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Atonement	By : emilywaters Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Draco/Hermione Views: 22665 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: Potterverse and all characters within it, belong to JKR. I make no money from writing fanfiction.

Chapter List
- 1-One
- 2-Two
- 3-Three
- 4-Four
- 5-Five
- 6-Six
- 7-Seven
- 2
- 3
- 4
Three

�Strip.�

He still blushed when he heard those words. The familiar command had lost none of its bite over the past three months. And yet, in a way, it was almost a relief, to yield at last, to offer himself to her, over and over again, in spite of her cool, unwavering rejection.

He removed the clothes quickly and stood naked before her.

She pointed to the case of parchments and scrolls set by the vault.

�Start working.�

Naked or not, that was all he was good for he thought, bemused. Filing. Over the past three months he had spent many hours after work, filing cases upon cases of scrolls for her. Old articles, most of them hers. Dissertation papers. Litreviews. Works in progress. Abandoned manuscripts. He found a space for everything, and cataloged all of them perfectly.

Most days, he tried not to think about what he was filing, what he was cataloging and storing.

It was almost too hard to take in.

Most of the papers were on... equality and rights. Rights of the Muggle-born witches and wizards. Rights of the Magical Creatures, (rights of the House-Elves was a whole subsection.) Rights of Magical Animals. She even had a section on the rights of the prisoners of war.

And there he was, sitting naked on the floor, cataloging and filing all of that.

The first time he saw the titles of the papers, he spun around, and stared at her with a cheeky smirk, ready to tease her about the obvious discrepancy between her public persona and the personal vengeance she was exacting on him. She simply stared at him without blinking, and the flippant remark died on his lips.

There was no discrepancy, he realized then. It's just that... he mattered less to her, that was all. Less than a unicorn, less than a house-elf, less than an owl. Hell, he wasn't even a prisoner of war.

And besides, he thought bitterly, this was .. different. House-elves, unicorns, owls, muggle-borns had no choice but to be what they were. He... he had a choice. He could choose to get up, get dressed and leave. He could concede defeat, and choose to be damned.

But he wouldn't.

She still hadn't acknowledged him in any way beyond issuing curt, impersonal orders, but he could tell that something was different.

He felt different these days.

He felt as if something was awakening inside, ready to burst forth. Like an egg ready to hatch, like a spring ice on the surface of the pond ready to crack, or like a fledgling plant ready to shoot its way through the melting snow.

It was both terrifying and exhilarating.

As he worked, he could feel her gaze on his back, studying him.

�Almost done,� he felt the need to say.

�Good.�

Interesting, how their brief verbal interactions were so normal. They were so normal, it was almost funny.

For the first few weeks, he had anticipated her to set some ground rules, to develop a script, to establish a protocol, institute a ritual. Something like, fold your clothes this way, call me Ms. Granger, bow your head, whatever. She never did. She was content to simply force him to strip and work. Other than the fact that he was naked, and doing free work for her, their interactions were completely ordinary.

Eventually he understood why. She had no intention of allowing him to hide behind the comfort of ritual and protocol. She wanted his reactions unscripted, authentic, real. She wanted to continue to expose him, day after day; and day after day, he felt as if layers of something were being peeled away from him. Every day, he felt more and more naked. And more and more like himself, whatever that meant at this point.

Merlin.... he was one sick fuck, wasn't he?

�All done,� he said finally. On an impulse, he crawled across the room towards her and knelt before her on the floor.

She paid him no heed. There was a scroll in her right hand, and she was reading, her busy eyes scanning the lines. Her left hand, relaxed, was resting on her thigh.

Draco stared at that flawless, tender hand. The skin was smooth and healthy. The nails were trimmed short.

She was a strange combination of tomboyishness and elegance. Her hair was long, and extremely well cared for, but it was worn in a simple bun. Her face was well-groomed, but if she wore any makeup beyond the dark, garnet-colored lipstick, Draco could not tell. She wore a simple, and seemingly comfortable dark suit: blazer and trousers, and a pair of decidedly uncomfortable stiletto-heel boots. How the fuck anyone could walk on those seven-inch needle-thin heels was truly beyond him, but he understood the reason for them. Heels were a symbol of power, and the woman in front of him was clearly willing to sacrifice comfort for power.

His eyes rested on her hand again. He could hear his own heartbeat, when slowly and hesitantly, he bowed his head, and leaned forward to plant a kiss to her fingers.

His lips never reached her hand. Instead, the parchment in her right hand fell on his mouth with a loud slapping sound. He recoiled and stared at her in astonishment. That hurt, and he was shocked at just how much. The blasted thing had left paper-cuts on his lips.

Fuck. Granger hit him.

But then again, he'd told her she could, didn't he?

He did say anything, didn't he?

He remained on his knees, trying to catch his breath. Pathetic, he thought. All she did was slap him, smack him with a rolled up paper, like he was a bad dog... and he was shaking all over.

�What?� she demanded, while he made desperate efforts to compose himself.

He shook his head. �Nothing.�

�Get dressed. Get out.�

�Fine.�

He reached for his shirt, and put it on first. The shorts next, and finally the trousers. He was lacing up his boots, and when his hands started shaking so hard, he found himself unable to tie the knots. He couldn't understand it... all she did was... it wasn't as if... He'd finally gathered up the courage to kiss her fingers and she...

He curled into himself on the floor, burying his face in his shoulder, and issued a single choked sob.

He saw her out of the corner of his eye. She was staring at him with not a small measure of irritation, but she remained silent. She simply stared and waited. Waited for him to break down, to fall apart? Waited for him to pick himself up and leave? Waited for him to give up and run away?

He lifted himself off the floor and left.

After that, he knelt before her every evening, each time he finished his work. She never told him to. It was his own self-chosen ritual, his own attempt at finding some kind of normalcy in this bizarre arrangement of redemptive degradation.

She stared at him, deep in thought, as if evaluating the pros and the cons of allowing him to do so. . Once, he noticed her foot move its way towards his parted legs and rest just next to his manhood. He was already half-hard, as always whenever he stripped and worked for her, but noticing the nearness of her foot, his cock twitched furiously and became fully erect.

She noticed his reaction and her lips twitched slightly, forming a mild, but very satisfied smirk.

Mortified, he stared down, where the pointy toe of her boot was resting by the underside of his cock. She shifted her foot slightly, never touching him.

�Oh,� he whispered.

She looked at him with the type of quizzical amusement that he never thought her capable of.

�Touch me,� he pleaded with her, horrified that he'd said it out loud.

Her eyes narrowed dangerously, and she glared at him without warmth or friendliness.

�Earn it,� she said.

TBC...

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Atonement