If she was thinking rationally about any of this, she would have pushed him away long ago. She wasn't thinking. Her mind was too far gone for any rational thought to cross its path. His lips were a weapon all on their own. The overwhelming need for contact grew stronger as she arched her back in response to his ministrations. Her lungs hurt with the short pants of breath she was taking, but Hermione didn't care, not when his tongue was doing such wicked things against the column of her neck.
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He abruptly pulled back, eyes darkened with lust. She wanted something other than pain and fear. She neededit and so did he. His look spoke volumes; there was no turning back. There was a scalding touch of inevitably, the burning tension coiling at the apex of her thighs. She didn't want to turn back any more than he did.
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He was kissing her again, robbing her of breath and whatever sanity she had left. His hands reached up to cup her face in a firm grasp, palms burning hot against her cheeks. Her heart was pounding erratically, blood boiling from the sensations his hand was creating as it slipped underneath her top. His tongue stroked hers, fingers pinching and kneading her breasts through the material of her thinly laced bra. She couldn't control the moan that escaped her lips, back arching at his touch.
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There was a voice at the back of her mind, screaming for her to stop. She couldn't have stopped even if she wanted to, the slow decent of his hand on her stomach causing another moan to escape her swollen lips. He was whispering something, words she couldn't make out but understood nonetheless. The buttons on her jeans were undoing themselves, the zipper being pulled down by an invisible hand. Before she knew it her jeans were thrown carelessly to the side, her knickers following shortly after. His teeth, tongue and lips spared her no mercy as he kissed a trail down the column of her neck.
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She felt her legs being nudged apart by a strong thigh, his hands dropping to her waist as he lifted her up from the ground in one swift motion. Her legs wrapped around his waist, instinct taking over as she braced her hands on his shoulders. Hermione knew it was wrong. She was betraying Ron, her family and friends by just being here and enjoying his touch. It was wrong but it felt right and that was all that mattered. In a couple of hours she could be dead. She wanted to feel alive, even if it was with him.
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She threw her head back, arching as he slowly filled her with ease. Her nails dug into his shoulder, scratching at the black material. Hermione could barely think, her mind becoming foggier with each passing second. How could something so wrong feel so right? They could be found at any moment, dead within seconds. She didn't care. Let them find her, let them drain the life from her eyes. Nothing else mattered at that moment. Pleasure was her world.
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