Adult-FanFiction.org : Harry Potter

Squirm	By : Alcoholic_Rootbeer Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Draco/Hermione Views: 28992 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 3
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, and will not make a profit from this story.

Chapter List
- 15
- 16
- 17
*Tries to contain excitement* *Bursts*
Squirm has made it to the finals of the Dramione Awards for "Best WIP"! (Work in Progress)
Will you, please, consider voting for me one more time? It would be a dream come true to go all the way and take home the prize! I'm up against some wonderful contenders, so the ball is in your hands! Thank you to everyone who has voted so far! Vote here (and just take out the *'s)
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Thank you again.
This chapter gave me the shivers while writing it. I hope it does something similar to you. -A reviewer asked about the box associated with the myth. Beat me to the punch, my friend! ;D
My clothes are soaked to the skin as I am pulled aimlessly into Hermione's abode, dripping rainwater on the immaculately clean floors. I suppose I shouldn't say aimlessly -I might feel that way, but the bushy-haired woman in front of me never ceases to have things planned five steps ahead. She guides me over to a stool by her kitchen counter and sits me down in it. As soon as I'm rooted, I feel the twitching in my fingers die away, leaving only the shivers of being cold behind.
Taking pity on me, Hermione reaches down to the bottom of my vest, unlooping each button with slow precision. I let her. There is no point in refusing her care -and besides, her fingers are warm to the touch as they find the top button of my white shirt and begin to thread them undone as well. Once she's finished, she walks around to my back and peels the shirt from my shoulders and arms, leaving me bare chested and just as vulnerable with my emotions.
"What did you mean 'the real' me?" I ask, voice husky and parched for water. When was the last time I ate anything decent or had a glass of water for that matter?
Hermione stalks around to my front again, wet clothes in hand. "I think we both know the answer to that."
I say nothing for a time, divested of everything I've known to be true. For years, I've accepted the monster I am. I've never questioned what makes me this way, only ever giving in to my instinctual urges to kill like they were as easy as breathing. To think it wasn't me at all… it feels perverse somehow. As if my entire existence outside of Hogwarts has been a lie.
Finally, I find words. "The D-Dy… that thing has been inside of me for years."
"Yes," she nods, taking my bundled clothing and setting them on the counter neatly folded. Why is beyond me, considering they are still as wet as if they'd been thrown into the ocean. Then, she pulls up a stool in front of mine and takes a seat, hands in her lap.
"I've given it some thought," I tell her, running my tongue across my teeth, "and the urges only came after the War."
"Mhmm," she nods again, a hint of experience in her voice, reminding me of a professor who has just experienced one of her pupils about to come on some great discovery.
"Why do I feel you already know the punchline to this?"
"Just tell me what you know," she says. "I want to hear what you have to say."
A surge of anger washes over me, but a soft hand comes out and rests against my knee.
"Deep breaths, now."
And I do. I give breath after deep breath until I'm calm again. It takes me minutes to reach this level of relaxation, but Hermione's patience never falters.
"I only ever started this after… well, after the Battle of there…" the words are difficult to form, but I find the will. "...Is there a way someone who died then could be possessing me now?"
"The thought had occurred to me, yes." No shock. No look of nonplus. Simply a clinical answer and touch of excitement along the edges.
"Oh, had it?" my voice singes with sarcasm, hoping to burn off some of that eagerness in her eyes. "And tell me, when were you planning on letting me in on, quite possibly, the most vital bit of information I could use to expel whatever -whoever is inside of me?"
As if reading cue cards in front of her, she spews out, "I didn't want to give away too many of my theories until I was sure your commitment to curing yourself was in toto. I needed to be convinced you weren't beyond saving."
"So all this time, you've been unsure?" I press, my pulse elevating.
"I've wanted to believe-"
"-But you haven't. You've doubted me."
"Well, you haven't given me much of a choice, have you?" she throws her hands in the air, invested in her frustration.
"So you're admitting to lying to me, then?"
"I never lied." Hermione wags a disgruntled finger in my direction. "I believe you're good, underneath it all. I was not sure if you would allow yourself the luxury of believing it. This won't work if you don't believe in it."
"And how would you know?" I lean forward, dangerously close to that finger. "Have you ever encountered someone like me before?"
There's a pause, then a cough. "As… as a matter of fact, I have."
I feel my left eyebrow tug up. "Oh?" There's a thousand questions I want to ask, but she beats me to it before I can.
"-She wasn't… exactly like you. The Dybbuk-"
My eyes squeeze shut as I'm painfully reminded one word can bring me to my knees. My hand reaches next to me and grips the counter for dear life, otherwise I'm sure to spill to the floor in a puddle.
"-the spirit," Hermione corrects herself, "wasn't at all like the one in you."
"What was it like?"
"The unfinished business was simple. The spirit was an elderly woman who died alone in her home. No one found her body for weeks… she wanted someone to visit her grave."
"Well… that doesn't sound too bad."
"You'd think that, except her two sons had her body cremated and split the ashes up amongst each other. She wasn't ever properly buried, and the woman was extremely religious. Her sons… not so much. One of the sons sold many of his possessions after a separation with his wife, accidently including his mother's ashes inside a wooden box he kept the urn inside, including his mother's ring and the last letter she had ever written him. That box went to a young woman in Scotland, who had no idea at the time she possessed a dangerous item: a Dybbuk box."
"Fuck!" I nearly bite my tongue. "Stop using the bloody word, Hermione!" It then hits me- "A box?"
"Not just any box. A sentimental one with the spirit's remains and keepsakes. This is how a… well, how one is created. There are plenty of malevolent spirits who haven't passed on, but they all can't possess a host. They need to be tethered to something in order to effect a proper anchor to do its last wills."
When I realize the implications to her words, a proper shiver cascades down my spine. "Does it… does it have to be a box?"
"No. It could be any container, so long as it contains the proper ingredients."
"Proper ingredients? It isn't a potion," I snap at her, too far gone in my own thoughts to hold my tongue. My mind shifts back to the last bits of essence I can remember of being truly me: the sniveling, cowardly brat afraid of standing up for myself or anyone around me. Afraid to toe the line and make a difference. Afraid to get my hands dirty. "Could it… could it be a book?"
Finally, I seem to have stumped Hermione Jean Granger. Why, oh why, does it have to be with the most important question of my life? She opens her mouth to speak, pauses, and the closes it, tapping her fingers atop the kitchen countertop in thought. After what feels like eons, she formulates a response. "I suppose… if all of the components were in order… yes. One would need an item of sentimental value-"
"-the book," I offer.
"Then a voice. It would need the spirit's voice."
"An inscription -would that suffice?"
"I don't see why not…" she tilts her head, looking to me with curiosity and, dare I say, horror. "But the final thing needed would be a tether. Ashes. A lock of hair..."
"Blood." I stare her deep in the eyes, formulating the final puzzle piece. "The inscription was written in blood."
"Are you sure?"
"I've seen enough blood to know what it looks like when dry. It never occurred to me before, but…" I leap out of my chair and tug her out of hers.
"Wait- Draco -what are you -where are we-"
"-I thought you were intelligent, Hermione. We're going to my home, and you can see it for yourself."
As I cast a hefty amount of floo powder into the fireplace, she asks, "What sort of book is it?"
I turn to her, fearing her reaction but hoping for the best. "It's a journal… with every name of every life I've taken." I don't give her time to answer because I'm too afraid to know, instead yanking her into the green flames with me and letting us be swept up by the current of fire on the way to my place. As soon as we land inside my den, I tear out of the floo and trudge over to my work desk across the room, knocking down the useless clutter of quills and sealed ink bottles. I misjudge one, and it clatters to the floor, spilling its black, oozy contents. I care little as I move enough items around to press a small lever on the back shelf.
My hand reaches for the drawer beneath my workspace, now free of glamours. I tear it open and, carefully, remove the lone tome within. I turn to Hermione, cradling my confessions in my hands, knowing what I do next signifies the trust I have in her. This book could ruin me. This book could, literally, earn me a one way trip to Azkaban. The Dementor's Kiss might be banned by law, but I wouldn't put it past the guards to slip one in if word got out Draco Malfoy, renowned ex-Death Eater, was found to be a serial murderer.
I slip the book into her palms, gauging her response. What I'm met with is a mix of fear mingled with understanding. Unspoken though it is, I can see it in her eyes; there's a promise there to stay, even if the horrors within are morose.
Slowly, I open the book to the inside of the cover, where words are written with flourished script in crimson.
'Oh how I wish my smile
Could slay demons
The way only yours can.
Then you would never
Need cry again.'
That poem is something I wrote, inspired by my husband. I thought it was too fitting not to use it in this case.
Who is the Dybbuk? We shall find out! Get ready for more lemons, horror, and big reveals soon!
And also, please vote as your conscience sees fit. :)
All of the love
~A.
- 15
- 16
- 17
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