Adult-FanFiction.org : Harry Potter

Hysteria	By : LadyofClunn Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Draco/Hermione Views: 42590 -:- Recommendations : 2 -:- Currently Reading : 4
Disclaimer: I do not own anything associated with Harry Potter; I do not earn money by writing this story.

Chapter List
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Disclaimer: I do not own anything associated with Harry Potter; I do not earn money by writing this story.

A/N: A huge thank you to SoftObsidian74 for alpha reading and feedback and to robs55 for the excellent beta!

It has been a while. A long while. I will not bore you with the reasons for that, you all know how RL can misbehave. I can only promise you that this story is not abandoned.

Denuntio

Taking a deep breath Hermione pressed down on the door handle and pushed. The heavy door swung open easily, revealing the damp English winter weather, fog clinging to the small groups of trees and creeping along hillsides.

Relieved to be free to leave and overwhelmed by the prospect of being able to go through with her half-cooked plan, Hermione squaring her shoulders, stepped outside and closed the door behind her. Immediately she fell into a slow trot as if afraid she might change her mind. Pebbles crunched under her trainers as she made her way down the curved driveway.

Merlin, she hated running so much.

She found she had to force her feet to stay in the regular rhythm that she had started with but already felt short of breath. She rounded another corner in the manor’s park and doubled over in a coughing fit.

Must go on. Can’t give up now.

Starting her slow trot again she could taste the metal of blood on her tongue, filling her mouth.

The little neatly-trimmed hedges and gravel paths passed as if in slow motion. Surely a trot could not be slower than her usual walking pace?

Under her arms, a vaguely uncomfortable warm wetness crept outward. She hated, hated, hated sweat. Especially in cold surroundings.

It made her feel ill.

Cold damp on the outside of her clothes, warm damp on the inside.

Although out in the open, claustrophobia closed in on her. She wanted to tear off her sweaty clothes and scrub herself clean under a hot shower. In a super-human effort she tried to outrun the feeling, desperation fuelling her.

After a few dozen meters her psychological strength petered out and the taste of blood flooded her mouth with new intensity.

The tall oak tree in the distance tilted at an alarming angle and she let herself fall onto one of the marble benches on the path.

Her legs were shaking, the muscles tight and unresponsive. She braced her hands on her knees, as much to steady herself as to evade having to look at her hands shaking, too.

She let out a slow, shuddery breath.

Failure.

Such a failure, as always.

Primary school had been hell. Everyone around her had expected her to live up to her parents’ achievements. Nobody would have said it in that way of course, but the assumption was always there. Early on she had noticed that the question ‘What would you like to be when you grow up’ was different for her. For her, it was always ‘Where would you like to study.’

Her grandfather had been proud to rise from a working class background to a degree in dentistry and then to his own dentistry practice. His son had followed his footsteps and even the first Christmas present she could remember was a toy dentistry set from her grandfather Granger.

Her parents had both studied at Oxford and were hoping the same for her. She had been hoping to achieve this, too, until all hopes of escaping the awkwardness of less studious, less socially awkward, less awkward children in general, had been squashed by a wax-sealed letter.

No matter how studious, she would have never been able to compensate enough for the lack of Muggle schooling to get into any prestigious university, let alone Oxford.

Failure.

In her short and rare fits of teenage rebellion during summer months away from Hogwarts she had found it amusing to shock people by saying she would apply to St. Andrews, or if the asker was a former classmate of her parents; Cambridge. Oh, the horror.

Hogwarts had been the light at the end of the tunnel only to reveal more children who were different from her, children who had grown up around magic and whose parents understood and nurtured their children’s abilities. She had been forced to take pills that were supposed to keep her in check after having set her dolls on fire repeatedly.

Failure.

She stood to make her way back to the manor house. Feeling dispirited, the pauses between her slow trots became longer and longer until she simply walked back to the imposing main doors. Hermione felt like dragging her feet through the gravel, soiling her trainers with dust and leaving scars on the surface of the perfectly groomed paths.

Returning to the warm vestibule, Hermione shivered in discomfort. Her skin felt cold under the damp clothing and the warm air seemed to constrict her breathing.

She needed to get away, to get to her room, out of these disgusting clothes and under the shower and then... then nothing. She still had nowhere to go. Realisation struck her like lightning.

Malfoy would not put up with her forever. The hearing would end this situation one way or another and then she really would have to decide what to do with her life.

Suddenly angry beyond comprehension she started clawing at her damp T-shirt, not even attempting to pull it over her head. Only the sound of rending it would do.

When the fabric was too soft and stretchy under her ripping fingers, she let out a frustrated sound of fury. With a sweeping movement she attacked the first thing she could reach.

Rage loud in her head, Hermione stared down at the shards of a large gaudily decorated porcelain vase, rage loud in her head. Some of the sharp pieces were as long as her hand and would fit easily into her palm. They would slash into the gleaming wall panelling and leave wide, jagged wounds in the wood. Maybe the edges would slice into her flesh and drip red over the perfectly designed interior of the vestibule. Didn´t marble absorb blood never to release it again?

Hermione panted over the small area of destruction she had caused, the urge to build on it and mar the place permanently, strong.

“What happened? Are you all right?”

Yes!

An angry scream in her head and possibly on her lips, she spun around and struck. The root of her hand connected with his chin, making his head snap back.

Her fists rained onto his shoulders, putting her full strength and weight behind her blows.

“You bastard!”

She opened her hand and he made a surprised and pained sound as she grabbed a fistful of his hair. Hermione let go and slashed her contorted fingers through the air.

Draco caught her hand before she could claw into his eyes and skin. He quickly got hold of the other one and held both her wrists in one hand, pulling her close, trapping her struggling arms between their bodies.

Hermione screamed into his face and tried to kick his shins but he somehow both avoided her and restrained her even more tightly. Unable to move, Hermione suddenly felt tired.

She let her head fall against his chest and wailed.

“Why? Why did you have to treat me for hysteria? Why did you hand me over to a sadist? Why did you not check up on me?”

She sobbed violently. Her throat hurt.

“Why did I not just go to my Muggle GP?”

She heard herself make an embarrassing sound between sob and agonised scream.

The material under her cheek felt wet and cold to the touch. She closed her eyes and just leaned into him, drawing hiccoughing breaths.

With the twisting feel of side-along Apparition, she found herself in the room she had unofficially all but moved into.

Still in her sweaty clothes, Draco urged her to lie down. She no longer felt like everything was suffocating her but now everything felt cold. Draco drew the thick duvet over her shivering shoulders.

Her lids closed like lead over her eyes. She wanted to sleep and never wake up.

“Hermione?”

A hand slid under her head and helped her lift it slightly. Opening her eyes took effort. Draco was holding a phial containing a milky substance in his hand, a bloody gash standing out against the white skin of his pale cheek. She must have got closer than she had realised.

“Sorry,” she slurred.

“Don´t worry about it.” He held the phial to her lips. “A mild calming draught.”

She swallowed thankfully and slid back onto her pillow.

“I underestimated.”

Hermione did not open her eyes but concentrated on his soft voice and his hand stroking her damp hair.

“I underestimated the impact your background would have on your treatment. I underestimated my own attraction to you. I underestimated de Belleme and his ruthlessness. I just about miscalculated every single aspect of the situation. I am a lousy Healer.”

His voice grew ever fainter as he told her time and again that they would make it through this, whatever it would take.

***

“I think I might have a solution to your exercise dilemma.”

The sand-coloured walls were decorated in bold colours; reds, blues and greens, only a little faded with age. Bath scenes seemed to wrap around the walls of the chamber.

Men in long robes or loin cloths sat on marble seats, discussing amongst themselves or being massaged on padded tables.

Women, haphazardly dressed in loose dresses and togas were standing near tables brimming with fresh fruit and wine, lounging on low couches or sitting on benches being coiffed by house elves.

The flickering candlelight made it seem as if the images were in constant motion, following Hermione as she slowly surveyed the room.

Had that woman just put down her hand mirror?

"Where are we?”

"We are in the oldest part of the manor." Draco lit a few more candles with his wand, making the figures on the wall dance.

"Aquilus Malefidus built it when he first came to Britain under Frontinus. His great grandson put it under Fidelius when he realised that Roman rule would end sooner rather than later and only re-emerged when another branch of the family came back as Malfoi in 1066." He picked up a folded piece of fabric from a curved folding chair. "We always had a knack for choosing the right side of politics to be on. My father is the famous exception from the rule." He held up the fabric with both hands and let it unfold, revealing a modest, blue one-piece bathing suit. "Potter assures me this is appropriate. If he is pulling my leg, I can have the elves bring something that covers your arms and legs."

Startled, Hermione burst out laughing.

"I... Appropriate for what exactly?" Her eyes grew round. "You have a bloody Roman bath house under the manor, haven't you?"

"It lacks somewhat the more modern amenities that the upstairs baths possess but it makes up for it in size. If you'd rather not..."

"If I'd rather not? Are you joking?" She snatched the bathing suit out of his hands. "Where can I change and can I take pictures? Is it as beautiful as the ante room?"

Draco pointed at a doorway, a red linen curtain concealing what lay behind.

Hermione drew back the cloth to peek inside a comfortable dressing area, decorated in blocks and frames of rich colours that matched the frescos in the ante room. Stone benches waited to receive her clothes.

She turned to Draco, an excited smile on her face.

"I'll be just a minute."

The painted woman with the hand mirror covered her mouth in delighted amusement.

***

Clutching a towel to her chest, Hermione stood in awe at the side of the large pool. Mosaics covered the inside of the pool and the length and breadth of the walls up to the high, vaulted ceiling.

"I thought we'd forego the whole tepidarium and calidarium affair and skip straight to swimming. I had the water heated."

Draco was fussing with his towel, clearly unsure where to look. The man who had sat between her open thighs and brought her to climax with his hands and wand was reduced to skittish embarrassment by a Muggle bathing suit.

He himself was wearing an old fashioned number that resembled something between a vest and a onesie, covering his legs down to his knees.

Leaving their towels on the low sofas, they slowly made their way down the wide steps into the water.

Floating.

Feeling the water's resistance against her muscles when she pushed her body through it, covering length after length.

After the first few minutes, Draco had realised that she was not inclined to leisurely swim and chat but that she wanted to feel the exertion of the exercise.

He stayed at the side of the pool, watching her with a slight smile while drinking from a goblet that had appeared at his elbow on the tiled floor.

Hermione lost herself in the repetitive movements, her mind quiet and clear. She felt grounded and safe; strong, as if she could go on swimming forever.

Twenty minutes later, Hermione flipped over on her back, floating and slowing her breathing.

"I thought you might like this better than running in the park."

She brought her feet under her body and stood, her eyes sparkling with life.

"You have no idea how good I feel! This is a marvellous place, Draco! May I come back? Soon?"

He smiled, warming his features and eyes.

"You can come back here whenever and as often as you like, Hermione."

She smiled back at him and thought that she would really like to kiss the drops of wine from his lips.

Slowly and a bit awkwardly she walked through the water to the side of the pool.

She plucked a grape from the plate that a helpful elf had placed there and played with the fruit to gain a bit of time before popping it into her mouth.

“Draco,...”

The crack of a house elf appearing and almost instantly disappearing stopped her from completing her sentence or gathering the courage to taste the wine on his lips.

A scroll of parchment lay on a shiny brass plate, the mark of the Ministry of Magic prominent on the heavy wax seal.

A cold feeling of dread settled on Hermione's chest.

Draco reached for the missive and broke the seal.

His face was devoid of emotion while reading through it.

Rolling the vellum up carefully, he placed it back on the plate and breathed deeply.

“We are summoned to the Wizengamot. Tomorrow. Your auxiliary night care wizard is staking a claim, stating that he filed his petition minutes before you transferred into my care and that he therefore should be given preference.”
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Hysteria