Disclaimer: All these characters belong to JKR. I own nothing, much to my dismay, and make no money whatsoever out of this story!

And I wonder when it was that I started needing you like water.


Chapter 1.

Hermione Granger saw him turn around to look back at her before he went up the stairs. She knew he was handsome but- fuck- she hated him so much. He stared at her knowing that alone could provoke a response. His sickly grey-slate eyes carved his stare right into her skull. Hermione could feel the burning in her blood, the familiar hotness across her cheeks rushing over her chest and tainting her skin with that dark, crimson anger she no longer bothered to hide. Yes, just looking at Draco Malfoy made her loath him more, and loathing itself was terribly underrated.

He turned back and began the heavy journey to the top of the staircase. “I despise you,” muttered Hermione, as she walked behind a corner of the abrasive stone corridor. The coolness of a nearby draft washed over her skin. Would the hatred ever end, she wondered, when they got older and learnt the value of judgement and impression? Imitate those people she read about, rise above it, see the good? No, most definitely not. To her, to Harry and to Ron, the abhorrence was most definitely fatal and permanent. She felt that he was evil, and very often became sure. Draco Malfoy was her only exception to believing that, intrinsically rooted somewhere within, there was a good in the spectacularly underhand Slytherin.

It was all about him from now on. Hermione could no longer hate him by pretending he didn’t exist. He did. He existed behind that bloody portrait and in the common room behind it. Harry had said to her, “Don’t talk to the bastard, because you don’t have to”, and she didn’t want to. He robbed everything from her when he became Head Fucking Boy.

Malfoy had friends in high places. A dog for a father who died and left him all the riches. A dog that deserved to die, and Hermione had never wished death upon anyone. Expect Lucius Malfoy. Did it all make sense, them being here like this? Head Boy and Head Girl bound by a title she never thought she’d regret. She had worked harder in the past few days than she did in her whole time at Hogwarts to avoid him. Ten minutes before he came into the common room, ten minutes after he left the common room. Late down to breakfast and early to bed. It seemed hardly worth it for such a useless mindless pretentious cut of life. As the hours passed she found he wasn’t even worth avoiding. She liked to think the hatred surpassed even the effort to hate itself. It had become a complete disregard. But she felt cold whenever he entered the room. Was that disregard? Feeling cold?

Six days in from election and they needed to speak. Before then it was through others, through the prefects. Hermione felt pathetic sometimes, and wondered if he felt it too. But no, she would realise, the opinion of himself could never be brought down. On such rare occasions of eye contact, Malfoy looked at her with a the kind malcontent disgust that simmers in your head for hours. No, he only thought she was pathetic. Draco Malfoy was a Prince.

Behind the stone wall Hermione crumbled slightly. This couldn’t be it. Couldn’t be the way it would be from now on. Six days in and they did, they really did, need to speak. Hermione wondered if she could pass a note instead. The idea almost made her laugh; Malfoy, I don’t want to talk to you so I’m writing to you instead. No, Malfoy made her feel small already, and she knew it was important to him that she seemed scared-

Was that true though? Did she seem scared of Malfoy? There was a possibility that he thought that. The Head Boy rules over everyone, even the Head Girl? She wasn’t scared though, she was honest with herself about that. The thought that it might come across that way caused the same crimson to splash onto her cheeks. The prick was manipulating her without her even knowing. Did other people think she was scared of him? Was that how it looked?

Harry was definitely not afraid of Malfoy. Him and Ron would step in front of her whenever he approached them to jibe and sneer. She had felt protected although slightly resentful of the fact. She wanted to defend herself, and on the rare occasion of being addressed directly by Malfoy, she certainly knew she could. She would, given half the chance, in a decent argument that didn’t involve the word “mudblood”. Hermione had a nasty tongue when she wanted to and if ever there was a just cause to use it, it was on that son of his father. But her and Malfoy never spoke more than a few words. Harry never let it happen. Any remark about whether or not Harry was going to “try and grab the Granger bitch for a quick shag before dinner” was met with the threat of his fist.

“I mean it,” he said, “Just avoid him. Don’t go where he goes. Leave when he comes in and keep yourself to yourself.” Harry was so angry when they announced Malfoy. He knew why it wasn’t him, of course, they all knew why, but still his fists clenched as his jaw tightened when he pictured the bastard near Hermione. “And if he touches you, so help me Merlin I'll-” Hermione had smiled appreciatively, almost screaming inside.

And so the ruination of her final year at Hogwarts. The complete undoing of any admiration in being Head Girl. The only thing stopping her from handing over the position was herself. The pride and the hatred that tangled her up in the job. She would keep it because if she didn’t, Malfoy would win.

Hermione dragged the hair tie out her hair and shook her head. Reaching for the mirror in her bag she looked at the reflection. She wanted to be beautiful for Malfoy. That was what pissed her off the most. He was so fucking righteously handsome it seemed to suck the beauty from anything else. But not from her. She knew he knew that, and she knew it herself. People stared at Hermione and they had done since fourth year. She loved it sometimes, but Harry and Ron were still learning to fight back the evil glares to those passing. They warned each other off with those things, all the boys, and Malfoy seemed best of all. Though he never looked at Hermione, not hard like the others. He didn’t seem to see what they did. It frustrated her. Well, she thought, he would have to notice her now, because it was now, after six days, that they were going to talk.

*

Draco was stretched out across the sofa of the common room. His legs were propped up on the furthest arm, one crossed the other. The sofa normally seemed so big, but right now, Draco surrounded it.

She knew he’d sensed her presence because he’d started humming. That was his way to disregard her. She walked over to him, slightly shaking with anticipation, wishing angrily she wasn’t, and stood in front of the sofa. Behind her the fireplace was roaring. The sharp warmth bit at the back of her thighs. Your funeral, it spat.

Draco stopped humming and stared at her abusively. “You joke Granger,” he smirked, “You can’t seriously think we are about to have a conversation?”

“We have to sort out prefect rotation Malfoy.” She thought if she used his name back it would establish some power.

He kept smirking at her.

“Your hair is a bit of a mess,” he said, re-crossing his legs the other way, “You should take a brush to it Granger, learn a few things about personal grooming.”

This was the reason she had never spoken to him longer than a few seconds. This was why it was never more than “fuck off” and “go and fuck yourself” and “shut the fuck up Malfoy”.

“It concerns the duties,” she said as nonchalantly as possible. She tried to remain calm and casual, one hand on her hip and the other by her side gripping the rotation chart. “I’ll leave you Slytherin and Huffle-”

“You can do those little wankers,” scoffed Draco.

“Who, Slytherin?”

He glared at her.

Hermione shrugged. “Fine. I’ll take Hufflepuff.”

“You want to know why I’d rather do Ravenclaws, Granger?”

“No I don’t.”

“All the virgins want to get fucked.”

Hermione made a sound of revulsion. She scorned him. “Wanting it and being forced into it are hardly the same thing, Malfoy.”

He smirked. “You have no idea of my-” He paused for thought. “Should I say skills?” She raised an eyebrow and chucked the chart at him. He caught it in front of his face. “Careful Granger,” he frowned, “I wouldn’t go throwing things at me.”

God she hated him. She hated him so much. “Return it to me after you’ve finished.”

“I’ll leave it for you somewhere I’m sure.”

Hermione shifted her weight to the other leg. “Fine,” she replied, fighting a mumble to speak firmly, clearly, uncaring of his complete and utter disrespect for- Merlin- for anything.

He raised his eyebrows. “Well if we’re done here now, I’d like to get back to what I was doing.”

“Which I noticed to be incredibly productive,” she commented, “I won’t do this on my own, Malfoy. We’re supposed to be-”

“If you say a team Granger,” he spat, “I will personally make it my priority to ruin you.”

That did make Hermione laugh. “A team?” she repeated, shaking her head, “No.”

Draco frowned a little. “Then what?” he asked, “Spit it out.”

“We’re supposed to be presenting the chart in the great hall over breakfast on Monday.”

“And?”

“It’s Friday night,” she said.

“Merlin no! Only two beloved nights to work on it?” Draco mocked, his words drenched in the ever-familiar stench of dry sarcasm as his hand touched his heart. “And there I was wanting to spend three.” His hand dropped back down onto the cushion. “Which reminds me,” he continued, spinning his legs round off the sofa and standing up. Draco Malfoy was much taller than Hermione. His presence seemed bolder suddenly. “I have places to be, people to do.” She looked at him with mild disgust. “Do me a favour and shut up about the chart now. I’ll get it done Granger. Anything to get a filthy little mudblood off my case.”

Those words. It was always those three words that pushed her too far. Harry wasn’t around now to defend her or stop her from defending herself. She wasn’t sure if she was pleased or disappointed. Hermione took a deep breath.

She straightened her posture. “How many times must I ask?”

“Ask what, Granger?”

“Don’t call me that again, Malfoy.”

He smirked mildly. “Why?” he asked, “Will you set the puppies on me?”

“Harry and Ron might be stronger than I am but they aren’t as smart,” she answered, “I have a wand and I think we both know I can use it a hell of a lot better than they can.” She paused. “And I would.”

“No you wouldn’t.”

“Well I’m sure one day you’ll find out.”

Draco shook his head slowly as his face dissolved into a frown. “You’re a bitch, Granger,” he growled, “You might be Head Girl, but you’re not as clever or-“ he looked her up and down “-as fit as you think. Just remember who really gets the most respect around here.”

“If you’re talking about Harry-“

“Shut up.” Draco brought his face close to hers. Hermione retreated a bit.

For a moment she was scared. No, no she wasn’t. Cautious. Cautious because she could feel the wet warmth of his poisoned words on her cheeks.

“Don’t forget mudblood,” he whispered, “I can make it hell for you.”

Hermione fingered the wand in her bag. Tempted. So tempted. “Then I look forward to it,” she replied.

Draco smirked at her and glanced at his watch. “If I bring anyone back here tonight,” he said as he strode away, “I’d appreciate it if you’d have fucked off.”

I don’t think I’ll ever stop hating you, thought Hermione, as he disappeared through the portrait hole. I think it will last forever.


*

“Why did you have to talk to him?”

“It’s hardly possible to ignore him the rest of the year.”

“I wouldn’t have a problem.”

“Please,” groaned Hermione, “You have a run in with each other every day.”

Over breakfast Hermione learnt that it was wise not to talk about Draco to Harry. It was clear he liked to pretend none of it was happening, and he didn’t want to be reminded that she had to share a common room with his most hated enemy. Fair enough, she thought, she didn’t even want to be reminded herself, but she couldn’t pretend. Ron seemed more forgiving to her conversation.

“I suppose you have to talk.”

“Thank you Ron.”

“But he’s a dick munch.”

“Thank you, Ron.”

Though it was true, it didn’t help. Her best friends were really the last people she could ask for pointers. Harry’s advice was to give him the password to the portrait hole and let him check up on her every now again. But she wasn’t a child. She could handle herself, and she became more determined to prove it to them by the minute.

“You think I can’t cope,” she said to Harry and Ron, “But I can. I can handle him much better than you two.”

“That’s not fair,” replied Harry.

“We don’t start throwing punches, do we?”

Harry frowned “If he ever-“

“Yes,” sighed Hermione, “I know.”

“If you need to talk,” shrugged Ron, “Just get it over with quickly.”

“I hardly drag it out.”

“Well then you’re fine.”

“You’re not fine. You should complain to Professor McGonagall,” growled Harry, chucking his knife
down on his plate.

“And say what?” she laughed, “That we don’t like each other? That’s hardly mature.”

Harry was getting agitated and didn’t seem to have a problem showing it. “They shouldn’t have put the bastard there anyway,” he muttered, “It was blatantly his father’s doing.”

“His father is dead, Harry,” said Ron.

“I doubt that would stop him.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Well this is really very helpful so thank you.” She pushed back her chair.
“I’m going to the house common room.”

“What do you want me to say?” asked Harry, angrily, “I fucking hate the guy. I’m hardly going to encourage interaction with him am I?”

“Leave it mate,” mumbled Ron, sensing the mounting tension between them.

“Fine!” exclaimed Hermione, “I know not to ask for your advice then!”

“Not when it comes to him, no!”

“And why not?” she asked, clenching her fists at her side, “You of all people should understand why I find this so unbearable!” She spun round and marched out the hall before the staring faces could get a good understanding of what was going on. She was Head Girl. She had to keep face. Head Girl. Fuck that.

“I told you, I hate him!” panted Harry running to catch her up.

“But right now this isn’t about you," she replied frustrated.

“I’m not trying to make it about me!” growled Harry as he followed her up the stairs. He grabbed her arm and she turned towards him.

“I know it’s never been like this before,” she continued, “It’s always been about you two fighting and competing and all that male ego testosterone-filled tension! But this is about me and my problem. I have to get through the year with him literally next door, in my face all day, but every time I ask for advice you start raising your voice and bitching. You hate him? We all fucking hate him Harry! How does that help?”

“You want to know how to talk to him!” he exclaimed, “How the fuck would I know how to talk to the prick? I don’t want to think about you two having to talk, it’s bad enough he’s within twenty feet of you-”

“Oh stop it!” she said, rolling her eyes. “Stop talking like I’m yours!”

Harry looked at her. “I’m not,” he frowned.

“Yes you are! Like I belong to you and Ron. You’re being possessive-“

“I’m protecting you.”

“You’re making it worse!”

“How the hell am I making it worse?”

“Because I need your help and you aren’t giving it to me!”

“I have nothing to say! If it was up to me you would stand down from Head Girl because nothing is worth that much.”

“Oh well thank you that’s really supportive.”

“You wanted my advice!”

“Oh for Merlin’s sake,” she groaned, “Grow up Harry.” She turned back to leave.

He groaned. “Look If you really want me to I’ll-“

“Don’t bother,” she mumbled, rounding a corner and losing sight of him. She could hear the heated response but honestly couldn’t care less.

What could he really do anyway?

*

Six. That’s what he made it this weekend, counting the threesome as two of course. It had been a long one, this last one, he hadn’t come as easily since he knew he had the damn rotation chart to fill in for tomorrow. It distracted him, fuck knows why. A bloody duty putting him off of all things. At least it let the Ravenclaw girl come twice. Let him think, did he forget to put up the silencing charms again? Most definitely, and hopefully the Granger bitch was around to hear the repercussions.

“That was amazing,” panted the girl, the bed sheets soaked and barely covering her, “Where the hell did you learn that?”

Draco shrugged. “Time for you to go,” he said, getting up from the bed and walking over into the bathroom. “Don’t leave anything behind. Pansy found some other wet pair of Ravenclaw knickers the other day and went fucking ballistic.”

“Okay,” she answered, apparently unfazed with the knowledge that she was one of many, “But do I have to leave right now?”

“Yes.” He shut the bathroom door on her goodbye and walked over to the sink.

Draco stared at himself in the mirror. He was a bloody artistic genius bed. Those girls screamed so loudly he almost wanted to put up the silencing charms to save his own ears. They were desperate for him, and no fucking surprise there. He did the regular glance down to his muscles and cock, analysing their marvel and splendour for a minute before running the taps in the bath. What it was to feel that complete power and control, to hear a girl begging to suck him off. Hear her groaning for him to lick her every ounce dry. Draco shivered slightly. It was like a pussy-flavoured candy store with a big discount card. He was spoilt for choice. Although not completely spoilt. They all tasted, smelt, felt the same after a while. Still, it got him off and that was the main thing. He could, of course, do without the hassle from Pansy Parkinson. They both knew they slept around, she was as much of a slag as the girls he made writhe beneath him, but she seemed to have a particular obsession for the Head Boy. He knew it, Merlin knows she’d told him enough. Seeing him after quidditch practice, all hot and sweaty, was enough to make her cream herself there and then. Yes, he knew it, and he definitely loved it.

But he loved it all from a distance. Not real love, of course, strictly no true feelings involved. He was worshipped by everyone but loved himself the most and didn’t care to deny it. He was- how to put it?- fond of the nights he spent inside girls. Pansy was the biggest screamer of them all. She liked to say his name a lot, and he enjoyed hearing it. But no, never love in it’s most obvious definition. Sex was more of a sport for him. More of a talent.

As he deliberated over his many gifts, Draco became slowly aware of the faint sound of music. Or maybe, on second thoughts, it was louder than faint, and he decided that, actually, it was bothering him very much. Or maybe he decided that it was in fact spoiling everything.

Draco sucked the air through his teeth as he rose from the bath into the cooler air above him. Grabbing the nearest towel to wrap around his waist he stormed through the large bathroom, rapping against her door on the opposite wall. It was locked, of course, like the frigid Granger bitch would ever leave her door open to their adjoining bathroom.

“Granger!” he raged, banging on the door. He was dripping into a small puddle on the floor beneath him. “Open the fucking door!” he ordered. If only he had his wand. Then he would Alohomora it the fuck open himself.

The door clicked and a thin shaft of light fell across him.

“What?” asked Hermione from the inside the orange glow.

“What the hell is that noise?”

“My music?”

“The muggle shit,” he growled, “Some sort of mudblood favourite?”

She opened the door fully and stared at him. She was in her pyjamas. Some unreasonably small shorts and T-shirt. Draco pretended not to notice. Merlin- he noticed but it was Granger. Stupid bloody Granger, and he was pissed off.

“Oh dear,” she shrugged, leaning against the frame, “You don’t like it?”

His eyebrows lowered with his voice. “Time to turn it off, Granger.”

“Goodnight Malfoy,” she sighed and began to close the door. He pushed his hand up against it.

“I mean it!” he protested, “I’m not leaving until you stop that bloody music and whatever piece of junk it’s coming from!”

“It’s hardly loud, Malfoy.” She tried to close the door again.

Draco’s hand stayed in place. “You close that door without that music stopping and I’ll-”

“What?” she interrupted, shooting him a quizzical look. “Whatever you do you know Harry will just get involved and he certainly won’t be too happy.”

“You think I can’t handle Potter?” Draco scoffed, “The little wanker has it coming. Now say sorry and stop it like a good little mudblood and I can get away from you.”

“You want me to apologise?” she growled. “And what did you expect me to do? Listen to the glorious sound of you and your latest slag giving you your hourly fix? I don’t think so.”

“I do.”

She shook her head. “I’m not one of your bitches, Malfoy. Now get off and let me close the door.”

Draco narrowed his eyes. “Turn off whatever muggle contraption you’ve smuggled in and then, if I were you, give it to me so that I can hex it into tiny little pieces.”

“No.”

“Then we have a problem.”

“No surprise there.”

“You’ll regret it if you don’t do it, Granger.”

“Why?”

“I’m sure I’ll think of something to punish you.”

“Punish me?” she laughed, “Well how about you think while you draw up that rotation chart?”

“How about you-”

The door slammed shut and threw him back slightly, small green jets of sparks falling from the frame.

He growled loudly. At what point did her wand reach her hand? “You fucking whore Granger!”
There was no reply, although he thought he could hear her eyes hit the ceiling in that ‘I must be the only sane, mature and reasonable one in the world’ way.

Draco clenched his fists and paced back through the bathroom and into his own bedroom.

Stupid, stupid little bitch. They should ban all that rubbish from those dirty underdeveloped muggle twats. And then they should ban mudbloods whilst they are at it. Draco briefly mulled over the idea of getting Pansy over and fucking her senseless in the middle of the common room floor. No doubt Granger would prance down to see what all the noise was about. Or maybe he could do her up against the bitch’s bedroom door. What a treat that would be when she opened it.

Draco sat down and stared into the fire before his bed. How easy his life would be without Potter and his little underlings. He wondered for perhaps the hundredth time if he was shagging the Head Girl. How piteously precious that would be, a legendary hero of his time and an unadulterated seamless know-it-all of Hogwarts, fucking each other quietly beneath a silken mirage of purity. Maybe him and the Weasley runt took it in turns.

Or maybe Granger was a virgin after all. Draco could hardly imagine such a frigid looking bitch letting anyone near that prized pussy of hers. He’d seen boys desperate enough for it. Even Zabini had cracked a joke about almost getting a hard-on when she bent down to pick up her pencil in Potions last week. He hadn’t looked. The idea had made him cringe, as did the constant reminder that, at some unknown point in their years at Hogwarts, Hermione Granger had actually become attractive. To everyone but him. At the end of the day, all the dropped pencils, shortened skirts and small pyjamas in the world couldn’t stop her from being what she was. A fucking mudblood. Nothing takes that away. Couple it with being friends with Potter and a Weasley and you’re undoubtedly ruined forever.

And now he had no choice but to share a bloody common room with her. Share a bloody bathroom. Draco enjoyed the private quarters, books, rights to push other people around even more than he did before, but he couldn’t help noticing she detracted from it all somewhat. It could have been funny, if he could be bothered to make her life a misery, but that’s just effort. And too much of it at that.

He glanced at the rotation chart spread out on the table in front of him. He didn’t care that he had to do it, he just cared it was Granger that had told him to. Now, for some reason, it represented her. Draco reached towards it and ran his fingers down the list of names. Too many boys for his liking – not that he was pro-women, just that he was pro-shagging. He’d been inside most of the prefect girls. He supposed that made the chart slightly easier since it wouldn’t have to fit in around his own to-do list. He could draw it up now if he found a pen.

Or perhaps, thought Draco, pausing in his search for ink, he could just leave it.

He strode back over to the bathroom and leant against the archway. He may as well slip it under Granger’s doorway incomplete. He couldn’t really be bothered, the list was fucking mammoth, and would she really leave it empty for the sake of making a point? Draco smiled. She would rather die then present half a chart in front of the Professors. She still hadn’t stopped her fucking music after all. Maybe it had given him too much of a headache to finish the work?

He frowned in thought. Was that the best he could do? What’s more it was revenge that didn’t involve some sort of use for his dick and that wasn’t always as fun. Yet really, it was late, he was tired, and it would piss her off nicely. He grabbed a quill on the side table and scrawled his writing on the top of it.

Do it yourself.


*

She would look bad as well, not just him. That’s why she did it. That’s what she told herself.

Hermione rubbed her eyes. “Oh no.” She took out her mirror and licked her finger.

“Why are you so tired?” asked Ron.

“I didn’t get a lot sleep,” she answered, rubbing the smudged make up underneath her eyes. “And now I really do look fetching.”

“Why?” he asked again.

Hermione sighed. “I had to draw up the rotation chart that we presented this morning.”

“You did that days ago,” he said, “She did, didn’t she?” He nudged Harry.

Harry shrugged in response, a little confused as to why Ron asked him.

“I had to redo it Ron. It didn’t really fit together,” muttered Hermione. She turned slightly pink with the realisation of how ashamed she was. She would rather lie to her best friends than admit she did the bastard’s work for him. “It was a last minute thing.”

“Why couldn’t Malfoy change his?” frowned Harry. It was the first thing he had said to Hermione all day. Ron, who had forever been trying to spark conversation, looked suddenly pleased with himself.

Hermione looked at him, mildly surprised at being addressed. “Does it matter?”

“Yes.”

“It was difficult,” replied Hermione. “I’m too tired to discuss-”

“Well you clearly did yours first,” continued Harry, “Malfoy’s a complete and utter twat. You can’t let
him walk all over you like that. Next time tell him to-“

“Oh just go back to not talking to me,” she sighed, “It’s not worth the oxygen.” Hermione rounded the corner and split up from them. “I’m going to the library,” she murmured, her voice slightly lost in the long corridor away from them.

Ron turned to Harry. “What was that about?” he whispered.

“Merlin knows,” he replied, “I’m starting to have enough of-“

“I meant you, you idiot. You finally talk and then you upset her again.”

“I barely said anything.”

“You started that whole Malfoy thing again.”

“I thought she wanted advice.”

“Not your kind of advice.”

“Bloody hell,” growled Harry, “I can’t win with that girl.”

“Well she’s tired,” shrugged Ron, “Maybe just leave it for tonight, yeah?”

Ron was secretly proud of the fact that, for once, he was playing peace-keeper between his two best friends. It was normally him and Hermione bickering over something pathetic like the directions in Hogsmeade or the finishing line of a spell which, even then he realised, rendered him ripped to shreds by the know-it-all genius that she strived to be and often was, indeed, pretty fucking good and being. Damned witch. He would have liked to take the moral high ground with her on this occasion but he couldn’t see any conceivable reason to do so. Harry was acting up in peculiar ways ever since Hermione and Malfoy became elected. It was his best mate to hate Malfoy, but not to treat Hermione with a similar malcontent that almost suggested the mere association with the bastard suddenly meant she was infected by him in some way. Hermione wasn’t telling them everything about her and Malfoy. Ron knew it and, more importantly, Harry knew it and hated it with a passion.


“I just don’t know why she doesn’t want my help,” grumbled Harry. He paused. “I mean I don’t want to exactly give her that kind of help, you know?”

“What?”

“I don’t want to help them talk to each other.”

“What do you want to help with then?” sighed Ron, kicking a piece of litter on the ground exasperatedly, then perhaps feeling a bit guilty as he leant down to pick it up.

Ron didn’t think Harry even knew what he was going on about. Whatever it was though, he thought adamantly, Harry would get over it and give the girl a break. It wasn’t like them to argue like this and it almost seemed as if the natural order of things had been flipped and reversed into some alternate world where he was the mature and sensible one. Fuck no. It couldn’t last. Ron found it a very uncomfortable feeling to say the least. Harry was the leader, Hermione was the- well the other leader, and Ron was-? He liked to think another leader but then that would make three leaders out of three people, and that seemed to take away from the whole leading the gang concept so-

Fuck. Ron caught Malfoy in the far right of his gaze just a second too late. Harry had already stopped dead in his tracks and was starring daggers at the blonde wizard as he moved within couple of metres opposite them.

“It’s Potter and his bitch,” smirked Draco, “What a pleasant surprise.” He stared straight back at Harry. “Looking for an empty classroom to fuck Weasley up the arse are you?”

“We’re not all into the same things as you Malfoy,” spat Harry, his posture stiffening.

“Fifteen minutes and it’s your curfew you little wankers,” growled Draco, “So be good and hurry on back to your common room.”

“I think that’s fifteen minutes we’ll spend down here actually,” replied Harry. Ron nodded in agreement.
Draco smiled loathsomely. “Where’s the mudblood?”

Ron’s jaw clenched. “Her name is Hermione.”

He snorted. “Has she fallen asleep somewhere? Must have had a pretty late night what with my chart to do and all.”

The urge to correct him overwhelmed Ron. “She had to draw hers up again,” he said, “You were too fucking busy to redo yours.” It overwhelmed him simply because it was obvious what was to come next.

“I was too fucking busy to do mine at all Weasel,” corrected Draco.

“What the fuck does that mean?” asked Harry.

“It means,” he yawned nonchalantly, “I never drew it up. She did it. Couldn’t really be arsed to be honest.”

Harry’s eyes narrowed. “What?”

“Bloody useful,” continued Draco, “Now I know I can just leave all the prefect work to her last minute and hey-fucking-presto. The mudblood is like a personal slave.”

Harry took a step towards him, ignoring Ron’s hand which suddenly appeared on his shoulder. “You apologise to her,” demanded Harry.

Draco laughed. “Or what? I feel the infamous Potter wrath?”

“Do you want to find out?” he asked, attempting to maintain a steady tone. He pushed away Ron’s tightening grip. “I’m fine, Ron.”

“He’s fine Mummy,” mocked Draco, “Just got his knickers in a twist over a stupid chart, that’s all.”

“Next time I speak to Hermione,” snarled Harry, “She better have received an apology.”

Draco looked at his hands and scraped out a bit of dirt from underneath a fingernail. “Did you ever consider the fact that the bitch can take care of herself?” he drawled, “She did it. It’s her problem. All this pathetic protection bollocks doesn’t exactly cover up the fact that you’re endlessly trying to get into her pants, Potter.”

Harry took a second step towards him. “I’m looking out for her,” he said, “And I promise you I will be until the end of the year. You won’t get away with any fuck-abouts, Malfoy.”

“Leave it Harry mate,” warned Ron. Something was bound to snap.

But it was Draco that almost closed the gap between himself and Harry. “I’m apologising for nothing you jumped up little twat,” he breathed, “I’m going to break every little nerve of confidence in that Granger bitch. It’s just a pity you won’t be able to watch the action.” He sneered. “Pros of a private common room. It’s very private indeed.”

“I mean it,” replied Harry, refusing to shy away from Draco’s towering proximity, “Leave her alone. Don’t give her any trouble.“

“What can I say?” he laughed. Draco’s face was mere inches from Harry’s. “If I’m bored, I’m bored.”
Harry’s fists began to rise.

Ron hastily pushed himself between them. “Back off, Malfoy,” he warned.

The Head Boy stared passed him. “How much does it fuck with you knowing I could do simply whatever I wanted to her, Potter?”

“Shut up.”

“Whatever I wanted.” Draco repeated the words slowly.

Ron spun round and grabbed Harry’s flailing arm. “Leave it Harry! The bastard isn’t worth it!”

“If you ever,” he growled, glaring at him over Ron’s shoulder, “I swear you’ll regret it Malfoy-“

“Oh no,” he laughed, “I think I just shat myself.”

“I’m warning you!”

Draco shook his head and his smile faded. “Don’t miss the curfew girls,” he said, beginning to walk
backwards and away from Harry and Ron. “And don’t let me see you cutting it so fine again.”

“I meant what I said,” Harry called after him, “Don’t do anything!”

Draco licked his lips before turning the corner. “Mudbloods are fucking disgusting,” his voice echoed, “But almost anything his worth pissing you off, Potter.”




*

Disclaimer: All these characters belong to JKR. I own nothing, much to my dismay, and make no money whatsoever out of this story!

Chapter 2.

Clash of the silver and down to the ground.

Draco knew he was scarred. It wasn’t every night that his father would hurt him, but some nights- most nights- he would back up into a corner and cower.

Lucius Malfoy was stunning. He would turn heads in the street, send hearts racing, leave mouths dry. He was everything Draco aspired to be and all of what he wasn’t. He was a worthless child, dishonourable boy. He didn’t deserve to be a Malfoy, because Malfoy wasn’t just name, it was fucking rights to royalty.

When Draco was fourteen he arrived home for Christmas. His mother was away and the welcome had been short. His father made him practice incantations for three hours before sending him to bed. Draco remembers that night in particular because he didn’t sleep, he just read under the light of his wand, swallowing every time he heard the moans of Lucius fucking some other witch into the floorboards above him. And when the young boy asked his father why it wasn’t his mother who was sleeping in that bed last night he finished the question crying into the wall with blood gushing from his head screaming-

sorrysorryfathersorry-

Lucius Malfoy swung his fists with a purpose to teach his son the art of destruction. Play, destroy, win. It was a game, he told him, every bruise and every cut was there to show him that you don’t ask questions, you don’t have morals, you live and let live the Malfoy tradition. His father was showing him, teaching him. Draco understood and he hated not knowing why but he did, he understood- completely- because that was what a Malfoy did.

He knew of nothing else. And one night he came downstairs to screams. Loud, raw, ripping screams that scolded his ears and tore through his brain. His mother was crying for him, calling for him, begging for him to come, stop the bleeding, stop the pain, stop his father. She was always hit, often- for the most part- through frustration, want, need, his father liked it. His father fucking got off on it. Draco sat on the stairs and shouted a song in his head, loud-so-loud to drown her out. It was a song she used to sing him when he was younger. It was about magic, love- love- and family. The Malfoys were a family, he thought, welcome to the family. Welcome to the family. It’s so fucking bright in here you’ll gauge your eyes out.

Then Draco hit back. One night his mother crashed through the doorway and down the stairs, lay their battered and still and he roared. He roared at his father. He ran and ran and ran and swung so hard-so-hard the edges of his vision turned black as his father’s face smashed the ground. Is he dead, he asked himself, lying there like that? Do I hope he is dying, he wondered, do I wish he is dead? Did he- had he- yes maybe no maybe not. The night was a blur after his father rose up, roared back, hit back, cursed him.

Times were dark for Lucius. Draco knew, of course he knew. He hated his father but he was a Malfoy. They were both Malfoys. Draco would never follow the other side, any other, least of all Dumbledore. If it was the way, he would become it, he would be a Death Eater, he would live it, breathe it, steal it away from his father and be better than he could ever be. It was a game, after all, you play to win. Draco only aspired to be what his father was so he could transcend him, play him, destroy and win him.

But he had returned home one summer ago and his mother had told him. She was crying, he remembers there were tears, and he wondered for hours why. He didn’t pretend to cry or grieve. He sat in his bedroom and read books. He read a book about a boy that fought in a war and another about a man that started one. He would stop sometimes between chapters to see if he felt anything yet, and didn’t, but noted within himself the rising sensation of bitter guilt. And he was angry- because how did he become so destroyed by a man that he thought was so pure? Pure fucking Malfoy whatever it was, whatever he was taught it was, whatever the hell was so fucking important to him. It was so important to him, to Draco. And the boy in the book was bad. He killed his friend, his enemy, killed himself, and Draco knew, he knew, that was him inside-out. Kill everyone, kill himself. He had come to hate existence. Why did he scold himself, scratch himself, bleed himself when nothing would ever be good enough for the one person he would never be good enough for- a fucking excuse for a life- so full of shit so full of fucking faith in unadulterated evil when life isn’t like that it isn’t designed for him- IT WASN’T MADE FOR HIM. He would fucking spit on his father’s grave when the time came because he had had enough- he was enough- he was more Malfoy than his father ever was because he was ALIVE.

Draco could taste it. Finally, after all these years, he loved his father. The feeling was strange, new, almost comic. Draco Malfoy loved him. He loved him deeply dead.

*

He awoke suddenly and everything was still. The tree outside his window was still orange-coated, carpeted in crisp dying leaves, looming over him in reflection. His mirror was still smudged, smeared, marked with hands, legs, arses, the shags, the fucks, the bitter sex. His wand was still by him, poised, ready, waiting for one thing more than anything and waiting with hatred. Everything was the same, exactly where he left it, robes folded neatly, broomstick tucked away. Everything in his room was the way it should be, and as he lay there, shivering, sweating, panting in the darkness, he breathed it in to calm himself. He didn’t shut his eyes for worry of falling asleep again. And he couldn’t fall asleep again. Not tonight, at least.

Draco tapped the candles with his wand and moved to the edge of the bed. His arm was bleeding- nail marks just above a scar- he had been scared again. He grimaced as he touched them and thought how simple it would be to heal them, yet so hard to know why he can’t. Why he couldn’t bring himself to.

The stillness of the room stayed still but was too dark. He wanted to leave it a little, wander off down the stairs, wander out into the night because somehow, outside, it seemed brighter. He wasn’t troubled that he couldn’t, he didn’t care that much for the walk, but he cared enough to grab his grey slacks and pull them over his boxers to leave the room. The common room was always light, always warm, the fire was always burning and he liked to lie on the sofa before it.

The stone steps were cold under his feet but he didn’t mind it, it cooled him from growing warmer as he always did. He was always growing too warm, his mother said it was the Black-blood running through him, strong and hot. He always denied it. He was more Malfoy than anything else, he said, he shared no other blood.

The staircase led through the archway and the brightness of the common room impaired his vision suddenly. “Fuck,” he muttered, stumbling a little towards the sofa, a hand across his eyes.

“Is that all you ever say?”

His eyesight adjusted just in time to her sarcastic expression. “Fuck,” he repeated, “Granger.”

She rolled her eyes. “Don’t worry,” she sighed, “I’m leaving soon.”

He shrugged his shoulders. “Why are you even awake?”

She stared back at him over a couple of heavy books laid out on the desk before her. “I have things to do,” she answered coldly, “Prefect duties haven’t left me much time this week.” She said the last part as she turned back to her papers so not to make it too obvious why exactly that was, though Draco knew already so it was a little pointless, he thought.

“What time is it?” he asked her, falling back onto the sofa with his head lulled back and turned slightly in her direction.

“One o’ clock?” she murmured, “Two?”

“What’s that supposed to tell me?” he scoffed.

“That I don’t know the exact time.”

Draco grumbled something and put his feet on the table in front of him. “Bit keen, aren’t you?” he asked, “Shouldn’t care enough to stay up this late. Thought your bedtime was never past ten o’clock Granger.”

“Seeing as we have to patrol until eleven thirty some nights that can’t really be true now, can it?” she answered, meeting his eyes as she closed a book loudly. “Why are you awake?”

He shrugged. It was obviously his decided way of expressing himself this morning.

“Bad dream?” she asked.

Draco cut himself a sharp frown. “Fuck off you stupid little bitch,” he snapped, “Get on with your work and get out.”

She might have been slightly shocked by his reaction, but the remarks, tone, expression were all been-there-and-seen-that material. “I’ll leave when I’m finished,” she replied.

“I think you’re finished already,” he corrected her, his hands reaching behind his head, “I want to be alone.”

“Why not go back up to your bedroom then?” she asked, “Why be such a…” She trailed off. She suddenly felt a wave of exhaustion. Ever since her and Draco began speaking, the insults and curses were endless. It seemed useless to finish her sentence. It was late and she was tired.

“A what?” he asked her. She didn’t reply and he didn’t like that. She could say whatever she liked but ignoring him wasn’t part of the permission package with Draco Malfoy. “Come on Granger,” he said, looking at her, “Spit it out.”

“I don’t know,” she replied, “A bastard? Dickhead?” She leant back in her chair. “Or would you prefer stupid fuck?” Maybe she just couldn’t help herself after all.

His eyebrows lowered. “And what would you prefer? Stinking mudblood, Granger?”

“Really?” She raised an eyebrow. “Then why is it you’ve been staring intently at this ‘stinking mudblood’ since you got here.”

He felt a sudden rush of idiocy and snapped his eyes away. “Fuck off,” he mumbled at the ceiling,

“You might make some twats look twice but as far as I’m concerned you’re a disgusting-”

“Yes.” She closed her other books and rose from her chair with them neatly in her arms. “Yes,” she repeated. He could feel her looking at him and he didn’t like it. “I wouldn’t want it any other way to be honest.” She pushed the chair into the desk. “Goodnight, Malfoy.”

He didn’t watch her leave, of course. What did she expect, anyway? It was those fucking pyjamas again that he clearly did a worse job of pretending to ignore this time. He could see under the bloody desk, for fucks sake. He had certainly learnt something knew by finding out the muddy Granger princess wore things like that. Maybe she really was a whore. And he was a man, after all. They were wired a certain way, animal instincts and all that. If he looked it wasn’t because he chose to or wanted to or even liked to, it was involuntary. Thinking about it made him sick. If the fucking mudblood thought he would even so much as- Draco shivered.

He picked up a book on the table in front of him and buried himself inside it. He would read until sunrise, because he couldn’t go back to sleep tonight. Not tonight.

*

A week passed and October began to die out around the castle. The air was mild but the leaves were whipped up into a frenzy by an incessant wind that kept the Quidditch games under heavy surveillance. The days were shorter, darker, every one dawning with a repetitive wave of anticipation for Christmas. Hermione knew that the shops back home would be decorated already. It was a waste of space and time but made the festive season last just that little bit longer. She liked that at least, even if the holiday itself was never the same with the disappearing magic of growing up.

Harry and Hermione had barely spoken the past week. Nor had she and Draco. The short conversation the night they couldn’t sleep had reworked and restored any faltering tension between them. She enjoyed the resumed silence before she remembered why it was so difficult in the first place. Apart from the massive change in prefect rota coming up, the seventh-year Winter Ball was fast approaching with a vengeance that made Hermione feel nauseous whenever she thought about it. It was something all students looked forward to throughout their years at school, always envying the older students who were able to attend and now- now it was their turn and instead of feeling a buzz of excitement, Hermione couldn’t think of anything else she’d rather avoid.

She felt alone and so pissed off knowing that Harry, idiot or not, was fundamentally right about Malfoy. He was walking all over her. She felt it whenever she drew up prefect plans or meeting schedules, knowing he was in the opposite room fucking some perfect little slag into the bed sheets.

And that was only the tip of the iceberg.

“The sodding tip I swear,” growled Hermione, chewing on a sweet.

“And what about talking to Harry?”

“Don’t even say it Ron,” she snapped. Of course she hadn’t told him that her and Draco weren’t talking again, or that she felt trodden on because it was clear she was doing the bulk of the work again, but making out it was simply the ridiculous timing of the events and the prefects and the bloody- “end of term preparations that will follow straight after, you know I never realised how much hard work this would be!”- was as much as she could say.

“How much has Malfoy done?” asked Ron, a slightly quiet wary tone creeping in at the mention of his name.

Hermione shrugged. “Enough,” she chewed harder, “I mean, whatever. Less than enough I guess but it’s not that simple.”

Ron frowned. “Less than-”

“I’m onto it!” she insisted, knocking the half open packet of sweets off the arm of her chair and onto the house common room floor. They spilt and spun far across the carpet. Some fourth-years looked round. She stared back. “Yes?”

Ron took her hand and she turned to him. “Hermione I know this is just one of those days were you get extra stressed-” She pulled away her hand and he changed the approach. “You are dealing with this so well,” he said, “Anyone would feel like you do. Probably worse, especially with him living on top of you all the time.” And then he focussed on what was, undeniably, the most important thing needing to be fixed. “You’re the smart one, Hermione. And that’s why you’re the one who has to talk to Harry.” Her eyes rolled but he kept going. “To be honest, I don’t really know what’s been going through his head recently. We’re both worried but you know what it’s like between him and Malfoy. I think he’s just waiting for the guy to try and get to him through you.”

“Not everything leads back to golden boy,” she grumbled.

“It sounds likely though. Either way, Harry is being an idiot and I’ve told him,” Ron suddenly felt a lurching feeling in his stomach. “I don’t like it here at the moment. It’s not right.”

Hermione noted the sudden quietness in his voice and her hand traced back to his. “I know,” she said, her tone matching, “It can’t be easy for you with us barely talking. I’ll try and say something. Clear the air.”

“It’s worth a try.”

Hermione sighed, “That boy. Sometimes I just-” she shook her head, “I want to shake him.”

*

“You want to shake me?”

Hermione nodded, her eyes wide. “And more.”

“Like what?” asked Harry, a smirk spreading across his face.

“Oh don’t you dare,” she said, “I’m still being serious here Mr. I’m-incapable-of-making-the-first-
move. I’m already annoyed that Ron’s made me do this.”

Harry sighed and zipped up his top higher. “But did we have to come outside?”

“I don’t want people hearing this,” she said, “I’m supposed to be head girl. No problems, no issues, no arguments. Common room, corridors, library- they all have ears. They can probably hear us now actually-”

“Okay, fair point,” agreed Harry, “Your hair keeps flicking me a bit though,” he added.

“I’m so sorry,” she said sarcastically.

He shrugged. “No problem.”

She rolled he eyes. “Ron told me what you’re thinking.”

“I doubt he did.”

“About Malfoy getting to you through me?”

Harry shrugged again. “Maybe.”

“It’s not going to happen,” she insisted, “And even if it could- which it won’t- why have I had to suffer your unsurpassable charm these past few days when I haven’t even done anything?”

“I just know you aren’t telling me- us- the truth and it’s frustrating.”

“How am I not telling you the truth?”

“Just because you admit to us that Malfoy is making it difficult for you it doesn’t make you weak.”

“I know!” she frowned, “I’m not not admitting anything. How can I admit something that can’t even be admitted since it isn’t even there to admit!”

“What?”

“I’m fine,” she explained, lowering her eyebrows and taking a deep breath. “I’m fine and you should just except it. Malfoy isn’t using me for any-”

“We know, Hermione,” said Harry, “We know about you doing the whole chart. All four houses.”
Hermione’s skin dyed characteristic crimson. “The what? I- er- don’t remember doing all four-”

“Look you don’t have to lie,” said Harry, “This is my point.”

“I’m not lying!” she frowned, flustered and frustrated. “I might have done more than my fair share that time round but it’s not like I should be obliged to tell you all about it.”

“I’m your best friend,” said Harry, “Me and Ron. We’re your best mates, you can tell us anything.”

“And you would have done what exactly?” she asked, a comic expression across her face, “Patted me on the back and told me to plug on?” She shook her head. “You would have gone straight to Malfoy and-” Hermione cut off suddenly, her eyes wide. “How do you know anyway?”

Harry sighed. “We had a run in with him last week.”

“A ‘run-in’?”

“Things were said.”

“Things?”

“Does it matter?”

“Oh please,” growled Hermione, “It matters just as much as it matters to you knowing about all this
irrelevant prefect stuff in the first place.”

“It’s hardly irrelevant-”

“What happened?”

“He mentioned that he made you do it,” said Harry, “That’s all.”

Hermione looked down. The wind had settled a little as the pale light began to sink behind the trees. She felt colder. She felt ashamed. “I didn’t want to do it,” she mumbled, “I would have made him but it was too late and the Professor-”

“You should have said something,” said Harry, “I know it’s just a stupid chart but I could have sorted it.”

“Look,” she breathed, “That’s the problem.”

He waited. “The problem?”

“I’ll tell you how it’s going if you agree not to ‘sort’ it out every time.”

“I just-”

“It’s that or I tell you nothing. We return to how it is now. I can’t worry about stirring trouble
between you two. There’s enough to think about as it is.” She spoke slowly, clearly. Harry knew the tone, knew she really meant it.

“As long as he doesn’t hurt you,” he muttered.

“Malfoy is a bastard, but I don’t think he’d hurt a girl.”

“You don’t know that for sure.”

“I think I do.”

Harry looked down at his shoes and shuffled some dead leaves about. He shoved his hands in his pockets and gripped the contents inside. “So is that all?”

“I don’t know,” replied Hermione, “Is it?”

“I guess.”

“There’s nothing more you want to say?” she asked him, “Because you should say it now. I don’t
want this to drag out and keep upsetting Ron.”

“Was he whining to you?”

“Are you surprised?”

“No.”

“So are we alright again?” Hermione noticed he wasn’t looking her way. She paused slightly and then lowered her voice. “Harry?”

His head rose. It was the first time he’d heard his name on her lips in a while. A warm feeling rose inside him and he smiled slightly. Hermione always said his name. It was always slipped into questions, answers, conversation. He felt uneasy hearing it so much from anyone else but her. He didn’t realise that he’d missed it.

“We’re okay,” he nodded.

“Although there is something,” she smiled.

Her smile- Merlin- he’d missed that too. “Yeah?”

“An apology?”

“Go ahead.”

“Oh you little-”

“Okay, okay,” he laughed, “I’m sorry.”

“How sorry?”

Harry rolled his eyes. It was the age old question with Hermione. How sorry? How much? “So sorry I would do your laundry for the next week. So sorry I would- give you company in the library and carry all your books. So sorry I would buy you forty of those stupid little chocolate bars you love so much from Honeydukes. So sorry I could-”

“Alright that will do, I’m sure,” she smiled, raising an eyebrow. “Apart from I wouldn’t want your company in the library, thank you very much. You’re nothing but a distraction. Oh and thirty chocolates are enough.”

“Fair enough,” answered Harry, as they wandered back up the path to the door. Something felt lighter within him. The feeling of resentment towards Malfoy and the whole bloody situation was quieter inside him for the moment. It was a matter of four minutes and Hermione was back. She seemed easier and comfortable and he almost wanted to grab her hand.

Because it was so strange without the three of them. Harry used to notice it in the earlier years whenever he left on holidays without them. It felt right and household- the proverbial three. It was family, the one he never had, the one he almost did. He was afraid- that was all- scared that her being so busy, being Head Girl, being with Draco Malfoy would change it all.

He felt close to Ron and Hermione. He felt almost a part of them. And Hermione’s ridiculously righteous principles and spiteful bitter tongue was a part of that too. Her relentless pride and bloody determination to prove them all wrong was just there. It was natural. He fucking hated it for being so natural. But he needed it. He needed her. Hermione and Ron were his basic requirements. He often thought of how terrifying that was.

Maybe he would live to see the day when one of them would stop breathing. He thought about that, thought about Hermione mostly, and how sickly likely the possibility of him seeing that, seeing her suffer. It could happen being the time that it was, the place that it was. It could happen simply because of him, and he never let himself forget the danger Hermione and Ron were in just by merely being his friends. Voldemort was still out there. Somewhere. They were tools.

Tools. That was what Malfoy looked for. It brought Harry almost full circle. He was so sure the bastard would use her as a tool. And that day, that day he thought about when she might stop breathing, Harry knew it would destroy everything inside him.

But now they were young. Hermione didn’t know the horrors Harry did, neither did Ron. They would be aware on the outside, they would listen and sometimes glimpse them, but they would never know. Harry even thought that he didn’t know himself, not yet, he wasn’t old enough to understand. He never wanted to be old enough to understand. Ignorance was fucking gold dust.

So why, he cursed himself, thinking back as he walked through the castle doors, why had he let himself say so little these past weeks to the only girl in his life he couldn’t do without?

He really was so sorry if he hurt her. But he knew that he couldn’t deny the reasons behind it. He knew it would come up again and he almost hated himself for it already. But for now he would just be sorry. So sorry he could kiss her. Almost. Not quite.

Maybe.





*

Disclaimer: All these characters belong to JKR. I own nothing, much to my dismay, and make no money whatsoever out of this story!

Chapter 3.

Snape had discovered two fifth-years, two sixth-years and three third-years wandering the corridors last night. The prefect patrols were clearly ineffective. “I don’t know what you tell them to do Mr. Malfoy, but it certainly isn’t their job.” Draco didn’t like being scorned by his own head of house. He and Snape had an understanding, he liked to think.

He spat at the side of the corridor as he approached the portrait hole. “Stupid mudblood,” he mumbled to himself, “Have to talk to the fucked up little bitch.” He punched the surrounding wall as the portrait snidely informed him that “little bitch” was not the correct password. He muttered the response and the portrait swung open. He auditioned several opening lines before settling on one with the most variations of the word ‘fuck’.

“-and so in short he wants us to go on a fucking patrol.”

Hermione shrugged, “When?” She had yet to look up from her book. It annoyed him.

“Look at me when I’m speaking to you you little fuckwit.” Her eyes remained on the text. He expected it, he realised, never quite knowing how stubborn she was before these past couple of months. “Fine Granger,” he continued, “I’ll inform Snape of your failure to co-operate. Who knows? He might just believe me because he wants to see you punished.”

Snape did, thought Hermione, he had it in for all Gryffindors.

“Well?” growled Draco.

Hermione looked up at him slowly. “You can be quite the little bitch when you want to be. Pansy passed on a few tips?”

Draco smirked. “She doesn’t tend to say much I can understand whilst I’m boning her into the floorboards actually.”

“You don’t tend to understand much anyway, Malfoy.” retorted Hermione.

He scoffed. “We both know that if I put in just that little bit more effort, Granger,” he smirked, “You’d start to fall behind with the marks.”

“You might be good in class Malfoy,” she retorted, “But you’re as thick as a dog when it comes to common sense.”

His smirk remained as he shrugged. “Ten till one in the morning,” he said, wiping the slight smile from her face, “Tonight,” he added.

“You are joking,” she laughed with disbelief, “Normal patrols end just after eleven.”

“He found these twats after midnight,” replied Draco, “Did I mention four of them were from your poncey little house?”

“Yes.”

“Too thick to understand the rules, clearly.”

“Just because they aren’t trained in the art of deception. Slytherins are constantly breaking the
rules.”

“Absolutely,” he agreed, “And getting away with it.”

She rolled her eyes. “So what, I patrol the first two floors and you patrol the top two?”

He shook his head. “Snape says together.”

“Together?”

“Unfortunately. I don’t particularly want to be smelling you for the next few hours,” he began, his face screwed into a disgusted expression, “But Snape says it’s too late to patrol alone,” he continued, “Personally I couldn’t give a toss what happened to you, but I’d rather stay out of the red with him for the next few weeks at least. If you have a problem with that then you can just-”

“Fine.”

“Just stay as far away as possible.”

“What, no holding hands?”

“I’d rather eat my own puke, mudblood.”

She hated that she was getting used to that word. When she warned him off- what felt like years ago- she thought she would never put up with it again. She was wrong, as she had been with many things so far.

*

Hermione wondered to herself how unsafe it was to have so many dark corridors in the castle. She wasn’t keen on the darkness; nothing overly debilitating her, but she felt there was something consuming about it, something restricting and beating about the black all around her. She could only see all of what her wand would allow- and Draco’s of course, because she couldn’t forget that he was there too.

The top two floors seemed to stretch out forever like the castle was top heavy. It was eleven and Hermione noted that normally their patrol would be coming to a close. Normally, she thought, she would be wandering around on her own- though part of her acknowledged the fact that so far it hadn’t been much different. After Draco briefly told her these late night checks were to be carried out randomly once every two months, the conversation locked away into a silence that at least allowed each of them to pretend they were alone.

Pretending was difficult however when they found a stray Gryffindor in one of the few candlelit corridors of the second floor. Hermione sighed, because it had to be a Gryffindor whilst she was out patrolling with the Prince of Slytherin.

“Gryffindor,” he drawled, “What did I tell you Granger?”

She ignored him. “What’s your name?” she asked the boy.

“Michael Scaventon.”

“Year?”

“Fifth.”

“And what are you doing out past curfew, Michael?” Hermione asked, waiting for the inevitable and bitter interruptions from Draco through his blatant smirk.

The boy shrugged. He was thinking for a moment. “I guess I forgot to pick up my laundry this evening so I’m on my way there now.”

Hermione noticed the mocking in his tone. “You guess?” she repeated, her eyes narrowing.

He nodded curtly. “I like to get things done.”

Draco laughed out loud. “What a load of bullshit you thick prick.”

Hermione shot him a cold look and turned back to Michael. “No Michael,” she said, “What were you really doing?”

“Going to..the laundry..room,” he replied, slowly with emphasis on every word.

She raised an eyebrow. “The rules clearly state that fifth-years aren’t allowed outside house quarters after nine thirty,” she told him.

“Oh for fucks sake Granger,” sighed Draco, “Give the little shit three detentions and tell him to fuck off.”

“Three detentions?” she turned to him, her tone remaining calm, “And I suppose Slytherins will only get one? Or maybe, if they’re lucky enough to be a girl, if they promise to have a quick shag with you, the whole thing will be completely forgotten?” Hermione said it all instinctively, forgetting they had company. She rolled her eyes at her lapse in Head-Girl-esque behaviour and turned back to the boy. “I’ll be giving your name to Professor McGonagall and you can be sure you’ll be sitting a detention within the next week. I’ll be mentioning your attitude as well.”

“And with so many Gryffindors on that bad list of hers,” grinned Draco over her shoulder, “I’m pretty certain I’ll opt to supervise that detention. We can have a bit of fun.” He said it all looking at Hermione. “Can’t we Michael?” he added.

Michael shrugged. “Whatever.”

Draco snapped his eyes dangerously towards at him and tilted his head to the side. “I think what you mean is yes sir.”

Michael stared back at him, a silent refusal to answer. Oh no, thought Hermione, asking herself why every Gryffindor had to be so bloody stubborn. “Report to Professor McGonagall in the morning,” she said, breaking the uneasy silence and writing down his name. “And that’s ten points from Gryfinndor.”

“I’d say more like fifty.”

“Ten, Malfoy, as well as the detentions.”

“So what?” asked Michael, “Are you two going to get my washing for me then?”

Hermione sighed. If the boy was trying to be funny, he was failing miserably. “Just go,” she ordered, half pointing in the direction of his dormitories. But Draco stepped into his path, his eyes bearing down on the fifth-year.

“What?” Michael dared, “You don’t offer that service?”

“Listen you cunt,” he growled, “Do not disrespect the head prefects or you can be sure you’ll get a lot more than a fucking detention next time round.” His eyes bore right into him. “How about you write that one out for me two hundred times?”

Michael looked back at him in silence. Hermione knew they’d found an idiot.

“And how about,” continued Draco, “You get that done for me by eight o’ clock tomorrow morning. You like to get things done after all, don’t you Scaventon?” He moved closer to the boy, the gap between the two of them narrowing enough for Draco to tower high above him.

There was a short silence in which a frown began to deepen on Michael’s forehead. His mouth started to open and Hermione dreaded the words that were starting to come out.

“How about you go fuck y-”

“Malfoy!” she exclaimed, rushing up to him and pulling on his shoulder as he slammed Michael into the wall, his fist pulling firmly on his tie as he watched the tips of his shoes scrape desperately at the ground. “What are you doing?!” Hermione shouted at him.

“Fuck off!” he spat at her, turning into Michael so their foreheads almost touched. Draco pressed his wand harder into his neck and he made a small choking sound. “You better watch that mouth of yours Scaventon. You’ve got a lot to be sorry for now you’ve opened it.”

“Stop it will you?!” shouted Hermione, “Let him go!” She struggled again to pull him off but he ignored her.

“Let me hear your apology,” snarled Draco, breathing into Michael who was shaking as he nodded a response. Draco loosened his grip enough to let the words slip out.

“S-sorry,” he stuttered.

“And to her,” he growled, “Nice and clearly.”

“Malfoy please,” said Hermione helplessly, tears rising in her eyes, “Stop it…”

“Sorry,” coughed Michael, his eyes flickering over her before Draco stepped away from him and he dropped to the ground. Hermione rushed over.

“Bloody hell Malfoy!” she barked, desperately trying to help up Michael. “What the hell was that?!”
Michael was rubbing his neck. “Are you okay?” she asked him, “Michael? Do you need-”

“No,” he interrupted hoarsely, taking a few awkward steps away from them. He caught Draco’s stare. “Honestly I’m fine, I’ll just…” He gestured in the direction of his common room.

“What a fantastic idea,” agreed Draco, watching as the boy hurried clumsily off down the corridor.
Hermione watched him in disbelief. “Michael are you sure?” she called after him. He didn’t reply as he disappeared around the nearest corner.

She let out a breath of astonishment and turned round to face the Head Boy. He was clicking his knuckles.

“Let’s get on,” he muttered, beginning to walk past her. She pushed her hand against his chest and he leapt backwards. “Stop fucking touching me you stupid bitch!” he said.

“Fuck you!” she exclaimed, shaking her head in amazement, “I mean seriously, what in Merlin’s name was-?”

“You’ll make me sick,” he told her, “I don’t want your Mudblood hands all over me.”

“That’s not what I meant!” she said, pushing him again before he could dodge out the way.

“I’m warning you Granger,” he snarled.

“Or what?” she laughed, “You’ll half strangle me like you did that fifth-year? You do realise he’ll go straight to McGonagall and I can guarantee that’s both of us out on our arses you stupid fucking idiot Malfoy!” She shook her head again. “What the hell were you playing at?”

He raised his eyebrows. “That little shit won’t be running off to tell anyone,” he answered, “You can be sure of that.”

“How?” she asked, “And I mean can you even blame him if he does?” Hermione started to walk towards him again. “Why did you do that?”

“You heard the dickwit, he was giving a bit too much back to us.”

“So he was full of it,” she raised her hands, “Give him your three beloved detentions, don’t ram him up against the bloody wall!” She stood before him now, her chest heaving with exhaustion.

“Look, fuck you alright?” said Draco, “I was doing you a favour.”

Hermione laughed out loud. “A favour?”

“Teaching him respect,” he replied, “Because he clearly didn’t have any for either of us.”

“I can handle the backchat fine.”

“Oh yeah,” he frowned, “Your comebacks knocked him dead.”

“Better than bruising his jugular you idiot.”

“Teaching people lessons is part of the punishment bitch.”

“You know it wouldn’t have been like that if he wasn’t Gryffindor!”

“No one speaks like that to me and gets away with it.”

“Oh don’t bother Malfoy.”

“Sure if it were a Slytherin it probably wouldn’t have happened like that because he wouldn’t be
stupid enough to give those smart arse remarks.” Draco laughed. “He wouldn’t have been thick enough to be caught in the first place.”

“Oh yes,” sighed Hermione sarcastically, “Because Slytherins are quite clearly the best.”

“You said it.”

“And what am I supposed to tell McGonagall?”

“Nothing,” he told her, “And it better be nothing or you’ll live to regret it.”

“What you hurt women too do you?”

Something about that comment made Draco wince. “Fuck you,” he barked, “I’ve never hurt a girl in my life.”

Hermione shrugged. “What a vote of confidence that last little performance was.”

“Unless you’re referring to a hard and brutal fuck Granger you’re wrong. And anyway, I can get to you in so many different ways it will be like Christmas for me to choose.”

She looked at him disgusted and shook her head. “You’re a bastard, Malfoy.” She turned away from him and began to walk off.

“Where are you going?” he called after her.

“Away from you,” she replied.

“What about patrol?” he asked, “Not like the Head Bitch to disobey her little orders.”

“Fuck you,” her voice echoed.

He let out sharp growl as she left up the corridor. Turning around he clenched his jaw and tightened his fists to find himself punching the wall with the same scraped knuckles as earlier. That little bugger may have pissed him off but never as much as she did. And he never realised it would get to him so much. He never realised. He felt sick suddenly. He wanted to throw up because she even so much as suggested that he might hurt her. And even if she didn’t think it, she said it all the same and he wanted to never never hear those words because it reminded him so much of dark things. Dark things even for him.

It reminded him of home.

Draco swallowed the thoughts in his dry throat, bitter and biting, and his mind reverted back to Granger’s consumption of it. Because he was thinking about how he hated her. More and more everyday but especially now. And he began to think, began to plan a release since he would only feel some sort of relief when he knew she’d paid for making him feel like this. Because not even Potter got him this wound up so easily. Not even the Boy-Who-bloody lived and his pathetic peasant begging bitch of a friend.

He knew he was getting to her, and that he had since the beginning of term. But he really needed, like a desperate energy, to hear it. To hear her tell him. He’d broken her. He needed to know he’d broken her.

*

She was sitting in one of the bay windows looking outside. He wondered what she could see in the darkness after one in the morning. He knew she heard him come in since she pulled down on her skirt as it rode up her thighs- the ones he forbid himself to ever glance at for longer than a second- and slid down her legs- never longer than a second- without looking in his direction. It was better than the usual no response that he despised so much.

“I didn’t find anyone else,” began Draco, after he’d moved towards the fire. It was simmering down and not as warm as usual. The whole room seemed slightly colder. “Not even a another filthy Gryffindor,” he continued, “I suppose half the bloody castle heard you wailing at me and got the message.”

She didn’t turn her head to him, didn’t make a sound.

“You didn’t come straight back here did you?” he asked. She ignored him again. “No I suppose you wouldn’t. Continued on your patrol like a good little girl I’ll bet.” She moved then, but it was only to wipe away the reforming condensation on the window before her. Draco frowned. He could see her faint reflection and knew that meant she would be able to see him too if she wanted. She wouldn’t be looking though. No. All those Gryffindors were the same, so damned proud and righteous it made him shudder with impatience. “That bastard had it coming,” he tried, evocative he hoped, “You can be damned sure I don’t regret a single bit of it. No one speaks to me like that.” Maybe she sighed, he wasn’t too sure, but the condensation seemed to reform quicker this time. “Admit it,” he said, watching her hand wipe it away again. “Admit that you loved seeing that smug fucker pressed into the wall.” His tone lowered. “Admit that you liked seeing me do that. That you wanted to do it yourself.” Her fingers twitched. That’s right, he thought, let me work you up. Let me watch it happen. He dared further, leaning forward, staring at her reflection, watching the flicker of eyelashes. His voice fell to an almost half-whisper. “Admit that it turned you on, Granger.”

Instantly her back straightened and she swung her legs off the ledge. Draco smiled to himself as she stood before the window, her eyes cutting right through his skull. “Hit a nerve, did I?” he asked, pleased that it took exactly what he thought it would to get her eyes on his.

“You enjoyed hurting that boy did you?” she asked him, her lip quivering, “You loved every bit of it?”

“I would do it again.” Inside himself Draco was a little intrigued, though mostly uninterested in how that lip of hers was the only thing conveying her anger. Her tone was calm, her voice was annoyingly collected, those distracting eyes of hers were deep and dark as ever but they weren’t looking as if they could spit fire like earlier, no matter how far they seemed to reach into his head.

“Then why were you going around punching walls afterwards?” she asked him, nodding towards his bleeding hand, “I mean it obviously can’t be anything to do with me getting you wound up, Malfoy. I’m scarcely a blip on your radar, right? So if it’s not me or Michael, then what is it?”

He stared at her. His smirk remained but he didn’t speak. He breathed harder instead.

“Your stupid sick fuck act doesn’t fool me Malfoy,” she continued, “You’re not as straight cut ‘bad’ as you like to think you are. You’re just as weak as you think I am.” Draco stood up suddenly and she jumped, stepping back from the window and away from him. She grabbed her bag on the nearby table stand and gripped the wand inside it. “The only difference being that I’m not as weak as you think I am,” she added.

Draco laughed. “What are you going to pull out of there Granger?” he asked, “Potter?”

Hermione took out her wand and threw her bag to the floor. Draco’s eyes darted to her hand and the momentary tremor in his posture went unnoticed. “Doesn’t it bother you?” she continued, her knuckles white, “Harry has so much you don’t.”

“Can’t say I ever look at the Weasel with that longing sort of feeling actually.”

“He’s a real hero. He knows more about the hardships in life than anyone and he’s still standing tall without some big fat chip on his shoulder. And he has real friends because of it. People that love him, would do anything for him. People that respect him and not because they are afraid of what will happen if they don’t.” Hermione’s eyes travelled down Draco’s body. “And he doesn’t get complete slags falling at his feet the whole time either,” she scoffed.

Draco grinned. “I can guarantee you he doesn’t count that one as a blessing.”

“I meant he gets the decent girls,” she said, “Don’t you ever wonder what that would be like Malfoy? Getting a decent girl?”

“I can get anyone I want,” he retorted, his smile fading, “And you know it Granger.”

She rolled her eyes. “And what really really must get to you Malfoy, is that Harry has morals, he has feelings, he has a heart,” she continued, “That’s why he’s going to grow up and live an admirable life for himself instead of cowering in the shadow of his father like you.”

Draco’s expression turned to stone. “You start to bring my father into this and we’ll have a problem bitch.” He stepped towards Hermione and her arm jerked instinctively forward, pointing her wand straight at him. He reached inside his pocket.

“Don’t you fucking dare,” she warned him, “I’ll hex you I swear Malfoy. Don’t think I’m bluffing.”
He laughed at her and removed an empty hand. “I don’t have it anyway,” he said, gesturing towards his bag dumped in front of the common room door. “Took it off when I came in. Didn’t realise I’d be having a face off with Little Miss Gryffindor.”

Her arm remained straight and poised. “So how about you admit it?” she said, “Admit that you’re weak.”

“How about you admit it first.”

“I’m not weak.”

“I’m talking about earlier tonight with that Scaventon bastard. Admit that it turned you on.”

“Fuck you.”

“Oh I bet you wanted to.”

“What the hell is wrong with you?” spat Hermione, the calmness drifting away, her face reddening by the second.

Draco stepped towards her. “Why do you think the question is bothering you so much?”

“Because it’s the most disgusting thing to come out your mouth all year.”

“Is that right?”

“Yes.” Draco was close enough for the tip of her wand to touch his shirt. Hermione didn’t like that
he’d been able to get there without her using it.

“Well then answer me,” he said, “Did you like it?”

“Like it?” How the hell, she thought, can he ask such a question? “Of course I didn’t like it!”

“You didn’t?”

“No.”

“You’re lying.”

“Any closer and I really mean it you bastard.” But she was shaking. For fucks sake, she thought, stop shaking. He had turned her, turned her composed exterior inside out as per fucking usual.

“I saw the way you were breathing.” His tone lowered again. “Like you are now.”

“I’m angry,” she said, “Get that into your thick twisted head.”

He stared at her without blinking, his eyes slicing through hers like broken glass.

She sucked up the air through her nostrils and let it fill her lungs, straightening her spine, levelling her feet. So many things she wanted to say. So many. “Take a big fat fucking look at yourself Malfoy,” she said, “Don’t you know how to do anything other than irritate the shit out of people?” And once she started- “Don’t you know how to interact without shagging girls or getting those meatheads Crabbe and Goyle to beat people to the ground? You can’t even understand that all of it shows just how fucking vulnerable you are. You can’t fucking stand to hear the truth- can’t stand the fact that maybe someone isn’t as scared as you as the rest. Like that Gryffindor, like Harry and Ron, like me.” – she couldn’t stop, she couldn’t see how she could ever stop. “How long has it been Malfoy? Seven years? How exactly have you managed to stand by and watch everyone else grow up without catching on that maybe, just maybe, you should be doing the same? It’s pathetic! The self-proclaimed leader of Slytherin, quite possibly the most disgustingly devious house in the school, and you have absolutely nothing to teach them other than how to destroy even more of whatever good is left it those dense skulls of theirs! You think mudbloods are sick, Malfoy? You think we’re diseased? You’re the one who needs help! You’re the one who makes my skin crawl whenever we stand in the same room! You’re fucked up Malfoy. And your father couldn’t even teach you anything other than how to fuck up everyone else with you-” Her wand went flying.

She was up against the wall, winded, Draco’s face centimetres from hers as he gripped her shoulders and pinned her firmly- hard- into the wall. Stunned, angry, unable to quench the fire within her, Hermione caught her breath quickly. “Go ahead,” she hissed, “Hit me.” Draco was breathing hard, his face screwed into a frown as his teeth ground together in front of her. She could hear it, feel the fury. He was enraged. “Hit me,” she said again. His jaw was moving, grating, grinding in his cheek. And close, so fucking close to her. “Isn’t that what your father would want you to do?” she asked, the proximity deafening. His pallid eyes were dancing with her reflection. She could see it, no matter how she tried to sound, she looked terrified. “Isn’t that what he’d tell you?” she continued, beginning to stutter, “Hurt me. Hurt the mudblood bitch. We’re weak.” He was mere moments from her skin, and he wanted to hurt her, he needed to so – so fucking much as she stood throbbing against the wall, her words sharp and dead and hot. “Go on.” She repeated it one last time. Sharp, dead, hot. “Hit me Malfoy.” So he did the only thing he could to stop himself.

The only thing. He kissed her.

His lips crashed onto hers and her head banged back against the wall. He heard her muffled screams as her lips shut tightly and struggled away from him, pulling her mouth free.

“No!” she resisted as he grabbed her chin and forced her back to look at him. “Fuck off Malfoy!” she whimpered. She could feel his breath against her skin and it made her shiver, a deep, startled, severe tingling that travelled down her back erecting all the tiny hairs its path. She struggled again and he tightened his grip.

Once more, slow and firm, he pressed his lips into hers and she stilled, her eyes, those dark fucking eyes, seething at him. Draco pulled his head back once more. They stared at each other for a long second, longer than it should have been, breathing and screaming inside and full of something, everything, nothing they could understand. “I hate you Malfoy,” Hermione whispered, a voice as raw as ripping silk, hoarse, hot, close to tears, “I hate you so much.”

And Draco brought his lips to hers one last time, and her mouth opened for him, pushed into his, felt the wet heat of his hard tongue and gave a short sharp moan as one of his hands grabbed her hair and tugged her head back, leaning into her further. Draco was angry. He was kissing her to punish her, to punish himself, and it was punishing- it was desperate, frantic, wild. It was his teeth biting down on her bottom lip, hard, hungry. He took it in his mouth and sucked all the blood to its surface, sharp and sweet, releasing it moments later to taste the other, feel it throb, threaten, beg for more. And he couldn’t stop, sucking at her tongue, pressing his mouth against hers, his tongue- deeper and deeper. Hermione felt it, she was losing her way. She was dissolving, fizzing, terrified to open her eyes, her hand holding a fist full of his shirt, pulling him into her, and he was pressed, she was melting to the wall, he was fucking eating into her. He bit her again, harder, hungry still, shamed and so deliriously irate as he burned through her lip. She made a small sound lost in the dark of his mouth. Both his hands held her face now, rough, brutal, and she couldn’t move, wouldn’t move, and he thought he tasted the faint tang of blood on his tongue so he licked, lapped, lusted at it and tasted more. This can’t be just a kiss, his mind raced, pounded, shattered into a million pieces all screaming her name her fucking name- Granger- and they both needed air, needed air so much because he realised he couldn’t breathe but he was so angry he wanted to suffocate her wanted her to break-to-break-now-please- and suddenly she was pushing.

She was pushing against him firmly, hard against his chest- she can’t breathe- harder then with her elbows and writhing, wriggling away, moaning things over his tongue that scraped against hers frenziedly and he couldn’t quite understand when it all went from bad to worse and he was forcing a fucking mudblood against him, hands leaving her face, pinning her back to the wall, chewing back onto her lip and pushing his mouth down so hard on hers as if she would split for him because he wanted to her split-break-anything but stop him and he swore she had kissed him back and now? Now he couldn’t understand but he held her there, couldn’t leave her lips, couldn’t still his tongue he had to taste and press her, show her who was the one with the control, the authority, wanting her to want him, crave him forever, pressing his hardening cock against her thigh and moaning into her mouth at the contact, almost bucking at the idea of what was inside of her, slick, warm, tight, dirty. She was moaning louder now, trying to close her mouth, trying to put her lips together but his tongue, he wouldn’t stop it, he was so furious and he hated her so much that he couldn’t stop it. And her struggling became harder- when did she stop kissing him back?- and he was finding it harder to hold her, but he was strong, stronger than her and stronger still and he was glad to know there was nothing she could do. She’s too weak. But don’t stop kissing her, don’t stop your tongue, don’t let her scream, don’t stop the taste, don’t open your eyes, don’t acknowledge, don’t accept, it’s a fucking filthy mess and you’re devouring a mudblood, it’s Granger, it’s fucking Granger her name again, her name her name her fucking name and then-

Draco tore away his mouth and collapsed onto the floor beneath her. “Fuck!” he spluttered, clutching his suddenly softening crotch as he rolled around at her feet. “What the hell are you playing at?!”

“What the hell are YOU playing at?!” Hermione screamed.

“You fucking kneed me-”

“What do you expect?!” she screamed again, rushing over his body and away towards the opposite wall. “You fucking BASTARD Malfoy!”

Draco’s eyes were shut tightly, the pain, the pain was always unforgettable. “Bitch,” he said, his teeth gritted.

“Don’t you dare come near me,” she shouted as he began to drag himself up on his knees. Draco noticed she had grabbed her wand again, it was pointed directly at him as he shakily stood to his feet. “I swear if you so much as take one fucking step!”

He was hunched over, still grimacing, his teeth still grinding. “In case you hadn’t noticed you kissed me back you jumped up little whore,” he spat.

“I was trying to make you stop!” she exclaimed, her arm straightening further in anger.

“You were pulling me into you!”

“Until I started pushing you away!”

His laugh faltered into a wince. “You’ve fucking crippled me,” he growled, “Put your bloody wand down.”

“I couldn’t breathe!”

“Put your wand down Granger.”

Her eyes were wide. “Don’t move!”

“Shut up you idiot,” he scoffed, “I can’t even stand up properly.”

“You deserved it.”

“What’s wrong with you? You wanted it!”

“I didn’t want that!”

“You kissed me back.”

“Stop saying that!”

“Fucking accept it!”

“You hurt me,” she said, struggling to control the frantic rise and fall of her chest. “What happened to not hurting girls Malfoy?”

His eyes narrowed. “Shut up.”

“I thought you didn’t do that.”

“I said shut up!”

“What would you have done?”

“Oh don’t be so dramatic,” he answered, “You loved it.”

She shook her head. “You’ll never get that close to me again Malfoy,” she replied, her voice breaking slightly.

He looked up. He didn’t know if he could see right but there might have been tears in her eyes.

“Do you understand?” she asked.

He doesn’t hurt girls. He doesn’t.

“Malfoy?”

“What?”

“Never again.”

“I never want to again,” he frowned, “I’ve never felt so sick in all my life.”

She stared at him, those tears that might have been re-settling and unbroken in her eyes. “Never again,” she repeated, her wand still pointed to him as she moved the few metres to the staircase.

He stared back at her as she took the first step up the staircase to her bedroom. “I didn’t hurt you,” he said, “Just so we make that clear as fucking crystal Granger. You kissed me back and I don’t care how many times I have to say it.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“What do you think it’s supposed to mean?” he said, his posture broader now, “I wouldn’t want anyone finding out about this sick fuck up anymore than you do. But if you don’t cooperate I’m pretty certain Potter won’t stay entirely clueless for the rest of the year.”

Hermione’s heart seemed to stop beating. “No,” she said, her eyes wide, “You wouldn’t say anything.”

“Why not?”

“He’d kill you.”

“Or die trying.”

“No Malfoy, this stays between us.” The tears rose again in her eyes and she swallowed them back.

“Well isn’t that interesting.”

“What?” she frowned, failing any attempts to calm the heated rush of blood beneath her skin.

“Why would you be so keen to keep it between us if you didn’t even do anything, Granger?” he smirked, “If you’re so sure I ‘forced’ you, then what’s to stop you running to Potter?”

“Shut up.”

“You wanted it.”

Hermione shook her head in disbelief. How had it come to this? At what point did it all unravel so much? He would hold this to her forever. She would be trapped. She would be his and he knew that. She knew he knew that the bastard.

“And what if I did tell Harry?” she asked, her voice quivering.

“You wouldn’t,” he replied, his eyes narrowing, “Don’t kid yourself.”

“Wouldn’t I?” she retorted, “I’m not stupid, Malfoy. I know you think you’ll have this over me forever. I’m not going to let that happen.”

“And what would you tell the boy Granger?” smirked Draco, “That we kissed so hard it was practically fucking?”

Somewhere inside her, her heart jumped. “No,” she said, “That you wouldn’t let me go. That you forced me still. That’s what happened after all, wasn’t it?”

“You’d be lying.”

“Really?”

“You know you can’t lie to your beloved Potter,” laughed Draco, “You’d have to tell him you kissed me back and would it really be worth it? Would he ever talk to you again?”

Her eyes stung, it was too hard, she couldn’t hold them back and a tear fell to her cheek.

Draco noticed, his smile deadened somewhat. “You can cry all you want,” he growled.

She shook her head at him again and turned, ran, fled up the stairs, stifling the tears, the tears that fell and fell.

“It changes nothing!”

She slammed the door on his voice, sobbing, heaving, crumbling and sliding down the side of the door until her head was buried in her knees. Ashamed. Muffled moans and tears suppressed into her arms. Why? It was all a blur. And the worst part?

And the worst part.

She'd kissed him back.




*

Disclaimer: All these characters belong to JKR. I own nothing, much to my dismay, and make no money whatsoever out of this story!

Chapter 4.

“Has Hermione mentioned to you about the Winter Ball yet?”

“Harry, I’m right here.”

“I know I’m just checking with Ron before I ask you.”

“Ask me what?”

Harry looked down at his watch briefly and breathed himself into the most nonchalant manner he could muster. “Oh you know,” he began, “Just that, by rule Head Boy and Head Girl have to go together.”

Hermione stared at him.

“You know,” he continued, “As each other’s dates?”

Silence.

“Well I was just checking you knew,” shrugged Harry.

“I know, thank you,” replied Hermione, looking away and back into a book she was studying.

Harry waited. “That’s it?” he asked.

“What?” she sighed, rolling her eyes and closing the book.

“Well I assume that’s why you’ve been so-” ever-cautious to pick the right word “touchy this week.”

An eyebrow raised.

“Well, distant, then?”

Hermione’s stare was fixed.

Harry nudged Ron. “Seriously needing the help here.”

Ron shook his head through his comic. “Nah mate. You’ve ignored all the warning looks I just passed your way since the moment you opened your mouth. In fact you ignored the advice I gave you not to say anything in the first-”

“Alright Ron,” laughed Harry, embarrassed and uneasy that Hermione wouldn’t look too fondly upon the fact that he’d clearly discussed it before behind her back. “I get the point.”

Hermione placed her book on the side of the sofa, stood up and smoothed her skirt down. She stepped up to Harry and raised her head to level their gaze as much as possible. “Okay,” she said, “Maybe that is why I’ve been so touchy this week.”

Harry looked surprised by her admission. Alright, she thought, it’s not that unusual, surely?
“Maybe I am dreading it,” she continued, “In fact, it’s only a week and a half away and I’ve barely finished organising the bloody thing let alone begin to address the fact that I’ll be chaperoned by the world’s most renowned fuckabout. But I’ll be okay. I’ll be okay like I’ll always be okay.” She shrugged. “Alright?”

Aside to herself Hermione had began to feel a slow rising, possibly quite numbing as it so turned out to be, feeling of realisation and acknowledgement. In fact, no, it was more of a high-pitched fatal scream that made her want to run from the room retching. The truth? Fine Harry, she thought, if you want the bloody truth I’d clean forgotten about the stupid date rule- who made that rule?- and I was, in fact, about to casually mention that you or Ron needed to take me since I haven’t been able to find the time to get anyone else and WHY? Why? What a bloody beautiful question. Because every time I turn a sodding corner in this place I see Malfoy- if ever there was a bigger twat- and wonder how long it will take until he starts dropping hints that I kissed that mouth of his back- hard, fanatical and terrified.

That’s why.

Harry nodded. “Whatever,” he said, “I just wanted to offer you the opportunity to vent.” He fumbled with the bottom button of his shirt. “If you wanted to.” He was looking down. “Vent, that is.”

“I’ll be fine.”

Harry looked up at her and shrugged slightly. “I’m not going to sort out anything if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“Should I be?”

“No, that’s what I’m saying.”

“Glad to hear it.”

“Good.”

“So who are you taking?” she asked, grabbing her book back off the sofa and settling down again.

She still felt sick, she noted, and that of course wouldn’t go away until she either made herself throw up, discussed some different arrangements with Malfoy or quite simply killed herself. Or him.

“Who are you taking, Ron?” asked Harry instead of an answer. Which quite obviously was “no one” as of yet.

“Probably Lavender,” he replied, “Not that I’ve bothered to ask her yet.”

What was the worst part, under Harry and Ron finding out of course, was that she felt completely robbed of any right to claim sympathy for how it ended. She knew that even if she told them how she tried to stop it, tried to pull away, desperately, all they would hear was how it began. She kissed him back. She kissed him back. That would be the only thing that mattered to them. She knew this because it even overruled everything in her own head. Whenever she thought about the kiss, it was only of how she’d pulled him further into her and felt his hot skin and perfect mouth and brutal tongue and tightened grip, bite on her lip, drawing blood, licking, nipping, tugging, fusing and that was always followed with- what?- a sinisterly sardonic wave of pleasure? She didn’t like to think. So she’d think about how she tried to wrench him off and how she couldn’t breathe and how her lip was bleeding, thought of Harry, thought of Ron, thought of the consequences, thought of it’s path but all that was just a blur. Just a huge tremendous blur in her head.

Did she really try her best to pull away all that time?

Fuck that. Fuck him. Stupid bloody bastard got her thinking maybe it wasn’t his fault after all. When it was. It was, it was. She tried to pull away. She did. She kneed him in the balls like he deserved. And she was pleased when his mouth left hers.

Can you hear this? She asked herself. She was pleased. She told herself.

“-what I’m talking about.”

“I’m sorry?”

“You’re so bloody distant this week,” sighed Harry, “Did you even hear Ron?”

“Err,” Hermione stuttered a little, “Sorry Ron, can you say that again?”

“Ginny was yapping on about how you haven’t got a dress?” he repeated.

She stared at him blankly.

“For the Winter Ball?”

“Oh no. Not yet,” Hermione closed her book again and sighed. “Bloody hell.”

“Well I’ve got a suggestion,” beamed Ron, “I could get Mum to send that big gown you got so bloody interested in last time you saw it at our place.”

“The red one?” laughed Hermione, “The one I was so ‘interested’ in because it was so abnormally ancient?” His smile faded. “I’m sorry but I don’t think so Ron.”

“It couldn’t hurt to try on,” he shrugged, “It wasn’t that old.”

Harry laughed. “You ran out the room because I found I spider on it, Ron.”

“Oh yeah, just your average ‘spider’ was it?” he frowned defensively, “Just an everyday spider with about twelve bloody legs.”

Hermione joined Harry’s laughter before noticing that Ron had begun to expectantly stare at her again.

“Ron please,” she sighed, “You can’t be serious?”

“Why not?”

“It’s looks a bit similar to what you wore at the Yule Ball,” she smiled, “I’m sorry. I just don’t think Head Girl would give off the right sort of authority dressed in some sort of over-sized velvet curtain.”

Ron shrugged. “It’s not like I’m deeply offended or anything.” But he slumped into the sofa and fell back into reading his comic.

“I suppose it doesn’t matter,” said Harry, “It’s not like you want to look nice for Malfoy, anyway.”

Great. The absurd ancient gown suggestion took her mind of him for what? Three seconds? What a fantastic holiday.

“I suppose not,” replied Hermione, the sickness returning with a rush of vengeance.

“Maybe you could go with Ginny and the others,” he began, “They’re going shopping for it tomorrow.”

“I don’t have any time for that.”

Harry and Ron glanced at each other, sympathy etched across their faces. It annoyed her a little.

“Maybe you should make time,” suggested Ron, “I thought this ball was like a bloody birthday for all you girls. They’ve been huddling round those posters like they couldn’t be big enough.”

“What posters?” asked Hermione, her heart jolting.

“The Winter Ball posters.”

Another lightning bolt shot through her brain. She hadn’t even organised the bloody promotion of the event, let alone her dress, date or, what was amounting to- let’s face it- anything in general about the evening whatsoever.

“Don’t tell me…” she trailed off. No way, Malfoy would never pick up a pen and draw up posters. How incredibly lowly and sufficient that would be. “Well the prefects are obviously more with it that I am at the moment.”

“You could get Ginny to get a dress for you,” suggested Harry.

“Maybe.” But who actually cared about the bloody dress?

In that moment, the only thing that seemed important to her was planning a realistic enough illness to skip the whole bloody thing altogether.

*

“Suck,” panted Draco, “…harder you little whore.”

His eyes were shut tightly as he grabbed a handful of dark glossy hair and pushed Pansy’s head down further onto his throbbing cock. She was moaning. The sounds were a only a little distracting and probably, he thought, more annoying than anything else. There’s something less arousing about knowing they are just for effect. It’s little nagging hints like that that remind him he’s getting head off a first-class slag. Experience is good, he thought, but nothing beats a virgin.

“Draco,” she drawled, “You’re so-”

“Just shut up and suck.” His voice was coarse, his breathing rough. He pushed her head back down and began to meet her mouth with a gentle bucking of his hips so that the tip of his cock bumped the back of her throat. “That’s right you little prefect bitch,” he hissed, “Suck me.” And her pace quickened, letting him fuck her mouth, run along her lips. She squeezed the base of his cock lightly and he groaned “Fuck...” Pansy was good with her mouth- the way she would sometimes graze her teeth ever-so lightly along the top of him- there was nothing to complain about. “…Parkinson…” She resumed her moaning in response and he cringed a little. Today especially, he was finding it difficult to hear. There was something wrong about the way it sounded. Something almost- for the first time- too dirty about the way Pansy vocalised her pleasure.

But- shit- was she as good as ever with that pretty little mouth of hers. Draco had been appreciating it for the past five, six, seven-who-was-counting minutes and now he was nearing the end. He pushed down on her head rhythmically, clutching the arm of the sofa with his other hand as he sped up her mouth and engulfed himself in it’s wet heat faster, fiercer. Mouth full of that hot blazing soaking heat. He could hear her gagging slightly. Good, he thought incoherently, somewhere in the back of his brain. Gag for me, you stupid slag. As her fingers reached under to squeeze his balls, every nerve in his body hit that familiar, deafening, worth-doing-every-filthy-slut-in-the-school climax. Draco sucked his breath in through his teeth, coming in quick, long, thick strings that spurted into her mouth as she downed it all willingly. He could hear her swallow it loudly, moaning as if it was delicious. And she really did love it, stupid slut.

After a short while, he regained his composure and pushed on Pansy’s shoulders to move her off.

“Cheers Pans,” he panted, “You got talent.” Merlin, did she have talent.

She grinned at him. “Don’t I?” she agreed, her breasts practically spilling out her bra as she moved to straddle him.

He held up his hand. “No more,” he said, tucking his softening cock in his trousers and zipping them up.

Pansy’s smile faded. “What?” she asked, wiping her mouth carelessly with the back of her hand.
“We haven’t shagged all week Draco.”

He shrugged.

She stood up quickly, a deep-cut frown appearing rapidly on her face. “Oh I get it,” she said, “All shagged out are you?”

“Don’t start,” he sighed, rolling back his head.

“How many sluts has it been this week then?”

“Oh I don’t know,” he replied, the air in the room quickly thickening with tension. “It’s not really any of your business.”

Pansy looked livid suddenly. “Not any of my…?” she trailed off in disbelief, her face dropping considerably.

For Merlin’s sake. “Oh come on,” he said, “The amount of boys you let stick it in you between classes, Pansy.”

She took a deep, offended breath. “Fine,” she hissed, smiling sarcastically and grabbing her shirt from the side table, “We both might play around a bit, Draco, but one thing is for sure.” She shoved her arms into the sleeves, pausing to continue, “I’d rather fuck my own brother than touch a filthy mudblood.” And she turned to storm off.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean, Parkinson?” barked Draco, rising quickly.

Pansy turned back triumphantly, pleased to get a reaction. She placed her hands on her hips, her shirt still hanging open.

“Well?” he growled.

“Don’t think I haven’t noticed the way you’ve called me your ‘little prefect bitch’ twice this week.”

“And what?”

“I’m not a sodding prefect Draco.”

No, he thought, and there’s a bloody good reason for it. “Okay,” he said, “So I imagine one of the sixth-year prefects sucking me off instead of you occasionally. You should see some of them Pans. Real potential.”

“Oh don’t bother,” she spat, “Everyone will be hearing about this Draco.”

Lord if he knew the consequences of saying no to Pansy. “That won’t be happening,” he told her, moving slowly towards her.

“Oh no?”

“No.” He drew his face in close. He could smell the stark salt of his come on her breath. It repulsed him, he acknowledged, in a sort of arrogant, hypocritical way. “You start spreading pathetic rumours around about me and Granger and what does that make you look like?”

Pansy blinked. “That’s not the point,” she answered quietly.

He laughed at her. “You’ve got something wrong in that brain of yours Parkinson. Too much banging against the headboard I suspect.”

“You’re a bastard Draco.”

And you’re a filthy fucking whore, but do I complain? “If you so much as breathe another word about these ridiculous connotations to anyone, you can be sure as hell that I’ll never touch you again.”

She drew her head back. “You don’t mean that.”

He shrugged and stepped away from her. “Every word,” he answered, “Now run along. I’ve got things to do.” Draco watched the hurt flash back into anger.

“Aren’t you even going to deny it?!” she growled, raising her voice enough to make him wince, “Say the words, Malfoy! Don’t just pussyfoot around them like you’re avoiding the truth!”

Shut up, shut up, shut up.“Don’t you dare ask me that again you stupid slapper! You know exactly what I think of mudbloods!” Flash of memory.

Sudden rush of sickness.

That, at least, seemed to satisfy her for a second. “Good.”

“Now fuck off.” Just please, fuck off.

Pansy mustered the dirtiest look she could and turned abruptly to leave. It was only then that Draco reluctantly noticed Hermione standing in her path.

Forever would have been too soon.

“Oh goody,” glared Pansy, stopping dead in her tracks and replacing her hands on her hips. “It’s the mudblood. I must say your timing is impeccable.”

Hermione looked past Pansy to Draco. “How did you get her up here?” she frowned.

“The password?” he answered, bluntly. (As with most of the girls I bring up, you idiot.)

“We’re not allowed non-prefects up-”

“Bloody hell Granger,” spat Pansy. “Can’t you see you just being here makes us both sick?”
Hermione rolled her eyes and began to walk past her. Pansy shot out her arm. “Not so fast you little bitch.”

“Excuse me?”

“I wasn’t finished telling you how utterly disgusting you are.”

Draco saw Hermione’s eyes dart towards him. What did she expect him to do? He wasn’t going to prance in between them, arms flailed, and save the bloody day. She was far too used to someone doing that, clearly. But he wasn’t Potter. And they can all be thankful for that.

“You know I’m still getting over it,” continued Pansy, pacing in front of Hermione, “Them making you Head Girl and all that. Pretty mammoth mistake on their part, don’t you think?”

Hermione glared. “Jealous?” she asked, a hint of a smirk through the irritation on her face.

“Of a stupid little mudblood slapper like you?” scoffed Pansy, “Eat shit you idiot.”

And then there was the fact that it was mildly entertaining, of course.

“I think you should leave,” replied Hermione, clearly mustering the most Head-girl-like tone she could manage. Gryffindor-style. “Only prefects are allowed to come up here.”

“So you said,” spat Pansy, “And yet I still couldn’t give a fuck. Funny that, isn’t it?”
Hermione took a breath. “You aren’t a prefect,” she said, “So you need to leave.”

“I’m not going anywhere, you thick bint,” she said, “And no I won’t.” She leant in close towards Hermione’s face.

Aside to himself, Draco was sure she would be able to smell the same strong salty tang of his come on Pansy’s breath. And she would have to breathe it in. Nice, long, breaths of something he was more than certain would make her want to gag. How he wanted to watch that.

She must have been able to, he realised, as she winced and turned towards him.
Hermione was looking at Draco again.

Stop it. I’m not your bloody Potter.

Pansy laughed. “Merlin,” she drawled, “How many times are going to look at him, Granger? I could almost pity you for being such a pathetic little tart.” Her eyes narrowed. “If you weren’t a pathetic little mudblood tart, that is.”

Something glimmered in Hermione’s darkened eyes. “Really?” She turned back and paused for a second, staring at Pansy’s top lip with a strange smirk of superiority.

What in Merlin’s name was Granger smiling at? It was a terribly, irritably boring reaction. Not up to standard. Pansy had been verbally ripping into her, and in retaliation she’d barely given one tenth back of what she was capable of. Where was the self-righteous-bitch he’d grown to loathe? It was suddenly not as entertaining as he thought it would be.

Unless of course she was being mature. Good old mature Granger and her big fat granny pants.

And then Draco noticed what she was smiling at. He would have pointed it out before but-

Hermione raised an eyebrow. “You have a little something above your mouth, Pansy.”

A little stunted, Pansy curtly lifted a finger to her face and smudged away what was quite evidently a thick drop of come.

Hermione smiled, “You might want to clean up the undeniable fact that you’re a complete and utter slag before you start name-calling others. Now get out.”

Much better. Up to standard. Shame we aren’t on the same side, Granger.

And Pansy was furious. “Yeah?” She seethed, fists clenching, teeth grinding, eyebrows low enough to reach her eyelashes. And then she covered the remaining floor space between them so quickly, Hermione barely had time to react. “Fuck you, you mudblood whore-!”

Draco caught her raised arm and swung her around.
What- why? Why? Let her pummel the stupid bitch.

Pansy stared at him with wide eyes, you-didn’t-just-do-that staring at him hard in the face. “Draco, wha-?”

Think fast. His heart pumped frantically.


Think fast.

“Wand, Parkinson,” he mumbled, “The bitch has got her wand. Probably not the best idea.” He nodded in the direction of Hermione’s gripping hand, avoiding her eyes as he did so.

Pansy regarded him with a suspicious stare. Ferocious eyes. Oh no, no, she was not convinced. She was not convinced at all. “Well isn’t that rich!”

“Pansy-”

“Let me go Malfoy,” she growled.

But Draco’s firm grip remained. Just in case.

Just in case for what? What the hell was wrong with him?

“I wouldn’t do this if I were you,” breathed Draco, warning drenching his words with a heavy intimidation he mastered years ago. He silently begged that she wouldn’t be obdurate enough to ignore it. “How would it make you look?”

He could almost see the memory of his words flashing through Pansy’s eyes. “You start spreading pathetic rumours around about me and Granger and what does that make you look like?… you can be sure as hell that I’ll never touch you again.

Pansy’s frown faded slightly. “Fine,” she answered, a low, grating, scraping voice that told him he hadn’t heard the last of it. If there would ever be a last of it. And Merlin, he remembered he barely fancied the girl anymore. What a load of bullshit for nothing. “Now let me go.”

Draco slowly released Pansy’s arm, very careful to not look in any other direction but hers.

Pansy turned back to Hermione and began to smooth out her uniform. “I don’t know how Draco copes with you around all day,” she spat, hiding the humiliation in her face with a narrowing of her eyes. No matter what she was now sure was going on between them, Granger would be the last to hear her admit it. “Must be hard to know he’d rather throw up than come anywhere near you.” She forced a smirk. “He thinks your repulsive.”
That last bit was clearly more for herself than anyone else.

Draco looked away to avoid another of Hermione’s short glances in his direction. The conversation had now reached a well and truly, far too uncomfortably familiar subject. Grabbing Pansy’s arm again he turned her around and took her away from Hermione.

“Ow!” she exclaimed, “Stop doing that, Malfoy!”

“Do you think I can be arsed to listen to you two all night?” he said, releasing her by the door. “Just go.”

“But Draco,” she murmured, nodding her head in Hermione’s direction. “What is
wrong with you?”

“Just go Pansy.”

She frowned again. “Fine,” she hissed, “But we will be talking about this Malfoy. Don’t think I’ll forget.”

One can only hope, thought Draco.

“What’s your problem, anyway?” she added.

He opened the door and watched her walk through it. “My problem, Pans?” he asked her, “Tonight it really is very much you,” and slammed the door on her reddening face.


Hermione watched Draco as he leant his head against the door for, what must have been at least four, five minutes. He was breathing heavily, hands balled into fists and resting next to his head. She couldn’t work out what he was- angry? Upset? The room remained silent. She swallowed. Her throat felt completely desiccated. What she wouldn’t give for a glass of water at the moment.

When Draco finally turned back, his eyes met hers briefly with a cooling, emotionless beat. Hermione was standing by the bay window, her wand was resting on the ledge.

“We need to talk,” she breathed, her eyes flicking down to quickly analyse the distance between her hand, and the time it could take for her to grab her wand. Constantly guarded. It was so necessary it frightened her.

“It meant nothing, Granger,” snapped Draco.

Hermione looked up at his sharp reaction. “What?”

“Before you get your hopes up. I stopped Parkinson for the reason I said. Otherwise she could have battered you to the ground for all I care.”

Hermione stared and him. She didn’t know what to think. She had absolutely no clue. The moment Draco had grabbed Pansy’s hand, her mind split with the shock. It was so uncomfortable she almost wished he hadn’t.

Draco looked incensed by her unconvinced look. It was a place she didn’t want to go to tonight.

“I was talking about the Winter Ball,” she corrected him, to which she heard Draco release a small breath of relief.

Yes, definitely relief. He was definitely afraid of something.

“Did you know posters have gone up?” She watched as he leant back on the door. She noticed his shirt was slightly open. A minor detail. “Who did them?”

He shoved his hands in his pockets and stared back at her. “Some sixth-year prefect,” he shrugged,

“Whilst you were shitting around looking like Merlin-knows-what all week, I told the prefects to start preparing it all.” He sounded slightly smug.

“What else have you done?” she asked, swallowing faint disgust.

“Spoken to Snape about organising the magic-ban in the hall,” he replied, “You really should keep up, Granger.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Right.” And her fingers gripped the ledge just that little bit harder.
He shrugged again. She swore he was avoiding her eyes.

(And yes, he was.)

“And you know about the dating tradition?”

Draco screwed up his face. “Like I’d give a shit and care.”

How? She thought to herself. How can he suddenly be so bloody cool and calm and comfortably smug when the memory of the other night was still searing in her brain. Had he already forgotten? And what about the last ten minutes? Hermione was still shaking. Was it a Malfoy’s gift to block out all the horrible, sickening things they had done? Is that how they got through it all?

So no, she realised, he clearly didn’t know anything about it whatsoever.

“Well we can’t change it,” continued Hermione, willing to let him work it out himself, “It’s always been like that according to Professor McGonagall.”

“And?” he laughed, “You having trouble finding someone or something? Personally, I’ve been loving the number of women that have been begging for me to take them.”

“Really?” she frowned, now placing her hands firmly on her hips.

Lord, thought Draco, what was wrong with the girl? “Yes really. We aren’t all as pathetically sad and lonely as you Granger.”

“You really have no idea do you?”

“What?”

“Head Girl and Head Boy?” she said, “Going together?”

He pulled a face. “I’d rather eat shit.”

“Well we don’t have a choice,” she said, “It’s an age-long tradition. McGonagall confirmed it.”

Draco’s face fell. “I don’t care if it’s bloody gospel,” he replied, “I am not walking into that hall with you on my arm.”

“God you are so-”

“So what Granger?”

She stared at him.

They stared at each other.

The moment passed.

“I don’t want to go with you either,” she said, taking a breath, “It’s my idea of hell. The way I see it- we turn up together and we announce the occasion like we would have done anyway. We don’t have to act any different.”

“And we don’t go around telling people we’re dates.”

“Damn,” she retorted, “Because I was just about to run to the Gryffindor common room and tell the first person I found.” She looked up at the ceiling. “Anyway, people will catch on when they realise you’re not with Pansy and I’m not with-” She stopped. Well, whoever she’d be with.

Draco raised an eyebrow. “Not with who?”

“Whoever I would be going with.”

“Which would be who? Someone imaginary?” Draco wondered if it was Potter.

“Shut up Malfoy.”

He shrugged. “Just intrigued to know who would be desperate enough.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Well if there are any more things to discuss then we should do it now so we can spend the rest of the evening, and hopefully- if we’re lucky- the whole week without speaking again.”

“As bloody fantastic as that sounds, there is just one small thing.”

His tone was still so bloody- argh- she didn’t know. Blasé. The other day? Oh yeah, yeah…that was a bit of a bad move, wasn’t it? Never mind though, eh? Chin up, press on, forget it ever happened…

I don’t know about you Malfoy, but I’ve spent every night this week crying myself to sleep.

He settled down beside one of the cushions. “How did Potter take it?”

Hermione frowned. “How did he take what?”

“The news that you and me had to go together,” replied Draco, “The idea is disgusting but the look on his face would ease the pain I’m sure, if only for a moment.”

How should any of this matter now? She almost wanted him to be shouting at her. At least then this wouldn’t all seem so…so bloody anti-climatic. Merlin Hermione, she thought, what did you expect? More screaming? More hurting? More-

“He was the one that told me actually,” she said curtly, interrupting her own thoughts. “I’d forgotten before then.”

Draco looked mildly surprised. “No wild tantrums? No threatening with the fists?” he said, “He must have a least been a little disappointed.”

“Disappointed?”

“That he couldn’t go with you, you thick twat.”

“You really don’t understand the first thing about him, do you?”

“Do I look like I give a shit?”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Well if that’s all then I’m going upstairs.”

He shrugged nonchalantly.

She grabbed her wand from the window sill and strode away from him. Their conversation had lasted all of two minutes and already she felt herself drained. It was enough. One word was enough.

At least there seemed, for the moment anyway, a mutual agreement between them to ignore everything that had happened that night.

If only it could stay that way forever.

*

“Well if that’s all then I’m going upstairs.”

Ten minutes passed.

Draco rose up from his seat, walked over to the stairs. Up the stairs. Through his bedroom, walked over to the bathroom. In the bathroom. Staggered to the toilet. Lifted up the seat and vomited.

The acid was like a burning drug. It made him feel better for a while. Stopped him from thinking. That was why he was like this after all, too much thinking, he told himself. Too many thoughts.

It had been a year and a half since the news of his father’s death. A year and a half since his mother had cried enough tears for them both. (Draco thought that the Ministry must have been a little disappointed that he died before trial. Death was too easy. It was too obvious a way out.) Now in his seventh year, Draco’s mother was still at Malfoy Manor. And, what should be a lot more important to him than it turned out to be, Draco was still the heir to all the Malfoy wealth.

And that was how it was. Father dead, Ministry pissed off, and Draco a rich bastard. What more could he want?

And he was pureblood. Pure-as-fucking-heaven. Just like his mother and father and grandfather and great grandfather. And all the way back. To the beginning. Whenever that was. The way his father spoke about it, it sounded like it was the most important time in the history of existence. And Draco wouldn’t dispute it. He was sure it was, too.

He heaved again. Vomited. Rested his head on his hands.

And wasn’t that just it? His father. What would his father say if he knew about her? About Granger?

The little mudblood princess that he had just saved.

How many beatings would it take until he paid for this one? He had worse than disgraced everything and anything his father had ever spent the years of his life teaching him. And perhaps he deserved it. One easy rule. Purebloods and mudbloods don’t mix. He wished his father was here to punish him. It would make it easy. Make retribution hideously simple. But he wasn’t there to beat. And now the voice in his head was worse than any blood that could ever be taken from him.

He hated his father but he believed every single word he had said. And he still did. When it came down to it, Draco was a Malfoy. He was a pureblood. He was a dying breed, and Granger was a vile fault in his immaculate royal plan. Whatever sodding plan that was. A small inaccuracy. A wholly repulsive Mudblood bitch without a glimmer of hope of ever reaching the heights of superiority that his father had set. She was rapidly involving herself in his life and that wasn’t unacceptable. That just wasn’t the plan. It was a chaos. She was a chaos.

If only that night…

…All of it shows just how fucking vulnerable you are.
Fucked up.
And your father couldn’t even teach you anything other than how to fuck up everyone else with you.

-no. Don’t think. Please, lord, just stop the thoughts.

He felt his mind begin to cloud. His father was speaking. Draco was as good as dead to him now, he was saying. But isn’t that ironic? Draco was a good as gone to him. But where was his father to say it? There. In his head. It was utterly inescapable. It was as if he had never died. Not for Draco. He was sure his father had seen every filthy flick of his tongue. That night. If only that night.

Drink in her mouth. Doesn’t it taste like heaven is polluted.

Sick. Again. His throat was raw.

*

On the other side of the wall Hermione froze.

She had been sort-of-almost certain Draco was throwing up, and now she was just certain. Had he looked pale fifteen minutes ago, she asked herself, any paler than usual? She shut her book hesitantly and slid to the side of her bed to get up.

To do what exactly?

What was she supposed to do from here? Malfoy, dear, are you alright? Would you like a glass of water? How about a comforting hand? The voice laughed at her. She swung her legs back onto her bed in second thought and perched cross-legged on the edge. The sound of vomit again, splashing into the bottom of the toilet and reverberating in her head. It made her shiver. Made her want to gag.

But a small part of her relished the sound. A small part of her wanted him to puke his guts out until their was nothing left inside him. Just an empty shell. Maybe then she could stop hurting the way she did. Just skin and hair and bone and teeth. Nothing else. How wonderful that would be.

Choking, he was coughing now, choking.

Merlin, why was it never easy for her to just do nothing? Why can’t she just bang on the wall and tell him to keep the noise down? That’s what he would do, after all.

Or is it? She didn’t know anymore. Not after he grabbed Pansy.

No, she thought to herself, don’t try and justify knocking on that door. Don’t you dare try and justify speaking to the bastard voluntarily. What happened earlier meant nothing. And she supposed his excuse wasn’t that unlikely, Hermione did, as he said, have her wand firm and ready for any action Pansy may have taken. Maybe Malfoy really did have a soft spot for the slag of Slytherin.

She heard Pansy gave first class head, after all. It made sense.

And yet, at some point after the sound of violent gagging returned, Hermione found herself standing in front of her bathroom door, clenching her fists as tight as she felt her lungs- tight enough to burst around the vicious thumping of her heart. The thought of Malfoy caused a constant devastation beneath her skin.

She brought a fist up to the door and knocked so lightly, it was embarrassing, even to her, and it was quite clear she was the only one to hear it.

The first thing she usually did upon entering the bathroom was to walk straight over to Malfoy’s bedroom door and charm it locked. So locked even ‘Alohmora’ wouldn’t open it. It was the first charm she’d looked up upon learning about their adjoining facilities. And now she wondered if Malfoy knew about it. If he ever tried to open the door. If he even used it himself.

She wrapped her fingers around the door knob. The brass was cool and dampening under the moist heat of her hand. He was just on the other side. She could hear him panting the harsh acid air out his mouth. And so. “M-Malfoy,” she stammered. And then stopped.

There was a long pause in which she could no longer hear his breathing. It was a silence that made her anxious suddenly, and she stepped back from the door.

“What do you want?”

It was muffled through the wall but she heard it. It was enough to have heard it. It made her heart jump. So much of her didn’t expect a reply. Least of all an open question. She took a cautious step back to the door and opened her mouth. What does she say? Does she ask to come in? Does she even want to go in?

“What the hell, Granger?” His tone was impatient.

“I’m sorry,” she replied. No wait. No. She should never say that word to Malfoy. “I mean I’m not.” Oh what in Merlin’s name was she…

“Then fuck off,” rasped Draco, the sound of the toilet flushing shortly after.

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Look,” she said, raising her voice, faking the confidence- the precious plastic poise- “I just- Are you alright?”

“No.”

“Well do you want Madam Pomfey?”

She heard him laugh.

“If I were you, Granger, I’d get the fuck away.”

And that would have been the perfect time to leave it. But Hermione was Hermione Granger. And she felt herself become more so by the second.

“You’ve been throwing up for a while, Malfoy,” she answered, determined to sound more irritated than concerned. Because that’s all she was, of course. “I’m just asking, that’s all.”

“Well how about you come in and see for yourself, Granger?”

The sudden closeness of his voice startled Hermione and she jumped instinctively away from the door. “No,” she answered quickly, “No, you’re right, never mind.” That was the answer then, she clearly didn’t want to go in. Hermione felt a odd sense of relief at the realisation.

But it was too late. And she hadn’t put the locking charm on her bedroom door. It opened.

“I insist,” growled Draco, his voice now fully hoarse in the opening of the doorway. Hermione regarded him with wide eyes. He looked utterly depleted, standing there in the door frame, the faint light of the bathroom glowing behind him. “Maybe you can learn a few consequences of being such an interfering little bitch,” he added.

He took a step into her room. She could smell the waves of sickened air washing over her.

“No Malfoy,” she said, her manner as resolute as she could hope for, “Get out. I don’t want you in here.”

“It’s a bit late for that.”

“I’m telling you no. Get the hell out.”

“What happened to ‘are you alright’ Malfoy?” he sneered, “Make up your mind Granger. You either care or you don’t.”

“I don’t,” she replied, “I don’t care.” Especially since she realised that even after vomiting his bloody brains out, Malfoy was still a tremendous dickhead. And of course, she told herself, what else would he be? He was born this way.

“Then why ask, Granger?”

Hermione was trapped in her head. She didn’t know. And whenever she tried to answer she kept drawing blanks. Every-single-bloody-time. If one thing was for damned sure, she regretted it almost as much as everything she did lately.

“What are you going to do Malfoy?” asked Hermione, wincing at the sound of her own voice. It was too small. She raised her chin and darted her eyes ever-so-subtly in the direction of her wand.

“We’ve got nothing to say to each other,” she continued, “Just go back to your room.”

“Nothing to say to each other?”

“Yes.” And wasn’t he supposed to be the one that believed that even more than she did?

“The looks you gave me downstairs said different.”

“What looks?”

“You don’t believe me.”

And for Draco, it was difficult to keep the indisputable insecurity out of his voice. He still felt sick. So incredibly pained. And his final heave of thick, yellow bile into the toilet had told him that the one thing he could do to stop the lurching feel inside himself, was to restore the balance.

He had stopped Pansy from hitting her. And no one believed his reasons. So now, he had to compensate. Beat out the parts of Granger that had read too far into it. Burn out the small part of himself.

“I don’t believe what?” The anxiety was slipping from Hermione’s voice. She was irritated. “What are you talking about?”

He shook his head.

And then she thought for a very small second that he may have turned mad. Completely, fucking mad.

Draco’s eyes narrowed. “Say sorry for not believing me.”

“I don’t- what?”

“I’m disappointed in you, Granger.”

And then her anger was met with a small, soaking thrash of fear.

She didn’t understand. And that part, for her, was entirely different. There was something overwhelmingly disturbing about the way he was looking at her now. His eyes slashed with darkened stripes of hunger. Her reflection. He was getting close enough.

“Malfoy stop,” she said, her voice wavering. She walked slowly back into the wall and pressed herself against it. “I don’t understand.” Her least favourite words.

“I would have let her,” he answered, his voice unnervingly emotionless, “I would have let her kill you if she wanted to.”

Hermione’s heart jolted. “So this is it.” She almost laughed with the relief of comprehension. “Kill me?” she repeated, voice determinedly returning to steady, “You always were such a generous boy, Malfoy.”

Draco thought she almost sounded like his mother. The words were seeping her. His back straightened.

“Man,” he corrected, his impassive tone replaced with the slight emphasis of frustration.

Hermione played to it. “If I had meant man,” she replied, “I would have said it.”

“I’m not a fucking boy!” exclaimed Draco, the sharp impulse making her jump, “Don’t call me a boy you stupid whore!” Stupid fucking slag.

Alarm bells were ringing, screaming in Hermione’s head. Shut up, Hermione, something about him is different. Something isn’t right. Shut up.

Hermione fell silent.
“I mean it,” he snapped, staring at her unreadable expression, “What I said. I would have let her beat you until you bled to death.”

Draco wanted to gauge her eyes out for being so bright in that moment. It hurt him to look at them. They were too loud.

Hermione didn’t answer him. Good. If he was lucky she was thinking about bleeding. About dying. Thinking about how he would watch her. Do nothing. Absolutely fuck all. Did she like how this felt? Correcting all the tiny little fuck-ups he had made? All the stolen glances, the beating of illicit thoughts. All the times he had thought of her and not Pansy. All the lapses of concentration on making her life a misery.

Draco stared into her and saw. For the first time in all their years at Hogwarts, she looked as if she could be fearing him. Thick, dripping, calorific fear. And he couldn’t help but drink it all in.

“M-Malfoy-”

“M-m-Malfoy!” he mocked, his high tone imitating, “Stop it! Please!”

This was his way of saying sorry, father. Are you watching?

“All those things you said to me that night, Granger, all these contemptible wicked little comments that burst from the mouth of yours-” that mouth of hers “-I never did get a chance to reply.”

“You replied,” her answer was quick, “Or have you forgotten?” She was trembling delightfully, still stuffed with that abundant spiteful fury that pulled her skin taut. “You tasted my own blood because of it.”

“Shut up.”

“And I bet you can still taste it.”

“You’re wrong.”

No. He would not let the little bitch do it this time. He would not let her turn him. Tangle his bones into excruciating knots. Venom about fathers and hearts and pain and blood. He wouldn’t listen. It was her turn. And his father was watching, his mind kept telling him, even in death. His father would always know.

“You said all those things,” he hissed, “All those wonderfully nasty things. But what about you?”

“What about me?”

“Your blood, Granger. It’s a mistake. And not one you can rectify either. So I’m asking you, how does it feel? Because I sometimes wonder what it must be like. You know, feeling so fucking filthy not even a week-long soak in the bath can wash it off.”

“Fuck you.”

“And don’t pretend it doesn’t bother you. Don’t pretend that there isn’t a small part of you that wants that purity. That sweet-as-bloody-honey purity. It’s something not even a library full of books can give you. And isn’t that such a tragedy?”

“No, Malfoy,” she whispered, he was mere inches away from her. “You’re wrong. I’ve never wished for pure blood. I’ve never wished for any of it.” She shook her head. “None of it matters to me, Malfoy. Blood means nothing.”

Hermione yelped as Draco’s hands shot to the wall. “Blood means everything,” he growled, his lip curling upwards with fury as his fists pressed into it.

And like that she was trapped. He could almost feel the tiny vibrations of air around her wavering body. Maybe she could even smell the vomit on his breath. “Blood is the difference between right and wrong, Granger,” he spat, his breathing so severely erratic he wondered just what the hell was happening to him. “It’s the difference between you and me. It’s what makes you an unalterable shitting little mudblood. It’s what makes you wrong, Granger. Bad all over. Rotten.”

“And I suppose,” she answered, without the hesitation he’d hoped for, forced evenness in her voice, “Your blood is what makes you so bloody well-mannered, Malfoy. Am I right?”
He bared his teeth. “Don’t joke, Granger,” he hissed through them, “You’re certainly in no position to do that.”

“Well then what is it, Malfoy? What is it that is so special about purebloods?” She lowered her voice.

“Because what ever your father taught you, it’s wrong.”

Draco growled and banged his fists against the wall.

Hermione flinched.

He liked that.

“This is it,” he rasped, “Right here. This is how it is. I’m the one in control, Granger. We are always the ones in control.”

Hermione caught her breath. “What makes you think you’re in control?”

Draco opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it, “I am. That’s just the way it is.”

She laughed a little then. A small laugh of disbelief and trepidation. What was it that he thought he had control over? There was nothing as far as she could sense. He looked completely helpless. Just not as helpless as her.

“Your father is dead, Malfoy.”

She saw his body tense considerably. “Don’t-”

“So what are you still afraid of?”

Draco grabbed a fistful of her hair and wrenched her neck to the side. “Don’t,” he repeated, warning flashing through his eyes as he watched her gasp for breath. He brought his lips close to the stretched skin of her neck. Hermione was still. “The only thing that I’m afraid of, Granger,” he whispered into her skin, “Is the possibility that one day, people like you will be everywhere. In our schools, in our government, in and out our lives without the slightest bit of respect for who we are.”

“Wake up, Malfoy,” she stammered, her voice shaking with her body against his grip. “It’s already happened. It’s been like that for years. Decades. Before we were even born. Or haven’t you noticed?” Her head was craned back so far she could barely swallow. “We’re already there, Malfoy,” she breathed, “The ‘filthy mudbloods’ have already been accepted.”

“Not by everyone,” he corrected her, “Not by the ones that have the most power to stamp you the hell out again.”

Hermione’s head throbbed. Please, someone, Harry- Ron- anyone, walk through the door and get him off me. Take me away. Save me.

“Maybe not everyone,” she answered, her voice a half-whisper, “But whoever those people are, Malfoy, you aren’t one them.”

“What’s that, Granger?” Hermione whimpered slightly as he tugged her hair fiercely.

“You may think you are, but you aren’t,” she shook, her voice louder from the pain, “Your just one boy-” she felt him wince “-without the power to do anything. Not now your father is gone.”

“Shut your mouth, Granger.”

“The truth hurts, Malfoy.”

“I said shut up!”

Why was she doing this? What made her think she could say these things? Every word was like sharp nails scraping into his skull, burying, festering, sticking to everything they could find. She had no idea what she was talking about. No fucking idea..

And then slowly, lightly, Draco untangled his hand from her hair. He placed it back onto the wall.
She looked at him, confused, aching, lifting a tentative hand to the back of her neck.

He was slipping.
Hermione stole her chance.

“Let me go,” she said.

“No.”

“Let me go!”

Draco caught her wrists and pushed her back into the wall. Pushed himself up against her. They stood there, struggling for a while. She spat out nasty things but he held her tightly, his eyes fixed to hers.

When she stopped a little, the stillness allowed Draco to notice how nauseated he felt. He wanted to vomit again. It almost made him laugh.

“Why do you think I’ve been throwing up, Granger?”

She shook her head a little.

“I was sick because of you.” He breathed it at her. Her head turned slightly. “You and your disgusting, nauseatingly foul, muddied-up-stench-filled-blood.”

Hermione stifled a cough.

Draco laughed.

“Wouldn’t want to kiss me now, would you, Granger?”

Never, she screamed inside. Never, never.

“Get away from me,” she mumbled, squirming underneath his heavy proximity. But she was ensnared by the weight of his body, muscles rippling in synchronisation. “I said get out, Malfoy!” Her voice rose again, panic-

-oh could he taste the panic-

-flashing through her voice. It was a fear obsessing over her.

Merlin please, Harry, Ron- help me.

She wouldn’t plead with him. She would have to find a way. Let her go. Hermione needed to manipulate. Tear the bastard apart. She was good at manipulating. She had her words.

“Then do it,” she spat, “Do whatever you are going to do, Malfoy.” Her voice was strained, close, the water from the back of her skull to her eyes. Tears. No, please, not the tears. “Just get it over with.” Why are you standing there? “What are you waiting for?”

Draco’s mouth twitched.

“I’m right here,” she hissed, “Right here underneath you. I can’t move. Isn’t that perfect?”

Draco’s frown faded.

“Come on Malfoy,” she whispered, “Be a man. Be a-”

His hand moved to her face, released her arm, and she was silenced. Her sentence stifled. Fighting a short sharp breath of anticipation. Of violent dread.

And then her face fell to a frown.

“Malfoy,” she breathed, “What-?”

“Shh…” And slowly, so lightly, Draco grazed the back of his knuckles over the corner of her mouth. The touch was devastating. “Can you still feel my tongue, Granger?” he murmured, “When you’re lying in bed at night?” Under the covers. “I bet it makes you wet.”

Draco’s mind felt silently detonated. He didn’t understand the words.

Hermione was breathless. “Stop it,” she mumbled. But her mouth turned briefly towards his cold touch. Grazed her hot lips against his skin.

No.

A tear dropped onto her cheek. And then the mumble dissolved into a sob.

“Crying,” growled Draco, leaning in and flicking his tongue onto her cheek. The tear was gone.
She struggled then, and he brought his hands to her shoulders to hold her still. “Don’t, Granger,” he warned, “I need this. I can’t …” And then he trailed off.

He never would have noticed before. Not like he did now, at least. Her lips were wet. They were red and moist and mellifluously ripened for him. So full of blood. Hot, heated, sullied blood. It couldn’t take his eyes off them.

“What am I doing?” he asked aloud.

She was shaking, opening her mouth for a response. Lips moving. Sticking for a millisecond before parting with a formidable lash of her tongue. Wet. Full of blood. Open. How did his tongue feel against them? He couldn’t recall. She was wrong, he couldn’t taste her anymore. And it was killing him.

“Kiss me again.”

The words were like ash in his mouth. Blades. Raw, rotting meat that he couldn’t keep down. Suddenly everything he had planned dissipated. And now he was simply left. So empty he could hear the echoes inside.

And suddenly Hermione felt the feeling. The feeling, again. She could almost taste the acid of his mouth. It attacked her heart.

And Draco then said it again. “Kiss me.”

Hermione began to cry.

Harder this time. Yet just as silent. Tears fell but everything else remained. She wanted him to go. Why does he make her feel like this? Leave her alone. Merlin, just leave her alone to drown in these feelings- alone-just-please. Go.

“Get off me…” she muttered, pushing him with all the weakened weight she could manage.

And if at that moment she could have predicted anything. It was not that. Malfoy lifting his body and falling to the side, his back to the wall, hitting it beside her with a portentous thud. All in a brief second. Defeated.

She watched him slide down the side of the wall, head heavy, ice blonde strands hanging over his vague and distant eyes. And she felt the largest tore of emotion she’d ever felt. Anger. And then pity. So much pungent, putrid pity she found she couldn’t even look at him. He was on the ground. On the ground next to her. And she couldn’t even hear him breathing.

Hermione stared at him for a moment.

And then she turned. Paced. Ran-so-fast to the door. Sobbing. Pulled and flung it back so hard it hit the wall. She couldn’t stay here, drenched in this contagious sickness.

Floundering with the stark, bitter taste of laconic shame. Of what would have happened. If he hadn’t let her go.

She would have given in. She would have let him kiss her.

And she would have kissed him back.

She would have let him ravish her. Beyond doubt.












*

Disclaimer: All these characters belong to JKR. I own nothing, much to my dismay, and make no money whatsoever out of this story!

Chapter 5.

“He keeps looking at you.”

“He’s just trying to piss you off, Harry.”

“No he’s not.”

“Yes he is,” sighed Hermione quietly, turning the page of her textbook with a little too much frustration. “Now can you just leave it, please?”

She didn’t need Harry to tell her Draco was looking. She felt it. He may as well have been peeling back her skin.

“If he’s just trying to get to me-” whispered Harry-

Lord. Give it a bloody rest.

“-then why does he look away whenever I notice?”

“I don’t know, Harry,” growled Hermione, her voice rising, “But it’s clearly getting to you, isn’t it? So it’s working wonderfully.”

Draco must have heard her. He glanced at her again.

Harry’s jaw clenched. “See?”

“Merlin, give me strength,” replied Hermione, rolling her eyes at him in the standard grow-up-and-don’t-be-such-a-child way. “If you don’t stop-”

“Ten points from Gryffindor.” Snape glared up from his desk.

Harry’s face dropped further into a deep, aggravated frown.

“And another ten for that look on your face, Potter.”

“The look on my-?”

“And another five for that.” He shut the heavy book in his hands with a loud smack. “So I believe that makes twenty-five points from Gryffindor. Congratulations.”

A couple of Slytherins sniggered.

Hermione glowered at them, the ever-familiar word ‘hate’ flashing into her mind. And it exhausted her. The feeling seemed permanently seared into the insides of her brain. She couldn’t remember ever feeling so much of it in all her times at Hogwarts.

Hate. She hated that in itself.

Hermione stared down at her work. What was she even doing? Her neck was aching tremendously.

And then there was the other thing. The other thing so apparent, it was almost hurting her.

Draco was looking at her. Constantly. Stolen glances that were all too noticeable and, quite evidently, incensing Harry beyond words. They weren’t long, drawn-out stares of malcontent and loathing, they were shorter, unreadable. They almost seemed sad if she looked back at him long enough to decipher them. And it was a sadness that she felt like heavy bitter rain. A sadness belonging to her. Perhaps the only thing on earth that she and Draco shared at that moment. But she wasn’t about to empathise with the bastard.

The bastard…

Hermione cringed a little. Something was sounding almost too harsh about those words, for some messed up reason she had yet to establish. Perhaps it was seeing him like that. Seeing him crumbled on the ground. She’d felt something break. And the pity, it had changed something. Something somewhere inside her that didn’t want to be changed.

And Hermione noticed it when she finally returned to her bedroom last night, and Draco had gone. She was shaking, as she had been for what felt like forever, and she was forced to swallow a small, biting, bursting twinge of guilt.

Guilt?

And that was how fucked up it was. She had felt guilty. And she still did, though desperately tried to deny it to herself. But it was useless. Whenever she replayed his body, that body of his silently breaking, eyes hopelessly beaten on the floor, her heart twisted in the kind of way that made her want to sob with the pain of it. Because maybe she shouldn’t have run away.

Maybe she shouldn’t have left him. Not like that.

And perhaps that was what made her go in the first place. The urge to stay. Perhaps that was why she ran out of that room as fast as her trembling mess of a body could take her. Take her away from him.

She acknowledged it later. Part of her was going to slide down the wall next to him. And stay there. In sobbing silence. And wait. Wait for something, nothing, whatever would come. Wait for the next instalment of this mental choas. Anything but leave him like that, quietly splitting inside himself. And she asked herself the hardest question of all.

Why the hell?

But she had a heart, after all. A big, fat, fantastic ball of love and longing and hate and hurt that thumped so loudly she almost wished it would explode.

So that must be it. The part that was new. She repeated it back in her head. She felt guilty because she should have stayed. Said something. Done something. He had been an unimaginable bastard- and yes, definitely a bastard- but she had just witnessed the faint possibility of a reason for all of it. Something different and unexpected. Something that wasn’t simply pure evil.

But it almost made everything more callous and convoluted. It made it harder to swallow. Maybe she was just thinking too much. Maybe she was hoping for something that wasn’t there. Maybe he really was just malevolent through and through. Down to the bloody, brittle bone.

Suddenly everyone was moving around Hermione. And she was dragged back.

“You’ve written about five bloody lines this lesson,” complained Ron, “How am I supposed to work with five bloody lines?”

Hermione blinked at being pulled out of her head. “You should try and learn not to rely on copying me, Ron,” she frowned, “That might be a good place to start.”

Ron grinned. “Didn’t you realise? Your work is the only reason I’m friends with you.”

Hermione sighed. “Honestly Ron, that’s not funny. You can’t always expect-” And then she stopped, and poked Harry hard in the ribs. “Will you stop staring at Malfoy, Harry! He’s not even looking anymore.”

Harry flinched and jerked away from her. “Alright!” he frowned, “I just-” He made a sound of frustration. “Whatever.”

Hermione felt angry all of a sudden. Yes Harry, she thought, because it’s so bloody difficult for you, isn’t it? You poor, poor thing. And then she stopped. Because perhaps that wasn’t overly fair. Perhaps that wasn’t fair at all. But it still annoyed her.

And then something unexpected happened.

“Granger, I need a word.”

And she turned to see Draco. It was the last thing, the very last thing Hermione expected. He barely ever- if ever at all- approached her around Harry and Ron. Unless it was to make a few underhand comments, of course. And what was most surprising, was that she thought he would never speak to her again after last night. She thought he’d be too ashamed. Or something like it. But this- this was too bloody soon. And she noticed Harry’s face clenching with severe distaste of it.

“Err…” You can do better than that. Merlin, say anything. “About prefect…stuff?” I said you can do better than that Hermione, she scolded herself.

“No. It’s nothing to do with any of that.”

No-what? What? Hermione was stunted. What the hell was wrong with him? Why would he ever say ‘it’s nothing to do with that’ in front of Harry and Ron? Why wouldn’t he just agree? Harry was right there for Merlin’s sake.

As if he wasn’t already suspicious enough, you prat.

Hermione quickly glanced at Harry. He looked livid. No, the prospect that she and Malfoy had something other than prefect duties to discuss had not gone down well with him at all. Not at all. Hermione felt herself fast becoming the person with the loudest heartbeat in the school.

“Okay,” she answered, composing herself as best she could, “But make it quick.”

Harry spoke before they could leave. “What’s this about, Malfoy?”

Hermione looked at him. Merlin. You couldn’t just leave it, could you Harry?

Draco’s eyes crossed over to him. “That’s none of your business, Potter.”

She silently pleaded him with her eyes. Not right now Harry. Please.

“When it involves you breathing within three feet of her for no good reason,” snapped Harry, “It becomes my business, Malfoy.”

Hermione shot Ron a look. Stop him, it said. But that was clearly the last thing Ron was going to do. He didn’t look too joyful about it either. Well isn’t that just great.

“Leave it, Harry,” she said, “I won’t be long.”

He looked less than impressed with her intervention. Argh. Why? It has nothing to do with you, Harry, I’m a big girl.

(Yeah. A big girl that was begging for you to rescue her last night.)

“Fine,” he mumbled, paying Draco one last look of threatening disgust. “We’ll see you in the common room.”

She had to admit it surprised her. Perhaps the whole leaving-it concept wasn’t as lost on him as she’d thought.

“Don’t be long, Hermione,” added Ron, following Harry. A similar glance in Draco’s direction.

Hermione sighed inwardly as they left. She was pretty certain this had just placed her and Harry back in square one. How long would it take to break out of it this time?

And then she turned to Draco and they walked back into the emptied classroom.

“Was that really necessary?”

“What?”

“Saying it was nothing to do with prefect business.”

“It’s not.”

“But you didn’t have to say that.”

“And you didn’t have to ask.”

Draco closed the door.

It made her feel slightly uneasy.

And so they stared at each other. It was the longest moment. And Hermione felt every second as if it were hammering into her head.

It was written all over their faces. Last night. Tense may have been the biggest understatement Hermione had ever made in her life. Ever. Because it was so much more than just tense in that moment. The air may as well have been dripping with it.

Break it Hermione, she thought. Say something because, Merlin, saying nothing is hurting like hell.

“What is it?” Her voice was small, thick with cautious anticipation.

It was obvious he didn’t want to be there. At least that was one thing they had in common. Along with the sadness, she remembered.

“Malfoy?”

“What happened yesterday-”

- and Merlin did her breath freeze-

“-I thought we should just, go over a few things.”

“Go over a few things?” She let out the breath. Blood still racing around. “Like what?”

And then Draco shrugged.

What the hell…? Hermione frowned. What in Merlin’s name did he mean by that? Go over what? If he can’t answer that, than how the hell was she supposed to do it?



Draco could feel her staring at him expectantly. Merlin did he regret this. And he ventured quickly upon the fact that he should never, never have acted on his sudden impulse to talk to her. He didn’t even have anything to say. Because what the fuck can he say to the mudblood bitch he almost kissed twice? Absolutely shit all.

But there he was. He’d set up his own bloody trap. And he was standing slap bang in the centre. Just blurt something out. Say something, anything to hurt her.

“I can’t fucking think straight when you’re around.”

What? No.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Of all the nasty, biting little comments he could have thrown at her. Why the hell did he have to say that. Where did that one come from? What the hell was it supposed to mean? And look at her. She’s looking at you and her eyes have never been so bloody big. She’s analysing the comment right here and now. Confusion splashed across that stupidly smooth skin. He had to change every bit of it’s meaning.

Change. Rectify. Restore the balance.

“But I figure it’s because you’re so unavoidably disgusting.”

And then he could so abundantly taste the sudden waves of whatever it was that came out of her. Something was telling him she wouldn’t rise to it. And that wasn’t good. That wasn’t a game he knew as well as the others.

“How are you…” She trailed off.

Where was that sentence about to go? Finish it off, Granger. How are you such a bastard? How are you so unkind?

She hesitated. “How are you feeling?”

And he thought it would go anywhere but there.

It threw Draco off guard for a moment. How was he feeling? How was he feeling? Don’t ask him that. That’s just- not what they did.

“Right now?” Add an insult. “Not that great with you standing here in front of me.”

That was almost pathetic. (Almost pathetic, since Draco could never be completely pathetic. Or maybe. Maybe his father was right. Remember last night?)

Remember last night?

She didn’t even roll her eyes at him. He never thought he’d see the day he was disappointed about that.

“Have you thrown up again?”

“There’s nothing left in me to throw up.”

And then the resumed silence. She didn’t break it for a while.

Hermione had no clue why she’d asked him how he was. For some reason it just felt necessary. As if she’d be making up for the fact she’d left him like that. Not that she had anything to make up for, she kept telling herself.

Draco’s silence was frustrating her. Had he not been the one to instigate a talk? That was something she could ask him at least. Something a little safer.

“You’re the one who wanted to talk, Malfoy,” she said, “Do you even have anything to say?”

“Yes,” he answered.

“Well, what?”

“Last night…”

There it was again. The freezing of her breath.

Draco looked like he was struggling to get out the words. He raised his chin. “Last night, I don’t know what happened to me.” No idea what so fucking ever. “I just…I don’t want you thinking things because of it.” And his head screamed at him that it was too bloody late.

“Things like what?” Her voice quiet.

Draco frowned. “What do you think, Granger?” he growled, slight irritation hitting his voice. “I’m sure a hundred things have crossed your mind since last night.” They’ve sure as hell crossed mine.

She stared back at him. “Yes. Yes they have.”

“Well forget them,” he replied, “Forget them all. I don’t know what happened but I wish it never had.”

Forget them all, she thought, like it never happened? That’s as impossible as him never calling her a filthy mudblood again.

“Which parts?” Hermione felt a sudden new found courage. “The part where you shoved me up against a wall again, Malfoy, or the part where you almost kissed me for the second time this week?”

The words shot straight through him.

“Fuck you,” he spat, “I regret every single bit.”

“Really?”

“Down to the last moment.”

“And what if I hadn’t pushed you off?”

“Oh don’t start, Granger.”

“What if I hadn’t left?”

Don’t ask. You really don’t want to hear the answer to that question.

“What if you hadn’t left, Granger?” That’s right, turn it around. His frown felt so deep it was hurting. “Let’s stop talking like I was the only bloody one there. How about what you would have done?”

Hermione paused.

This feeling between them. She couldn’t understand it. And it was mounting. Every bloody second.

And she didn’t want to leave.

And Draco wasn’t going to.

She swallowed. “We can’t go on like this, Malfoy.”

“Go on like what?”

“You know like what.”

He looked at her. His cheeks felt hot.

“And what are you going to do about it, Granger?” he spat. “We both knew his wouldn’t be an easy ride.”

“How is this ‘not an easy ride’?” She shook her head. “This isn’t just ‘not an easy ride’ Malfoy. This is a fucking train crash.” Hermione felt frustration begin spill over. “I mean seriously, how can we continue as head boy and head girl when we can’t even stay in the same room without saying something to hurt the other one? And then the times that it goes further, Malfoy. What about those? Have they finished? Was that it, last night? Was that the last of it?”

He stared at her silently, cheeks flaming.

“Well?” she asked him.

Draco said nothing.

“I don’t know what happened either, Malfoy. But you were- You were completely out of it. Merlin, you were dangerous, Malfoy. At one point I didn’t even recognise you. So yes, I’m admitting that you frightened me, fucking terrified me beyond belief, and this whole bloody thing is going to self-destruct any moment. And so I’m always terrified. I can’t sleep across the wall from you without my wand in my hand. Isn’t that bloody rich? That’s how you make me feel.”

Draco had no idea what to say. So he just said anything.

“Good.”

Short, sharp, bitter.

Hermione shook her head again. “Of course,” she realised, almost laughing at herself, “Of course, that means nothing to you. It just makes you glad. Makes you feel proud. I’m wasting my time.” She was wasting months of it.

Hermione turned to leave.

Draco lunged grabbed her wrist.

“No!” she exclaimed, turning back and yanking it away from him so fiercely she stumbled backwards. Her voice was shouting now. “I won’t let you do that again, Malfoy! I won’t let you touch me this time!”

Draco brought back his arm. “Is that right?” he spat. Fuck it. He didn’t even realise he’d grabbed her anyway. Didn’t realise or didn’t want to realise.

Hermione wanted to scream at him. “Look at us!” she said. She was laughing. Shouting. “Look at this! It’s been only hours since we were last doing this and look! Here we are again! This is it, right here! This is what I mean! And how long did it take this time? About a minute? How much longer can you go on like this, Malfoy? How much longer before one of us cracks?” She shook her head. “We have to sort this out, Malfoy. We have to sort this thing, this stupid sodding us thing, out! So who’s going to do it? Because from where I’m standing it looks like you couldn’t get enough of it!”


And then he answered her.

And as he did, as the words fell out, he wondered what was happening to his head, he asked himself, asked himself over and over again. Why wasn’t he laughing back at her and sneering? Telling her that he would keep this going and going until she was the one that cracked so spectacularly, straight down the middle, begging him to stop. Wasn’t that what he should be saying? And shouldn’t he be screaming it at her so loud it burst her ears and filled them with blood? Thick, muddied blood? Then why wasn’t he?

What was he saying instead? Draco listened to himself. He could hear words. Lots of them.

“-And it’s worse for me! You flit around like a fucking queen, prance about with your stupid hair and stupid eyes and stupid everything! Granger, the victim! The victim of the big bad Prince of Slytherin and oh- oh you poor thing, you poor weak little bitch, Granger, it must be so hard for you! And I fucking hate you for it! Fucking hate every part of your skin, and everything underneath it, everything written on it! All those big fat words spelling out mudblood and slag and filthy whore! And I hate what you do to me! I hate the way I can’t stop looking at you! I can’t stop fucking drinking you in! And it’s been like that since the beginning, since they messed up and made you Head Girl, since you started to spread your dirty shitting presence everywhere I went! I look at you and I just want to grab you and shake you and fuck all the Granger out of you because then it can’t torture me anymore! Then I won’t feel it every minute of every day! Then I’ll stop having to fight the fact that all I want to do is kiss you to silent that stupid mouth of yours! And what would my father say to that? He’d fucking tear me into a bloodied mess and spit on the remains! You’re dirty and you’re disgusting and you’re a mudblood! So I hate you! I hate you for existing, Granger! I wish you were fucking dead!”

He was panting.

And now his heart wasn’t on his sleeve. It was on the floor in front of him.

And she looked so shocked.

And so did he.

And then suddenly the door shot open.

Hermione’s heart stopped.



Harry.



*



Harry had wondered out of the common room after ten minutes of waiting.

She wasn’t back yet.

Ron told him not to look for her. He promised he wouldn’t. Lied, of course.

Was she still with him? Was she still with Malfoy? And what were they saying? What could they possibly have to say that was took longer than a few seconds? Harry didn’t like it. Something wasn’t right. And that something was sure as hell Malfoy. The biggest fucking son of a bitch he had ever met in his life.

So that’s where he was going. To check. To see if she was alright. Hermione. His best friend. His absolute necessity. His can’t do without.

He was so angry with her. So damn angry with the girl for not understanding why he did this. Why he was so afraid to let her be around Malfoy. Surely it was obvious? The guy was dangerous. He was capable anything- anything.

Harry began to walk faster.

Hermione just hadn’t been herself. She hadn’t been herself since the beginning of the term. And this last week. Merlin. He wanted to know so much what she was thinking about. Because that’s all she’d been doing. Sitting their, sodding thinking. What about? Was it about him?

Was it about Malfoy?

Had he done something?

What had he done?

And what if Harry was completely and utterly oblivious to it? What if he had forced her not to tell anyone and there was nothing she could do? Magic is powerful. Magic can do all sorts of things. It can ruin lives in the most delicately subtle ways possible. Harry should know. He fucking lived it.

Harry felt a heated dose of anxious fury shoot through him.

And if that was what had happened, he would kill him. And he wouldn’t even think twice about it.

Then Harry shook himself. He was slightly disturbed by the feeling that hurting Malfoy gave him. A strange, hungry feeling.

What was that word? That word meaning hate? Odium. That was what it was between them. And even that wasn’t powerful enough to spell it out. There wasn’t even any words. If there were he would have used them already. Every single one. Shouting them at him like razors. Over and over-

“-the Granger bitch.”

Harry’s head jerked up. He froze. Her name.

He heard her name.

And who’s voice was it? Where had it come from?

“I’ll fucking rip her eyeballs out, Millie,” it said, “Just watch me.”

Pansy Parkinson.

Harry pressed himself up against the wall. He could hear her behind darkened light of the corner just in front of him. Her voice sounded like scratched metal.

What was she saying about her? About Hermione?

Harry listened.

“I swear if you say anything to anyone, you’ll regret it.”

“I said I wouldn’t, didn’t I?”

Millicent Bullstrode. Almost hideous just from the voice.

“If people find out what’s going on between him and that…that fucking mudblood then I’ll come off as a right twat. Got it?”

What did she just say?

“I thought you said nothing was definite. That you didn’t know.”

“It’s so obvious. You should see them. It makes me sick.”

His heart halted.

Harry stopped breathing.

Was she absolutely fucking mental?

Tell him she was absolutely fucking mental.

“Well then what’s your plan?”

“Well what the hell can I do? I’m sure he’ll realise what a stinking bitch she is at some point. I just- I can’t believe that he stopped me, Mill, I can’t believe that he didn’t let me punch the stupid whore. Doesn’t that just say it all? Why else would he have done it?”

Why else would he have done it?

Harry’s fists clenched. No. Wherever Pansy’s poison came from, it certainly wasn’t the truth.

It couldn’t have been the truth.

It couldn’t.

Because.

He would know.

“And I swear he said her name that time. He growled it so fucking deep I could barely hear it but I knew. I didn’t say anything, but I knew.”

Harry could hear the tears in Pansy’s voice now.

“I’m such an idiot!” she growled, “Why Millie? And the way the bitch looked at him. The way they look at each other. Argh! He said her name when we were up against each other- when we were shagging, Millie, and I ignored it! How could I be so bloody stupid-”

And that was enough.

Harry clamped his hands over his ears so hard the pain rang loudly in his skull.

No. NO.

Pansy was wrong. She was so, so wrong.

She couldn’t have spat out a bigger pile of shit if she tried.

And he had to find her.

Find her and ask her and prove it.

And then Harry was running away from the voices and towards the dungeons. So fast he thought he may have left his lungs behind. So fast he thought his heart might rip and burst.

Not Hermione. Not Hermione.

He shook it into himself.

Not with Malfoy.

Anyone but him.

Had he misheard? And even if it was true. It’s just Malfoy that wants her. It’s just Malfoy that wants Hermione. She doesn’t want him back. And if he so much as lays one fucking finger on her, Harry will break every sodding bone in his body. Every-single-fucking-one.

And Pansy was a delusional. She was just searching for excuses for their failing relationship. Well Hermione wasn’t one of them. She absolutely nothing to do with it. And what a stupid little tart for thinking that any of it would make the smallest bit of sense. Because it didn’t.

It made absolutely no sense at all.

That was why she was wrong. And the sooner she understood that the better.

So why was Harry’s heart pumping so fast? So fast it could break his skin?

It was all just a pack of over-exaggerated lies and he knew that. But he didn’t like what they had done to his head. And it was only temporary, he told himself, only until he found Hermione and asked her and realised. That none of it was the truth. And she would tell him the truth. The real truth. And he was going to believe every word she said.

Nothing was going on between her and Malfoy. They hated each other. You didn’t have to be within a mile of them to know that. She hated him just as much as Harry did. Just as much as Ron did.

Harry flung himself down the abrasive stone steps of the dungeons. Pansy’s words were screaming in his head.

The way they look at each other.

No.

Not.

Hermione.

Harry was breathing so hard he couldn’t think straight.

And suddenly he could hear shouting. A loud, rasping, ripping voice.

Malfoy.

Harry reached the door, stopping so fast he almost lost balance. Sweating. Panting. Aching. Burning.

His ears filled with blood. It was searing in his veins.

“And what would my father say to that? He’d tear me into a bloodied mess and spit on the remains! You’re dirty and you’re disgusting and you’re a mudblood! So I hate you! I hate you for fucking existing, Granger! I wish you were fucking dead!”

Harry’s fists clenched.

He would kill him.

(No. Not. Hermione.)

He would fucking kill him.





















*

Disclaimer: All these characters belong to JKR. I own nothing, much to my dismay, and make no money whatsoever out of this story!

Chapter 6.

Hermione has this memory.

This one, precious, beloved memory of her, Harry and Ron.

It was the summer after fourth-year and they were at the Burrow. It was August, maybe late August, and it was quite possibly one of the most uncomfortably warm nights of her entire life. Too warm, and too damp, and too hard to drift off into anything other than a heated, failed, thwarted attempt to sleep. For Hermione, at least. Even to this day she wonders how in Merlin’s name Ginny had managed to achieve it. But she, herself, had laid there, sticking to the sheets. Not a hope in hell of anything resembling a cool draft coming her way.

Hermione decided, that night, that she was definitely the kind of person who would rather be too cold than too hot. Unless, of course, she was so cold she could barely breathe. Then it most probably would be better to be too hot, surely? Unless it felt like this, that is.

Too cold, or too hot?

-and the debate distracted her for a few minutes. Merlin, she had nothing better to do. Lying there, staring up at the ceiling, down at the floor, across to Ginny, out into the thickened night. And nothing about any of it had changed.

Goodness gracious. I don’t think I have ever been this bored in all my life. She thought this every five minutes or so.

Yes. Still bored.

And then suddenly she had heard voices coming from the open window. Boys.

Harry’s voice. “Do you think she’s awake?”

And Ron. “Shall I throw something through the window?”

“Yeah. Find something small.”

Throw something? Hermione scrambled out of her useless thoughts and useless bed and headed for the window as quietly as she could. And as damn fast as she could, as well. Because Ron was not about to bloody throw something into their room.

She stuck her head out the window. Harry and Ron were standing on the grass beneath her.

Her voice raised to a half-whispered shout. “You two!” she frowned down at them, “What an earth are you doing?”

Ron dropped a stone back to the ground. It was a big stone, she noticed, and then she wondered, in a mother-like fashion, how in Merlin’s name he thought any good would have come from throwing it up there.

“Come down, Hermione!” called Harry.

“Be quiet, will you?” she replied, glancing back at Ginny, “And why? What are you doing out at this time of night?”

“It’s too hot to sleep.”

Okay. Because if at that moment there was one reason in the whole of the world that would have stunted Hermione Granger’s infamous about-to-be-scolding session, that was absolutely, undoubtedly, it.

And then the memory jumps forward a little.

And they are lying on the grass. Harry, then Ron, then Hermione.

Looking up at the biggest, blackest, brightest night she has ever seen.

They hadn’t talked in a whole half an hour. Just lay. Just breathed.


She was cooler now. And she breathed in the cool air and almost shivered because of it. But it was perfect. It was what she had needed. Neither too hot, nor too cold. And so Hermione finally decided, you just simply couldn’t pick one. And strangely enough, that satisfied her.

She felt so…

So.

Safe.

Right there. And then. Lying next to her two best friends. The two boys she cared more about than anyone. The two boys that, even at the young age of fifteen, even after only four years of being together, she couldn’t ever see herself being without. Ever.

She hoped they would grow old and never lose each other.

Hermione loved them both already. And she felt the sudden urge to tell them.

“You know I…” She trailed off.

No wait, she thought, perhaps I should leave it open for interpretation rather than spell it out. They were boys, after all. They may just laugh their bloody heads off at her.

And then there was the fact that she was really, very tired. Lying there before the world. And quite possibly it was all sentimental rubbish that was better left unsaid.

“’You know you’ what?” asked Ron.

“I just. I just hope we stay friends for a long time.”

He was silent for many seconds.

“Ron?” she asked.

“Yeah. I’m sure we’ll be fine.”

Hermione smiled. That was Ron agreeing with her completely. And of course the completely awkward kind of completely. I’m sure we’ll be fine.

But completely.

“And Harry? What about you?” She turned her head slightly. “Don’t you hope we we’ll stay this way? When we’re older?”

“I guess.”

“You guess?”

“I mean sure.” Hesitation. Clearing of throat. “I mean, I’m very sure.”

And she almost felt her heart swell with the words. I’m very sure.

Excellent. Because now they had said it, that was how it had to be. They would stay friends in that forever kind of way. In that very necessary, very basically, essentially kind of necessary, way.

“Promise me?”

Harry answered her first. “Yes.”

“You too, Ron.” She nudged him.

“I promise, alright?”

“Good.”

And then she heard Ron roll over very slightly and mumble something to Harry. Something along the lines of “Women”.

And Merlin, she must have been tired- very tired indeed- and happy, because she really didn’t care. She must have been. And very safe, as well.

Very safe lying there next to Ron and Harry.

And so Hermione had this memory. Treasured beyond belief.

Safe in with the knowledge. Safe because she knew.

She’d never lose them.

Yes. And please. Please. To whoever is up there. Just the three of them.

Don’t ever let that change.








*

Disclaimer: All these characters belong to JKR. I own nothing, much to my dismay, and make no money whatsoever out of this story!


Chapter 7.


Hermione’s heart stopped.





Harry.


*



How long had he been there?

Oh no. Please. Don’t look like that.

“Harry…”

Hermione never wanted to see him look like that again. Not for as long as she kept breathing. Seething with all the hurt that it suddenly shot through her. Because he looked furious. Fucking inside-out fury.

Harry stood there. Fists clenched, mouth tight, eyes hot. Hot and staring right through her and past her and hitting the boy behind. Hermione daren’t look, but she was sure Draco was staring straight back at him. And she was sure his eyes were burning, too.

Say something.

“Harry…?”

Why are you looking like that-

-and how much did you hear?-

-and why are you breathing so fast?

And isn’t it obvious? Look at him. He may as well have heard everything. And he probably has. Every, single, soaking drop of poison.

She wanted to plead with him. It’s not what you think, Harry, it’s not, and I’m sorry.

But he was breathing hard. Wasn’t he breathing so hard? So devastatingly hard. Did it mean that…had he been running? Had he only just got there? –and doesn’t that change everything? Doesn’t that mean he can’t have heard it all? But that look. Then why was he still looking like that?

I can’t tell on my own so please just say something, say anything, say what you heard, tell me what you heard him say Harry and then I can say something back because-

-no. Hermione, please stay calm, please stay focused-

-because I can’t touch the truth unless you know it already- I won’t touch it unless you’re already there. I won’t be the one to tell you, not right now.

I can’t be the one to tell you the truth because I don’t even know it myself, Harry.

But if you heard, if you heard Malfoy then you know already. Do you know already? Do you understand it, Harry? I don’t understand it. But you’ll hate me. Won’t you? Why are you looking like that and is it because of me? I do I do I want to say sorry but what if you ask what for and I can’t do that- I can’t tell you and I won’t say the words because it’s too hard right now, in this moment, so many things in my head I’m scared I’ll collapse-

-please, let me stay calm-

- and, Merlin, please, stop staring at Malfoy like that.

Harder, this time. “Harry.”

Can’t you see that I’m saying your name and that I need to know? I need to know what you heard. No one can do anything until I know what you heard.

They say silence is deafening, but that isn’t enough. It fucking isn’t enough. This silence makes her feel like she’ll never be able to hear again.

(Whatever happens now, Malfoy, she was blaming you. Do you hear that? She was blaming you, just you and your fucking words in her head Malfoy, EVERY SINGLE ONE MALFOY EVERY SINGLE FUCKING BREATH.)

Because. They hurt.

Like hell.

And she still hears them. And that’s something else altogether.

Her voice was gentle.

“Please.” Pleading. “What’s wrong, Harry?” It was quiet. And how that was possible was beyond her comprehension. She was screaming it at him inside her head. “Are you…? Has something happened?”

No. Don’t pretend you don’t understand why he’s looking at Malfoy like that. He must have heard the shouting. And he must know that you know that. So don’t ask him what’s happened, because you both know what’s happened.

And then finally. Finally.

“Get away from him, Hermione.” Harry’s voice was deeper than she could ever remember hearing it.

What does that mean? She asked herself. How much does that mean he’s heard?

“Harry- what’s wrong? Please. Calm down.”

“I am calm.”

“No you’re not-”

“Get away from him, Hermione.”

“Please, let’s just-”

“Shut up and get over here now!”

“No!” Hermione’s cheeks flushed loudly. No. “Not until you calm down!”

Harry’s eyes shot towards her.

Look at his face. He can taste them. Can’t you see he can taste all of the lies as you speak? The room is thick with them.

Hermione breathed out. “Let’s just go.” She took a tentative step towards him. “Malfoy and I are finished now. We’re finished, Harry. So let’s just leave.”

And then Harry was back looking at Draco. She’d barely even noticed him take his eyes off the boy. And Merlin. For the first time in Hermione’s entire life she felt grateful towards Malfoy. Grateful that he had yet to say a single thing. And she wondered if that was because he had heard her silently beg him not to. Or perhaps. Because he was still so completely raw from the last thing to have left his mouth.

The same thing that keeps going and going and going in her own head.

And then true to form, back to reality, that appreciated silence was broken.

“What are you going to do, Potter?” Draco almost sighed it.

Hermione tensed.

Harry stared back at him. Long, hard, foreboding. Cold. Livid.

“I suppose it’s been a while since everything has turned into the bloody Potter Show around here,” he drawled, “So why don’t you hurry the hell up and show us all how it plays out. I’m dying to know.”

She had to congratulate him. Well done, bitterly. He had well and truly mastered his usual contemptuous malcontent down to a T. He almost sounded. Normal. As if they had simply met in the corridor one night. Exchanging the usual insults. Not standing in a room where the temperature had just risen five hundred and fifty fucking degrees. She didn’t know what it did. Annoy her even more or simply wash her down with relief. Because anything that sounded even remotely familiar right then almost tasted like sugar.

“Stop it, Malfoy,” warned Hermione. “Just leave him alone, alright? We’re going to go now.” Aren’t we Harry? Yes. “We were finished here anyway.”

Draco looked at her then. And she looked away. Finished? It had said. You know this is far from finished.

And that, that didn’t taste of sugar. Because that wasn’t the familiar. Or maybe.
Maybe it was. Their own private hell. Their fast-becoming-home.


Draco watched Hermione take the few remaining steps across the room to Harry. They were slow. Slow and cautious and so terribly terrified. Watched her stand in front of him and reach to touch his arm. And that was anxious, still timid and anxious. And soft. Fingers around his arm. Very soft.

Draco cringed.

Because that’s right. That’s the way. The sodding Granger way. Prance off with her bloody Potter. Your bloody Potter and his stupid save-the-girl glasses. I can hear your breathing, Granger. What you’re scared of. Scared how far he’ll go before he turns around and starts to scream at you.

Whore. Stupid whore. Is that what he’ll say? Because he probably heard every word I yelled. Right? Is that why you’re so worried?

Draco wished he had. Did she hear that? Wished it. I almost fucking wish it, Granger, wish that he would leave you alone like you’re leaving me now. And don’t think I don’t know that you want to stay. If he wasn’t here. You would be staying.

Fuck all the Granger out of you.

Don’t tell me you didn’t want to stay for that.

Just to hear me say it again.

My words, Granger, you heard them, you hear them. You fucking stink of them.

So that’s how I know we aren’t finished.

We aren’t finished. This is nowhere near the end.

Harry had shaken off Hermione’s touch, and he was standing, still staring, still marking Draco up and down and through to his bones with tiny, biting, rancid revulsion. And Draco was spitting it all back at him. Straight in the face.

The feelings mutual, Potter, I can assure you.

And Draco would have said it aloud. Would have spat louder. But he was almost curious. Curious at what this boy was going to do. This boy that was looking at him with the most menacing look he had yet to see him give. It was spot on. Textbook hate. He probably practiced it in front of the mirror before he came.

But Draco didn’t care. He didn’t care at all. Whatever Harry did he had one thing. One thing that would win. Hands up in the air win.

Because how much would it gall him to know Draco had tasted her lips.

He looked over at her. At Hermione.

I had those lips, Potter. And I’ll have them again.

She was looking at Harry nervously.

“Would you please stop,” she whispered, “Stop looking at Malfoy like that. Let’s just talk about this, okay? Let’s just go back to the common room and talk about this.”

Draco almost laughed.

For goodness sake Granger. For goodness sake. Will you hurry up and realise already you stupid bitch?

He heard nothing. Nothing that could have told him the truth. And do you know how I know that, Granger?

Because he’s Potter. And he never would have stood outside that door for all that time. He never would have listened to me say so much as a wrongly toned word, Granger. He would have burst in the first time I swore at you. He would have burst in the first time I called you a whore and a slag and a weak little bitch. He’d just got here. Can’t you tell? He never would have let you hear all that. Never would have let it touch those sweetly innocent virginal ears. Not if he could have helped it. He would have ran straight in.

And do you want to know why?

Because he isn’t looking for the truth. He’s looking for an excuse.

An excuse to keep you away from me.

So you don’t have to worry yourself about precious little Potter. Because for whatever the reason he’s looking like that, whatever the twat thinks he knows or might know or wants to bloody know, he doesn’t. He doesn’t know a thing.

And so it’s back to you. And it’s your choice to tell him or not, Granger. The shitting mudblood whore has back her control. And I almost hope it destroys you. And I hope he never speaks to you again.

I hope you come flooding back to me.

Because, Merlin, I want to know what it’s like to fuck you in despair.

Fuck you, then leave you.

Out my head. Out of my blood. Out of my absolute purity.

“Come on, Potter,” growled Draco, “Whatever it is. I dare you.”

“I warned you,” hissed Harry. His breathing was still hard, not as hard as before, not as fast, but still hard and long and fiercely apparent. “I warned you off her.”

“And?”

“And I told you to stay away.”

“I know.” Draco’s mouth twitched. “But I just couldn’t help myself.”

He knew Harry didn’t know the truth. And he knew he wouldn’t be the one to tell him. But it didn’t mean he couldn’t mess with that pathetically overemotional head of his. And so he would. For as long as he can he will. And the punch line? All along Draco will know it’s more than just words. And so will she.

“Don’t Malfoy…” Hermione again. Something suddenly. Begging him. It made his heart jolt.

Shut up. Just shut up you stupid slag. That voice.

“Just let us go.” Pleading still.

Why is that voice grating on him. Why is it so hard to swallow?

Harry spoke through gritted teeth. “We’re not going anywhere.” Stare. “We’re not leaving this room, Hermione. We’re not going.”

“Harry, please.”

Because of course, noted Draco, Potter could have heard everything as far as she was concerned.

Just put her out her misery you thick bastard. Just say something to stop the bitch from trembling. Can’t you see her? She’s almost crying.

And be careful. Because he’s tasted those tears before. And they tasted so fucking good mixed with the vomit in his mouth. Last night. Up against her. So just say something. Anything so she’ll realise.

“Why are you doing this, Harry?” asked Hermione, her eyes wide, “Nothing good can come from this. Don’t you see? If you and I just leave right now, we can sort this out. Whatever you…heard…or think…about me…Harry, we can just-”

“I’m not leaving! Not until the bastard apologises to you!”

Hermione froze.

And let’s make it even easier for her.

“For what, Potter?”

“For everything. For wishing her dead. For not being dead yourself, Malfoy.”

Draco could almost hear the realisation blossom underneath her skin.


Hermione played that back. One more time. For everything. For wishing her dead. And?

And?

For the touches? For the tongues? For the teeth the lips the hands? Are you forgetting or do you not know…

Does that mean…?

What did that mean?

That Harry had only heard the last few words? The part where Draco had wished her dead? Was that really why he was so angry, so completely fuming before her? That can’t have been it. That can’t have been it at all. She’d barely ever seen him look so, so like that, so like the expression on his face when he’d burst through the door. No. There was something else wrong, she decided, she knew, and if it wasn’t what her and Malfoy had just been screaming at each other, then that was barely a relief. Because there was something else. There was definitely something else.

Hermione stared back at Harry with overwhelming uncertainty.

Harry said it again. “Apologise to her.” His breathing was levelling. But Hermione saw that he looked so loud. So loud of mind, of misgivings, of must-be-saids. So where were they all? She asked herself, mind twisted into a painful knot of upheaval.

You came in and screamed a look. And why? She didn’t want to ask him why because what if she already knew the answer? Fuck. Fuck this mess. Mess of emotion. She couldn’t deal with it. With Harry, with Draco, their spoken, so unspoken, whispered words. Absolute fucking exhaustion.

How was her mind supposed to give her the time to stop any of it? She understood nothing.

“Heard me say some nasty things, didn’t you Potter?” frowned Draco. His voice had joined the depths. That deepness that Harry’s hung with. A dangerous colour. “Couldn’t help but erupt through the door like you’re the world’s bloody hero.” His top lip curled in it’s consistency. “And what if you’re not her type?” Because you aren’t. “Did you ever think about that?”

“I warned you Malfoy.”

And suddenly, Harry’s wand appeared.

(And suddenly, Malfoy’s mind began racing.)

Hermione gasped. No. No wands. No magic. No fighting. “Harry put your wand away,” Her voice was frantic, she pushed down on his arm, “This isn’t the right way to do this. If that’s all your upset about, those things that he said to me, then it doesn’t matter, okay? None of it hurt me, alright?” Lies. Salt-bitter stale lies but please- put it down. Put it down before this air snaps in two and you get hurt, Harry. “You know his words mean nothing to me. I barely hear them, Harry. I barely listen. ”

“It’s not just the words,” he growled, arm rigid, wand pointed.

“Then what? Will you please just tell me what it is Harry?!” She pulled at his wand again. “And will you just let go! This isn’t the way! It’s never been the way, alright? Has magic taught you nothing? All those years it’s maimed and destroyed, Harry? Just don’t do this. I promise you whatever it is we’ll sort it out. We’ll talk about it. Please.”

Draco’s jaw clenched. “Let her take it, Potter,” he hissed, and then his eyes narrowed, “If you really hate me, if you really want to me to stay away from her, then show me. Show me. Come over here and prove it to me. Prove it to me without your wand.”

An open invitation.

Hermione felt the cold ignite.

What was he doing? What the hell was he doing?

“Put down your wand and prove it.” The invitation read. “Because it’s over too soon with magic, Potter. It’s over too soon with words. You can hardly hear the bones breaking. You can hardly feel the skin ripping-”

“No!” exclaimed Hermione, “Stop it! Stop it, Malfoy! You can’t do this! I won’t let you!” And she felt the slow rising panic of terror. Terror-filled anticipation.

But she would never understand.

That was what Draco told himself.

“Malfoy, please, no, don’t make him do anything...”

Not even that voice. You would never understand, Granger.

Because he’d finally found a way. There, right in front of him. A way to make the thoughts stop.

This was a chance of punishment. This was chance of beating. Battle beating. Fists and elbows and knees and necks. A chance for lyrical blood. Pain. And fuck. A chance of mercy. A translucently transient lyrical moment of emancipation, liberation. He had needed it for days. Weeks. He had needed it since her. Since the dirty blood. Since it hit his mouth and swirled, licked, danced around his tongue and turned him mad. Pain for burying his face in her neck and whispering venomous words in his head about beauty and need and fuck-hard-fucks, and lips against skin against veins full of blood- that blood- and still no release. Not inside her, not around her- and no pain- no punishment, nothing battering against his body and it was torture. Because his head would keep ringing and ringing and ringing out with what he deserved but never got- because he wasn’t around to do it anymore, he wasn’t around, he was dead.

The pain was for Draco. And that was the punishment. Staring him in the face.

Because he had been begging for someone to do this to him since he’d felt her muddied heart against his chest.

And is father was dead.

But now there was Potter.

Someone he hated nearly as much. And someone who hated him back. Just as his father had hated him. Because you did, didn’t you father? You hated me down to the bone.

So that’s why you’ll never understand, Granger. Two birds with one stone. He’ll get to be hero and I’ll get to bleed back. And that blood with be for my father. All for him. The final sorry. The one I can’t fuck up because your lips are too damn close, Granger. The sorry for everything I’ve done, and everything I want to do.

That’s the invitation Potter. And it’s funny because you’ll think I’m mad but I’m not.

I’m thinking totally, utterly, irrefutably straight. Straighter than I have in weeks.

Because Draco had never needed to hurt so much in his life.

Now come on. Because I know you want to.

“So why don’t you put it away? You can handle yourself, can’t you Potter? The prized possession of Hogwarts, never a dull moment and all that shit, the biggest fattest deadliest weapon they’ve ever got their hands on. Congratulations Potter, I bet they’d frame you in an cabinet if they could. Pop you in and out whenever they needed you. Needed you to fight. So fight. Fight for your bastard father and whore of a mother, Potter-”

“Shut up.”

“-Fight for your dead godfather and his twisted pervert friends. Fight for the girl, fight for Granger, for all the times you’ve known I could burst through her door and under the covers and between her thighs-”

“I mean it you bastard!”

“-and ravish her like the filthy fucking mudblood that she is-“

“I SAID SHUT THE FUCK UP MALFOY-”

“SO WHY DON’T YOU MAKE ME?!”

And Harry’s fist met his jaw so hard and sharp he fell to the ground.

Draco could hear her. Somewhere outside it. She was calling their names. No. Just Harry. Why just Harry? And his jaw felt torn, as he shot out his knuckles and into the stomach, the body keeling over, fist into it’s glasses and grazing his hand. And then it fights back and Draco is down again, the floor again, hard ash stone against his head and its buzzing and its punishment and it will stop unless he fights back further- grabbing hold of an arm and pulling down, dragging up, kicking in and ankle grabbed, twisted, pain, down again, up again, fist into it’s face to break it and blood in return, an elbow across his mouth and the taste of metal- Rush up for the clash-crashing, it’s the defining moment, and now welcome to the party (I’m so glad you’re invited). And all the while shouting- shouting- and this time his name as well, as he’s back down on the ground, panting swearing fuck fuck you bastard cunt son of a muggle whore I’d take her I’d take her if I wanted to-for every word a new way to hurt and every breath a new way of hurting and look to the fist a jaw a bloody nose- this is punishment this is payback this is for you- for you- for you father he’s doing what you can never do and I’m sorry but I still want-her-need-her-fucking-inside-out and why but not even this pain can change that- because even now I need her- fist out, across it’s face again into the ribs again, shapes, shadows, growls and words and bloody pain so much pain she’s mine she’s mine not yours and suddenly- -suddenly something else, something new, it’s frantic pushing between, between, I can’t reach it anymore get out Granger get the hell out of this it’s not here for you it’s my punishment and I need it you can’t stop it just get out, just get out get out and let it-

Her body flew back, hit desks. Collapsed to the ground.

They froze.

Granger…

A split second and Harry was there. “Hermione…” his voice was rasped, scraping in his throat, “Hermione, are you-”

“Get off me!” she shouted, “Just get away from me!”

“Hermione…”

“Get away!”

She pushed away the bloody hand. Looked up into his streaming face and screamed inside.

Are you happy now?! Look at you! LOOK AT YOU BOTH! WHAT THE HELL JUST HAPPENED TO YOU?

“Are you hurt?”

Yes. But I threw myself into you bastards so what did I expect? What could I do? Every single spell had left me, EVERY FUCKING WORD WAS DRY.

And what the hell were you doing?

And look at you now.

Harry was staring down at her. Panting. And she could see the blood trickling down onto his lip. Red-to-be-purple splashed against his face. Lips cracked. Parted. Wincing when he breathed.

Look. Look at what you’ve done to yourself.

And then Draco. Draco who was sliding down the wall. Eyes fixed to her. Breathing coarse, callous, riveted by something. Fast wheezes. Drenched in bruises. What was it? What was it that had darkened his face and given him that look? That look. The same one as last night. The same eyes he wore when speaking of blood and flesh and pure right wrong.



Where were they both?

Where was she?



A nightmare. A nightmare and she wanted to wake up.

Please. Someone. Shake her until she’s screaming wide awake.

Because here, here she couldn’t stay.



“Hermione- Hermione, are you hurt? ” Back to Harry.

“No. No I’m not. Just leave it.”

“You look hurt-”

“I look hurt?!” She laughed. Disbelief. Don’t be caring now Harry. Not when it’s so bloody hypocritical I could scream. “Look at you! Your covered in it, Harry! Your covered in the stuff!”

And then why. Because she had to know why.

“What were you thinking?! Why can’t you just tell me! Was it something you heard? Was it something we said? Just answer it! Tell me! What is going on and why the fuck did that just happen, Harry, what made you lose control like that? Why did you let him do it to you?!”

“Why do you think!”

“I have no idea! I’ve had no idea since you entered the bloody room!”

“I know how he feels about you, Hermione! And you need to know too! You need to know because he’s dangerous! He’ll do something! He’ll take whatever he wants! And that’s you, that bastard is wanting you, Hermione! And I’m not lying- I promise you I’m not lying to you, this isn’t my way of keeping you apart from him but I heard it all, I heard it all from the bitch Parkinson! She said he said your name when he came for fucks sake, so you’ve got to believe me! The bastard will take advantage of you and-”

-the words kept coming, splashing around violently, deep into her eyes.

He knew what Malfoy felt.

So this is what he knew.

Said your fucking name when he came.

And it was even more than her.

“-so you think I’m going to stand by and watch that all happen?! You think I’m going to let you walk around up there in your own bedroom with the bastard across the other side of the walls? I’m not going to let you do that Hermione, you can’t, because nothing is worth that much, and I mean that this time!”

And then Harry had turned to Draco.

“Tell her! Go on, tell her how you feel, Malfoy!”

Oh Harry, no, if only you knew.

Hermione was stabbed with the look Draco shot her. It was precariously dangerous. Warning. Warning her. He’d kept quiet this long but if she let Harry go on any longer he wouldn’t keep the silence-

-and Hermione wasn’t ready for that. Wasn’t ready for Harry to know. Not here and not like this.

“Tell her you bastard!”

Draco got to his feet.

“Harry, stop-”

“I want to hear him tell you himself, Hermione! Hear it from the son of a bitch’s mouth!”

Draco stepped forward.

Last warning.

Hermione grabbed Harry and spun him around.

“Harry, please will you just STOP!” She had his wrists, had him pulled in close. “This isn’t the way. And I don’t care what Pansy said! We can talk about this. No fighting, no shouting, just calm down! We can talk about this.”

Harry stared at her then. It was for a long moment. And her breath was held. Well and truly held so hard her head was thumping.

And then suddenly he shook his head.

“No.”

“What?”

“No.” Harry twisted his wrists out of her grip and grabbed her arm.

“Harry, what are you-?”

“We’re going.”

“But I thought-”

“I’ve changed my mind.”



And Draco watched as he dragged her out the room.

She turned back to glance at him. It was quick. One last time.

And there was something in her eyes. Something. There was always something in her eyes. But this.

Draco found himself back against the wall. His head rang with pain. Cool waves of sinisterly liberating pain. And he slid down it.

What did it mean.




He felt his eyes begin to sting.






*

Disclaimer: All these characters belong to JKR. I own nothing, much to my dismay, and make no money whatsoever out of this story!

(WARNING: Strong language!)

Chapter 8.

Ron was waiting.

It wasn’t the patient, lets-sit-back-and-see wait, it was the ever-frantic, ever-remorseful pacing up and down and around by the Gryffindor fireplace wait. And the thin film of sweat on his forehead told him-

“You shouldn’t have let him go. And now if he’s not back within the minute. You’re going to find him.”

Because Ron knew. Ron knew where Harry was going when he left the common room. But he was almost certain that Hermione would greet him with an earful of frustration, whack him several times with her schoolbag, prod him with the pin on her Head Girl badge perhaps, and then send him on his way. And he would be back. And then the formalities would follow, “I told you not to go” “I know but I had to” “And what happened” “Hermione told me to get stuffed”, and so on and so fourth on the way down to dinner.

Ron muttering “Malfoy isn’t worth it”, a few times.

That’s what should have happened by now. That’s how it went.

But Harry wasn’t back. And everyone had already gone to dinner. Except Ron. Because Ron was waiting. Very slowly panicking that his best friend, his ridiculously highly likely to blow a short fuse best friend, was out there screaming his head off at Hermione. And Malfoy. The one boy in school most likely to be giving him a hard and brutal fists-style answer back. Because Hermione couldn’t stop everything with smart words.

Ron took a deep breath.

Unless maybe Harry went somewhere else. And he didn’t go looking for her.

Ron preferred that scenario. Ron definitely preferred that scenario.

What if he was underestimating Harry? He wasn’t completely a dense prat after all. It doesn’t take the most observant of a bunch to predict how Hermione would react to him turning up. What with bag beatings and badge pokings.

That’s if Hermione was still there.

What if Harry had found Malfoy? Not Hermione. Just Malfoy?

No one else there.

No one to break it up.

‘It’ being the inevitable.

Bloody hell, Ron, you stupid twat.

Whether or not he was wrong about this, he wasn’t staying there to find out. And if he was wrong, if nothing was happening, then he’d call himself a sissy git at a later date. But not now.

Now he would just find his wand and race the hell out of there, down to the dungeons, find Harry, find Hermione. Bring them back. Away from the bastard. Sort this out. Be the sensible one. Try and hide the fact that he wished Hermione had never, never become Head Girl. Because so far. Ron knew. Ron knew things hadn’t been the same.

But just before the door- just as he reached to open it- his mouth fell. Stepped back. Blinked.

He was right.

“Harry…”

And fuck. He was right.

“Harry what the bloody hell…”

“Not now, Ron.”

“Tell me you didn’t. Tell me you didn’t do what I think you did…” He rushed over. Hand on shoulder. Hand off shoulder as soon as Harry winced. Eyes snapped to the dried blood smeared straight across his face, down to the fresh blood still falling from his lip. “You did…you found him, didn’t you?”

“Did she come back here?” Harry was looking around the common room. Quick glances into every corner. “Hermione? Did she come back?”

“What? Why? No… What the-”

“We were on out way up here- afterwards- and she just- we argued. She left.”

“Malfoy did this to you?”

“Don’t Ron, not now, alright?”

“Yes now! You’re going to tell me what the hell happened! ‘Cos, Merlin Harry.” Ron wasn’t going to be kept in the dark about this one. He wasn’t going to adopt the leave-them-to-it strategy. “You should come upstairs.”

“You should look for her, Ron. She won’t want to speak to me-” His hand moved up to wipe the blood away from his nose. “-Do you know the password for her dorm? She never gave it us did she?” He almost laughed. “We should have that password, Ron.”

“Bloody hell Harry. Was this Malfoy?”

Of course it was bloody Malfoy. It was hardly Hermione, was it? And she was gone. What had happened? What the bloody hell had happened? He was right. He should never have let him go.

Damn you Ron for being so right.

Harry was touching his jaw with his fingers. Ron lifted his arm up and over his shoulders. “Our room, Harry. Let’s get you to our room.”

“I just- I just lost it.” Harry was shaking his head. He allowed Ron to help his aching body up the steps. “I just completely lost it.”

Of course he did. Why the hell did you let him go, you stupid git?

“I know. I should have stopped you,” he mumbled, “But I thought- I thought if that’s where you were going then Hermione would sort you out. Because she always sorts you out Harry and I just thought, well I thought it was about due time for another-”

“None of that matters now.” Harry wouldn’t stop shaking his head. “I don’t care, Ron. I would have gone either way. I just…I wanted to tell her what I knew. What she needs to know. But not like that.”

“Like what? What does she need to know?”

“I heard Parkinson.” Harry cringed at the final step. Into their bedroom. “After I left here. I heard them in the corridors. She was talking about Malfoy. About Hermione. What he…feels about her…”

He let Ron place him on the edge of his bed. Winced with the pain that shot up his back.

“What he feels?”

“She said that Malfoy wanted Hermione. That he…wants her.”

Wants her? Wants Hermione? “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“And I just couldn’t- you know, Ron, if that was you and you heard that- you would go running. You’d go to her. Because you know Malfoy. Any chance to take what he wants. You would have gone, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes. I wouldn’t think twice. But I mean- was that what was happening? Was that sick fuck hurting her?”

“I don’t- no. I don’t think so. He was shouting. Just horrible, messed up things at her. I barely heard. I just- he was-”

“Had he touched her?”

“No.”

“Was he about to?” Ron stared at him. “Harry, was he about to?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well then- what? Why are you…? I mean what…”

If he wasn’t touching Hermione. If he wasn’t about to. Then wasn’t it glaringly obvious? Hermione was handling it.

Like she always handles it.

And Harry had interfered.

Like he always interferes.

“I was just so angry, Ron. I’m sorry. I don’t know.”

“Is Malfoy hurt?”

“Yes.”

“Well that’s good, I suppose.”

Harry shook his head. “Ron- you should go and find her. Try.”

“No Harry.”

“What do you mean no?” A frown suddenly deepened on his face.

“Because she’ll want to be alone. And the sooner you learn that, the better.” He shook his head. “Bloody hell mate, it used to be you giving me the lecture. So just leave her. Just until tomorrow. We should let her cool off, and then we’ll see.” It was that tone, that strangely sensible tone he was using again. The one he hated with a passion. Merlin. What was this place doing to him. What was it doing to the three of them? “Just talk about what happened, yeah? Just tell me why you’re doing this.”

“It’s him, Ron. It’s just him.”

But there must be something else.

There had to be something else.

“Harry?”

“Yeah?”

“I just want you to be honest. It’s me. So just tell me.”




And then we can sort it out.








*





The beat was playing in Draco’s head.

It was low, loud, some of it words, but he didn’t quite know what. Just sound. It was unfamiliar. And he wanted it to stop. His head was melodiously throbbing a rich and potent ambience. If only he could tear it out and shove it in the air around him. Out of the inside. Too satiated.

These past two days. They had crawled by in the mud and rain and sordid air, leaving bloody footprints behind that were as deep as caves. Holes. They had felt like a breath he had taken and never released. One that he’d sucked through a puncture in his chest followed through to his lungs. Like he was breathing through a hole soaked with blood.

And how dramatic.

How poetic.

Just so profound and metaphorical. That hole.

Don’t you think?

And a shame, too. A shame since it’s complete and utter bullshit.

All of it.

About days as long as years, and footprints deep enough to scar. About lingered breaths. About hate and poverty. Deprivation. Dispossession. Addiction. Compulsion. Any more words?

Any more allegorical wonderments and intensely sharpened tongues? Any more air?

How about this one. His need for her was like his heart leaking. Leaking out his eyes, out his ears, nostrils, mouth. Seeping out the pores of his skin.

Oh my. That is some deep air. Too fucking deep, Draco. And who’s around to congratulate you for it?

Blaise had seen him on his way out. The students. All those kids. They were filing back from dinner. Draco wondered what they just had. Probably meat. And then he remembered how he wished he liked meat more than he did. But it took too long to chew. So he would just pretend. Though he didn’t like it. Funny that. Odd that he pretended. If you don’t like something, you don’t like it. Why pretend?

“Alright Draco? You look like you’ve just hurled yourself off a cliff.”

“Sod off, Zabini.”

“Fine.”

“Are you eating that?”

“What?”

“That apple.”

“Not right now.”

“I missed dinner.”

“Have it then.”

The core lay beside him on the ground. It was browning. And wet. On the damp grass by the lake. He looked at it and wondered for a second.

How did Draco look? Did he look like Potter had looked? Bleeding and pouring and breathing and agonisingly bent in two?

No one had said anything to him. No one apart from Zabini. Who gave him a bloody apple for it.

And if he was Potter? Oh, if he was Potter. Flocks of bloody morons would gather, he was sure. Let’s all try and be the first to mend the Boy-who-should-have-died-a-fuck-long-time-ago. Call for Madam Pomfey, carry him their in a basket full of silk.

And here was Draco. Lying down in the mud. Beside the lake. In the deadly cold of dark distant night. All he would get was a truck load of slags desperate to touch his blood and lick it off their fingers. Had he not avoided the crowds.

And Snape, of course. Snape so almost saw him. Perhaps he even did. And that would be his Head Boy title gone. Gone completely.

His stomach lurched.

And good. Because then it still meant something to him. He still had something else left inside that didn’t have to scream touch and taste and fuck and Granger to grab his attention. Good. He almost wanted to run inside to tell the bitch.

See? You don’t have me like you think you do, Granger. There’s still things left that don’t scream your name. Not to do with pain, fathers, blood and scars. There’s still a small part of me that’s here for me, Granger, did you know that? I don’t care how small, because it’s there.

It’s there.

Barely. But it’s there.

And that’s why he was hanging on.

Barely. But hanging.

Hanging onto Head Boy. Hanging onto quidditch. Hanging onto the day he felt the Malfoy money rub between his fingers and burn on getting him the fuck up and up and up and out of this place.

Draco dug his fingers into the ground beneath him. He felt the cold wet sink underneath his nails. How strange he must have looked. Walking out like this. Walking here. Spreading himself on the ground and closing his eyes.

How mental. How absolutely fucking mental. And to think that an hour ago. Two or three. What had been. What was.

Then Draco felt it pulling him back under. No. Please no. Fuck off.

And he was there again. Standing in that room with Granger.

Beginning to ask himself the same questions. Same silent answers. Same thoughts that made his grip slip. Made Head Boy and quidditch and hot-burning-money creep from his grasp.

What had she thought? What was she thinking?

Where was she now?

Granger.

No matter how many things he found to hang onto.

Granger.

He fingers sank deeper into the mud.

Of all the mudbloods in the school. Of all the mudbloods in the world. He hated her the most. Hated and needed and craved, like a dark rich blood sauce to drip over his tongue. Mind-numbingly immoral. He was sure that was all it was. The hate and the need. And the immorality of all the things he had to do to her. All the things he should.

And if he could only get rid of that crudely basic need. He would be left with the abhorrence. The safe and controllable. The proverbial disgust. He would be alone again.

Alone with his father. To deal with it all. Maybe one final punishment. But no more Granger. No more Granger to destroy his head and fuck with his cock. Drag his eyes to her mouth, her moist and ripened and reddened lips, her neck, the exposition of blood, the walls of her wet and swollen throat. And inside it all. His breath. His tongue. His fingers. His cock. That heat, that soaking wet heat. Dropped to her knees, fingers wrapped around him, tongue leaking all over him. Lips dripping, bleeding. Tight. And hearing her choke beneath him.

And then Draco was hard again. So easy. So easy for him to get hard. Just tongues, just the thought of tongues. And sometimes.

Sometimes just the thought of her eyes.

How split-through-his-brain fucked was that.

But Granger’s little mouth. Granger’s little mouth cracking, jaw breaking, hands squeezing, as he drove himself hard. And fast. Harder and faster and deeper into her throat just to feel the back of her. Scrape the very inside of her. And all the while her lips, her lips so tight he could-

Draco had moved a hand to his cock. He was rubbing it through his trousers. Fiercely. And he hadn’t even noticed. He had fallen into himself. As soon as he’d thought what it would mean to do those immoral things. Wicked. Depraved. Deliciously, deviously hedonistic. Immoral things. And necessary. That word that kept emerging.

Necessary.

And Granger would moan. It wouldn’t be deep. Not like Pansy. But she would moan, muted screams, high, taut, indulgent.

Divulging all those little, those dirty little things within her. Those things that made her wet. Cream herself. Those things that made her want to grab his fingers and shove them inside her.

Ride him. Then feel his tongue. Piercing. Ride his cock. Hard and bloody. Granger.

Granger.

Draco’s mind and collapsed in on itself. So quick. So painful. The walls were fusing. And he was trapped inside it, with her, with her wet and raw and ripping skin. Nails scraping. Teeth tearing.

Grabbing the back of her hair. Pushing her so hard around his cock her brain bashed against the sides of her skull. And her cool fingers, curling around his shaft.

The thoughts weren’t enough. They weren’t nearly enough. He couldn’t see it. He couldn’t feel.

These thoughts. They aren’t real.

And the only image in his head, the only clear and authentic and meticulously placed part of her as he came in his trousers against the ferocious and frenetic heat of his hand, was staring at him through his skin. Her eyes.

Those eyes.

Your eyes. Granger.


Draco lay on the grass. Panting. The cold air scolded and stung the breaking tissue in his lungs. Filled his nostrils and buried inside his head. Ringing. His mind ringing so loudly.

The waves of revulsion began to hit him. Look at him. Lying in the mud. Air frozen.

Wanking like a twelve-year old kid.

And coming over her eyes. Her fucking-scrape-them-out eyes. And in no less than a minute. A sodding minute. It was all wrong. Every single thing about it. To the bone, to the very core.

And where was she now? Probably letting Potter make it all up to her. Probably letting him kiss that filthy cunt of hers better. Saying sorry. Sorry for being such a bad, bad boy.

No. All he had to do, was obliterate the need. Once that was gone, once that was done, he was free. That was the only problem. The need to feel her. The need to have the forbidden.

That must have been it. Because Draco was so used to having anyone, anything, whatever he wanted or needed or used till it broke. It was his, he’d take it. But her. She was the untouchable. The muddied untouchable and he should be able to have her.

And the problem was he couldn’t. It was simple. All he needed. Was that.

To be able to.

Have her.

Just once. Just quickly. Just enough to satisfy. And then he would make every single part of her pay for what she’d done to his head.

Yes. It made sense. It was a plan. A royally fucked up Malfoy plan. Disgusting beyond words. But that- the parts about blood and heritage and unspeakable revulsion- he would deal with later. Right now, there was only one way.


Slowly, cacophonously, the beat returned to play.






*







Hermione sat against the wall, knees up, back slumped, eyes fixed and staring directly in front of her at the door.

She’d been staring at it for what must have been an hour now. An hour since she’d shaken off Harry’s grip, shouted things about overreactions, steps too far, the pity of violence, and, the part with greatest emphasis, the importance of leaving her the hell alone.

The corridors had been empty as she walked through them. She would have ran. But she had nowhere to run to. And when she passed the noise in the Great Hall, her stomach contorted into a nauseous yearning for it. For that place. That safe, conventional, charismatic curtain of youth draping the doors.

That was where she should have been. With Ron. With Harry. Happy.

Instead she had passed it by like the unfamiliar. Passed it by as if she would infect it with the despondent disorientation that clung to every breath she sucked in.

She hadn’t expected Draco to be in their common room. And he wasn’t when she burst in. Her body begun to shake less, and her feet begun to carry her up the stairs towards her bedroom. Mechanical.

Just get there, go to bed. Wake up and think about this in the morning.

Just sleep.

Reached it, closed the door. Locked it. Several charms, maybe three. Turned back and stared at herself in the mirror opposite. Circles under her eyes and streaks of black down her cheeks.

It was enough to make her look away.

And then what followed. Shrugged off her robes, unpinned her badge. Dragged the red ribbon out of her hair and let it fall. Once more at the mirror, pale, and then back again.

Why did she ever think she was lucky. Lucky to look like this. Why was she ever pleased she changed. Grew up. Became.

Now it was different. It was like it used to be. Before, when she was plain. Young. Now it was-

-what the hell is that staring back at me? Who is this?

So wrong, all your fantasies, Granger. How can you ever expect to look anything other than hideous. Not with these fantasies. Not with these thoughts.

That had been the realisation, reflecting back at her in the glass. The swelling to swollen suffocation of realisation.

Things were getting worse. Things were only getting worse. And doing nothing was everything she wanted to do, and yet nothing she could. Nothing was not an option. Nothing, was making it worse.

But she hadn’t wanted to think about it then.

She hadn’t wanted to dissect the last few days. Weeks. Didn’t want to analyse the thoughts, the expressions, words, tone, touches. No longer wanted to close her eyes and see him, see frosted blonde and pale ash-filled grey painted and spat on the back on her eyelids. Her mind was run raw.

What fantastically rational words could possibly come to her? What new lease of life and hope and chance of things ever ending in anything but a palpable need to cry? To cry and cry and drown in the blood that endlessly boiled through her skin whenever he was around.

Him.

It had been a moment of despair.

All these moments. Together.

Hermione stood there. For a minute. And drank it all in.

And then soon. Soon. Perhaps sooner than she had hoped, a loud whimper, fresh tears, and a long, hard stumble back onto her bed, head falling down, pressed into covers, scrunched between fingers.

Heaving.

“I want…” Something, away from here. “Please, I just want…” Anything, anywhere but here. “Stop it” pleasecan’tyoustopit “Stop this feeling-” stopitihateit, “-please. Stop…Stop.”

I just want something normal.

“I just want home…”

And this was my home. This used to be.

And so on. So on and on. She let it out. Let all out. Sobbed so hard she had to swallow down her heart. Because she was losing. She was losing the battle to keep things normal. Keep Harry. Keep the three of them together. Family. Push out the thoughts of kisses and touches and desperation to feel. Keep Draco the hell away from her and her family and her life.

So she cried. Cried to herself, silently, where no one would ever know. Cried about all things Head Girl should have meant. And then cried that she was crying in the first place.

Because she wasn’t delicate. She had never been without control. She was glaring tenacious and obdurate.

She was Hermione.

And she wouldn’t give up on anything, not that girl inside her, she wouldn’t accept the obstacles or disputes or impediments. She’d straighten up, look towards the moral, good, the guidance of others, and head on.

Ignore everything else. Be Head Girl. Live the dream.

“They made me Head Girl, Mummy.”

Be as happy as she was when she’d spoken those words. Cry the tears that she cried then. Of anticipation, happiness, joy.

Sort out all the chaos around her.

She would turn around to Harry and shout. Shout.

“Can’t you see this? Can’t you see what you’re becoming? I told you, I told you, I said I was fine. And even though I’m not, even though I’m so far from anything fine I could weep my body dry, you should have listened. You should have listened to me. Because now it’s worse. It’s so much worse. And if that was all you knew, if it was just the parts about Malfoy, his want, his need, this ridiculous fusion of foul-mouthed emotion, then what you did- Harry- what you did was wrong. And you shouldn’t have come. Even if you knew about that night. That night when I kissed him back- even then, you shouldn’t have come. Because look at you. Look what you did. Look what you let him talk you into doing, Harry. Aren’t you stronger than that? Haven’t the years of evil and temptation and complete and utter fuck ups branded it deep and hard and fierce into your skin? Things never end well like that. Things never get sorted with brutality, Harry, not physical, fist-bashing, throat-cutting brutality. And was I so, so disillusioned to think you knew that?

I don’t know what the hell is going on with Malfoy, and don’t have the words to explain it, not my feelings, not his. But none of it is to hurt you. None of it is about you. You are making it so much harder for me, my heart, my bleeding excuse for a heart, it feels under permanent threat of eruption, Harry. Why can’t you see that? You’re my family. And you’re hurting me. And you wonder why I never came to you. This is why. This and so much more, Harry.”

And then breathe. Breathe. Catch her breath.

Turn to Draco and scream.

Scream.

“What is it? What is it that you want from me? Your words, so many words, seeping and flowing and spitting through those teeth. Blunt needles, knives, razor sharp ice. And so much blood. So much talk about blood, about wanting and needing and fucking, dying, crying over blood. I don’t know- I don’t know what to say to you. I can’t twist my mind around your presence, I can’t help but hate you. Hate you for taking away the control. Because no- I don’t have it, I don’t have any of it Malfoy, I’m completely and utterly helpless and so close- I’ve been so close to letting you feel me again, reach me, suck me, pull me over and I hate- I hate that I would just pull you back. Lick, bite, scrape. Breathe in those hard-

-hard fast foul frighteningly beautiful touches-

-and tremble. I always tremble. I’ve forgotten how to stop, and it’s all because of you. In the room, outside the room, behind the walls, across the tables, around the corner, sneering, staring, marking, hating, slashing invisible words all over my skin. Eliminate that tension. That rank rampant tension that’s there simply because we can’t touch each other. And I’ll never say the words to you, I’ll never admit it. Because you’re cold and empty and harsh evil wicked. You’re Malfoy. Malfoy blood. And that only screams sin, dark, driving, potently visible sin. What you feel, what you make me feel, whatever the fucked up messed up twisted contorted wild things between us, you’re the enemy. And that’s the final, the last, the bottom line. You’re the enemy. And I can’t have you.”

Try to breathe. It’s so important to breathe.

Struggle. Can’t.

All those things. Those things that she would shout and scream. They won’t leave.

Hermione realised this, upon crying on her bed. Upon letting it all out.

And as she did, as it went, flowed out through her tears and stained the bedspread, it crawled back up her legs, into her stomach, clawed up her throat and came back. It came back. Because it wouldn’t stay out. It wouldn’t leave.

It was there. And she didn’t know how to stop it.


So now, here she was. Sat against the wall. Knees up. Back slumped. Eyes fixed and staring directly in front of her at the door. Because after the sobs quietened, after a long hour of despair and desperation washing over her in pallid waves of exhaustion, she swallowed.

She swallowed it all down, and sat up.

Because yes. Things were getting worse. And yes. She was dry and drier and hurting inside.

But no.

She wouldn’t give up. She wouldn’t give in. She was tired and embittered, but she wasn’t gone. Not just yet. That girl inside her, the Head Girl, the Hermione Granger, she was still there.

He couldn’t break her.

Not like this. Not this way. She had her words. She had her words and she would wait for him. Wait for him to come back. Because there had to be a way. Hermione wasn’t ready. She wasn’t ready to forget about rationality and reason and hope. Not yet. Not like this. And so she would wait. She would wait for him.

Wait for the enemy to return.

And she noted the situation. This waiting. This waiting for Merlin-knows what. And thought to herself how ludicrous it all was, her sitting there, up against the wall, staring sharp blades through the door on the opposite side of the room. Because she had no idea what she would say. But she knew that it would come. And only then would she know. And slowly attempt the end.

Because that was the final, the last, the bottom line.

You’re the enemy.


And I can’t have you.




*



Draco had decided it was probably best that he return to his room.

He was shivering, violently. Sniffing and wheezing a little. The cold, he bitterly acknowledged, was no longer refreshing. It was beginning to sting.

One cleaning spell on his trousers for the thick, sticky come that was staining, but the rest, he would leave. The mud underneath his fingernails, the dirt across his face, the harsh damp of his clothing and the bitter taste of grass in his teeth. That was better off there, for some reason, it just was.

So he left it.

And the corridors were much emptier, as he dragged himself through them. And he didn’t see a soul. It was late perhaps, he realised, later than he had thought. But he was mostly unconcerned. Mostly didn’t care.

Mostly only thinking. Only thinking about her.

And would she be there. And would she be sleeping. Or would she be with them. With Potter and Weasley. Drowning her sorrows in their arms and their beds and big fat gaping mouths.

It only took a mere two minutes. Not long, quick steps, not especially dragged out. And he stood now in front of the portrait. Breathing steadily. Calm.

Strangely calm, in fact.

The air outside. It had done something to him. Washed over him, iced-up his skin. Almost frozen the burning inside.

The woman in the portrait raised her eyebrow as she swung open. Raised her eyebrow at Draco. Because of course, he remembered, he looked devastating. And he was almost curiously reassured by the fact. Looking bad, looking awful. There was something that had began to reflect the insides of his skull. Wearing his thoughts on the outside. Dirty, desperate and pained.

At least it made a change. He wouldn’t have to scream it all out through disjointed deafening darkened words. He just looked like them. He was them.

And so. He opened the door.


Yes.


She was there. Up against the opposite wall.

Waiting for him?

And she was staring at his body. This outer shell.

It had been enough to make Hermione’s eyes look so wide that it was possible to crawl into them and curl up and cry.

She got to her feet.

That’s right Granger, I couldn’t be bothered to clean myself up. Isn’t that odd? So what have you got to say about it?

“Malfoy…” her voice was quiet, very, very quiet, “What…?” He could hear the hesitation in her voice, the confusion, bemusement.

He watched her eyes skim over his body. She was thrown, quite clearly stumped, by this damp. This dirt. She was lapping it up. Lap up the wet robes and shirt underneath, the muck and mud and grime across his hands, small smudges on his face. And of course his battle wounds. Cut lip in two places, reddened fists, bruised jaw. The slight shiver and soft wheezing. And then pain she could only see in his eyes, but still noticed. And that she looked at the longest.

He stared back at her.

And it was strange. Unusual. Because she was walking slowly towards him. Very slowly. Moving.

“Malfoy…” she said again. Lost. Lost for words.

I must be looking bad. Look at how close you’re getting. You’re almost forgetting who I am. What we are.

What this is.

She was shaking her head slowly, her lips parted. Moist and open. Shocked perhaps. And she was moving closer still, arm out-stretching.

Draco’s head began to buzz slightly. That proximity. It was exceptional. The unexpected. The dream. And her arm out-stretched. Reaching. Reaching towards him?

Hermione’s hand was shaking, she was frowning, fingers hesitant, painfully lingering, cautiously hovering just before his skin. Against his cheek.

Is that her touch? Did she care? Was this her caring?

Draco closed his eyes and slowly turned his head into her fingers.

If he couldn’t see, if he could just shut off all his senses but one- skin-against-skin - then maybe this touch. Would last longer. Burn hotter. His breath almost snapped as he felt her fingers brush against his muddy skin. The cool softness. Lightly at his cheek.

It was stunning.

“Malfoy?” she murmured.

And Draco opened his eyes again, brow low, heart pounding. So hard he could almost see sparks in the corners his vision.

He watched the girl mere moments from his lips. The only time. She was close. Because she had moved to him. And maybe this meant- maybe this meant she understood.

Understood the only way to end it.

Draco stared at her. Confused. Hungry. Ablaze.


And then suddenly- brutally- her hand swung back and slapped him in the face so hard and fast he stumbled backwards.


Shock reverberated through his body, and Draco thrust a hand against the wall, steadying himself. She’d hit him. Hard. (So no, that wasn’t her caring. Not about the right things.)

“What the fuck-”

Her eyes were seething at him. Her breathing was fast.

“Don’t you ever,” she spat, clutching her hand to her chest, “Ever-” teeth clenching “-do that to Harry again.”

Of course.

Why are you so surprised? What did you think she was about to do? Press her mouth into yours and drink away all the pain? It’s Granger. Bloody Granger. It’s both of you. Things would never be that easy.

And you just beat up her best friend.

Merlin. Grab her arms. Twist them back. Do something in return. Close your mouth, at least.

“Do you understand, Malfoy?” she asked, her eyes narrowed, “Whatever is going on between us, whatever the hell this is, you leave Harry and Ron out of it.”

“He was the one that-”

“Never do that to him again!”

She moved back now. Moved away.

Draco growled, “Fuck you.” He lifted a hand to his cheek. “He was the one who threw the first punch. Or have you forgotten?”

“Those things you said to him, Malfoy,” she answered, her frown deepening, “They were rotten. They got right underneath his skin and you know it. You provoked him. Spectacularly.”

Draco stared back at her, took his hand away from the wall and straightened his posture. “Fine,” he replied, “But you know I could have done a lot worse to hurt him.”

She looked down briefly, and then back up at him. “I don’t care. That- that was too far.”

But she did care, he thought, she must have been relieved.

Because he knew that she knew. He could have said a lot of things. Worse than fists and knees and elbows sticking into throats. Words about lips, about mouths, about pulling on shirts and kissing people back.

And then there was silence.

Hermione stared back at him. And for a fleeting moment, things almost seemed severely awkward. He almost wanted to walk past her and up to his room. Because there was something in her eyes again. Unreadable, unpredictable, dark. Something that he’d seen before, when she’d left him alone. Gone with Potter.

Draco let his bag slide down his shoulder. “What happened, by the way?”

“Excuse me?”

“With you and golden boy. What happened?”

Hermione shrugged. “We talked.”

“And?”

“And it’s none of your business.”

Draco laughed. “Absolutely fuck all to do with me, I’m sure.”

Hermione’s fists tightened. He had to stop himself from taking an instinctive step backwards.

“You going to hit me again, Granger?” he spat, “I can assure you it’ll be the last thing you do.”

“No. You’re only worth the one slap, Malfoy.”

“How kind.”

They stared at each other again. One of those moments. Those hot, thick, familiar moments shooting through the air between them.

And then she seemed to jump into it, much sooner than he would have hoped for. Draco almost enjoyed the small talk, enjoyed the thickened taste of sexual tension rolling over his tongue.

“Earlier tonight,” she breathed, “It went too far, Malfoy.” Her cheeks flushed red. Deliciously red. “Don’t tell me you can’t see it. How bad things are getting. This isn’t going to end well.”

Was she stupid? Of course he could see. He was falling so fast he could barely feel the light of day anymore.

Hermione hesitated. “Don’t tell me you ever wanted things to go this far, Malfoy. Don’t say you ever intended on things being like this.”

What the bloody hell was she talking about? Never intended?

“I never intended one single revolting part of this fuck up, Granger,” spat Draco, “I haven’t wanted any of it to happen.” Her implication annoyed him. “Don’t forget that I don’t want this anymore than you do. Probably even less considering you’re the one who never gets any.”

Go on, roll your eyes. Fantastic.

“Well if neither of us want it to be like this, then we have to do something. We have to sort it out.”

Draco scoffed. “This isn’t a sodding Transfiguration class, Granger. You can’t work this one out with a heavy textbook and some quick thinking.” The sudden tension in his muscles caused him to wince, and he clutched his side with an arm.

He almost didn’t catch the sudden rush of concern that shot through her eyes. Typical Granger, moral to the very core. Caring for everyone. No matter how backward and depraved. Yes. Everyone is worthy of the Granger compassion.

Didn’t that just make him feel so bloody special.

“What’s wrong, Granger,” he breathed, “Concerned?”

She seemed to catch herself. Raised her chin and looked defiant. “About what?”

“You know about what.”

“No I don’t.”

“I’m sure.”

And then she sighed. Sighed and rolled her eyes for- it must have been the second time within the minute.

Changed the subject back nice and quickly.

“I know it can’t be easy,” she said, “Trying to forget about this. Trying to ignore each other. Trying to stop every biting part of this situation from taking a chunk. But we have to.”

And then it was Draco’s turn to roll his eyes. Quite evidently a popular activity.

Because since when was she so naïve.

“It’s only this year,” she continued, and he could even note the disbelief in her own words, “And we have to pretend. Just for this year. Just until summer. It’s not forever.”

“Don’t waste your breath, Granger.”

“Shut up, Malfoy. I’m trying to think this through. It’s either that or we go to Dumbledore and resign our positions. I know you don’t want that anymore than I do.”

“And why should it have to come to that?”

“Because look at this. There is no conceivable way we can function as Head Girl and Head Boy when things are so- so messed up. So violent. I won’t let this jeopardise the running of the school, Malfoy, I just won’t.”

“Oh no, never. You probably self flagellate already over all the neglected duties, Granger.”

“Shut up.”

“I bet I’m right.”

“All I’m saying is, if we just try- really try and get through this year, then it won’t have to come to that.”

“What, self flagellation or resigning our positions?”

Her jaw clenched slightly. “If we’re just- if we’re just mature about this, Malfoy, then maybe it will get easier.” Her eyes narrowed slightly. “Think about it. How difficult can it be to stop mumbling mudblood every time I enter the room?”

Draco laughed. “More difficult that you’d imagine.”

“Fuck you.”

“And that’s not even the problem, is it Granger? Let’s not pretend it’s all about names. All about words.”

“Whatever it’s about,” she answered-

-he could tell she was trying her best to wear the plastic poise-

“I don’t care. Because this can’t go on.”

“So you want to sort this out?”

“Yes.”

“And you’ll do anything to sort this out?”

“Anything within reason.”

Ah yes. The Granger friends. Reason and rationality.

They were about as much use as Potter.

“Well there’s only one way we can do that, Granger,” voice low enough to growl.

But she wasn’t stupid. “Don’t bother, Malfoy. Whatever poison is about to leave that mouth of yours, just swallow it back down.”

“You’ll want to hear it,” he replied, words still deep, “Trust me, Granger. I know I’m not wrong on this one.”

She looked uncertain. Guarded. “What?” She turned her head slightly almost as if anticipating a punch.

Draco fixed his stare. Say the words. Say them and see. Because deep down inside herself, she’ll understand.

“Just let me, Granger.”

And then he watched. Watched the growing realisation of his words slowly creep onto her face. Her head lowered, her mouth opened in righteous astonishment. Anger shot through her features.

“You must be fucking joking!”

“Why?” Draco took a step towards her. She took a step back. “It makes sense, Granger. Think about it.” He watched closely as her lip began to tremble. Tremble so delightfully he wanted to catch it between his teeth and bite down on it. Hard. “That’s all this is, after all. Isn’t it? Need. Lust. Fuck knows why. Fuck knows why I want to touch you. But I do. And I have to. And then this can all go to hell. Because once that’s done, once that need is gone, we can go back. Back to pure hating. Wouldn’t you like that, Granger? To go back to normal?”

“If that’s normal,” she growled, “Then we’re already there. Because I never stopped pure hating you, Malfoy.”

“And yet I bet you can’t wait until the next time I push you up against the wall, Granger.

“You’re wrong.”

“Praying that maybe- just maybe- this time I’ll take it further.”

“No!” He could almost hear her heartbeat vibrating through her words. “You’re so wrong, Malfoy. You’re so wrong! I don’t want that. Why don’t you listen to me? This is what I mean! This isn’t the way, this shouldn’t have to be the way! Why can’t we rise above it, Malfoy? Even you, even you must be able to see what this is doing. You threw up so hard last night I thought your guts were coming out! And I almost hoped they were. Because your ways- your irrational and immoral ways of ‘sorting this out’- they aren’t my ways. They aren’t mine. And they’re so far from anything I want it’s absurd! I don’t want that, Malfoy, I don’t want it.”

“Yes you do,” he murmured, taking a second step towards her. She forced herself up against the back of a chair. “You do and I don’t care if you deny it. Because I know. I know this’ll all fuck off if you just let me. Just let me, Granger.”

“I would rather die, Malfoy.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“You should,” she frowned, voice quivering, “Because- because I...” Her voice trailed off. She was concentrating on his steps. His steps getting closer.

Because they both knew what happened when he got closer.

Her fingers wrapped around the side of the chair behind her. “What you’re saying isn’t right. Violence and sex and screaming and hatred aren’t the only ways to make things better.”

“And what world are you living in, Granger?” he hissed, “Who the hell do you think I am? I’m a Malfoy, don’t forget.”

“How could I?” Her knuckles were turning white. “But wherever this is. Whatever you are. I’m not touching you. Not again. None of it’s right. It’s wrong. Completely and hideously wrong.”

Draco laughed. “You want to, Granger. Don’t pretend.”

Don’t let her pretend.

“How many times-”

“Why do you keep saying that? To me? To yourself? Even I’m admitting it, Granger, and you’re a mudblood! For me- this is so wrong, so against everything and anything I’ve ever been taught- but I’m willing, Granger, I know- I understand what it’s going to take for my head to clear. For you to stop clouding it, filling it to the fucking surfaces of my skin. This is so much harder for me, Granger, so much harder-”

“How dare you! How dare you presume to say this is harder for you! You have no idea what’s been going through my head!”

“Then let it go. Let’s both let it go, Granger. Together.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

Tempt her. Whisper twisted temptations. Elation, enticement, attraction, excitement. Make it happen. Get it over. Make it happen get it over get her out and stay out. Stay out and stay out and stay out. Then you can go back. Scream at her about the filth in her blood. Stop faking that right now, it’s not so important.

“When you’re up against the wall, I can feel it.” Draco’s tongue flicked out and across his bottom lip. “I can feel the heat radiating off you, Granger. The slick, wet, warm heat of your insides.” His cock twitched. “And your skin. Screaming at me to touch it. And I know that’s all you want. My tongue. My soaking tongue and skin against wet skin-”

“Shut up.”

“Have my hand reach into those wet little knickers of yours. Peel them off and drive my fingers so hard inside of you-”

“NO.” Hermione was shaking her head. Skin blazing. Teeth grinding.

“-twist and turn and lick them dry, Granger. Kneel down for you on the floor, Granger. On my knees, breathe in your pussy-”

“I said shut up!”

“-Your wet, dripping, creamed inside-out pussy. Just enough to want to bring out my tongue and-”

“Stop! Just STOP!” Her chest was rising up and down so fast it made him lightheaded.

Fuck she looked.

She looked so. So angry.

So vulnerable.

“You want me to. You want me to push your legs apart, Granger. So far apart it hurts. And open you up to me. Drenched and sodden. Hard and brutal. Pinning you down. Bury my face so deep into you I’m covered in it.”

“No…”

Draco was growing harder by the second. These thoughts. These thoughts.

“I need that taste, Granger,” he growled, words coarse inside his throat. Parched. “I need that taste, and you want to let me have it. I know you want my head in between those ripe and reddened thighs, Granger, my tongue so hard and fast you’ll scream, just licking, licking, drinking, eating you out, Granger-”

Then Draco froze.

Because maybe, so quiet he wasn’t sure, a sound had escaped from her lips.

And slightly, so slightly, her thighs had rubbed together.



Fuck.



He needed her. He needed everything about her.

He lunged towards her, hovered an inch before her face.

“Let me touch you, Granger,” he breathed, “Just let me.”

She was breathless. “Malfoy, no…” But she didn’t move away.

And suddenly the need to feel his hands on him. Somewhere. Anywhere. It consumed him, and he began fumbling with the fastening on his robes.

“Malfoy…stop…”

But she didn’t move away.

And because she didn’t move away. He kept going.

“You want me. I know you want me. We both know it.”

Draco’s damp shirt had melted into his skin. She could see straight through it. The blood and the mud and the purple-yellow bruises.

She looked at it as if she were looking upon an addiction. Her teeth, they ever so slightly bit down her bottom lip.

Fuck. Her lips.

And none of it was enough. He had to feel her touch him. Now.

“Touch me.”

He saw fear, intense apprehension, uncertainty flood her eyes.

No, Granger, it doesn’t have to be there. Just anywhere. Anywhere.

“I need you.”



He needed her.

The words were like every other word he had just spoken. It latched onto her skin, and burnt. Scorched a hot, biting, fusing, roaring trail down her body.

And she was trembling. She was melting.

But she couldn’t let this happen.

She was shaking her head, still biting her lip.

His eyes shot back down towards it, her mouth, and he licked his lips again.

Her stomach had never spun so fast in her entire life. Her heart bumping so turbulently against her ribs something would snap at any moment. She was terrified. Lusting and terrified. Wanting it, wanting everything he said but too ashamed, too mortified at the words, at the thoughts, at herself.

No one had ever said those things to her before…

No one had ever done those things to her…

Draco was tearing down the buttons on his shirt. His soaking, bloodied, muddied shirt. The sound of wet cotton ripping as his eyes flashed with frustration.

It hung off him. And Hermione was at a loss. (No words apart form wrong. So wrong. Too wrong. And beautiful.) He grabbed her wrists, wrapped his fingers around them tightly, and wrenched her hands up towards his chest.

“Get off me!” she spat, because she would never, never give into this. She wasn’t like him. This wasn’t the only way to get him out her head. It couldn’t be the only way.

It was too easy. And it’s always the wrong things that were too easy. Always the wicked and adverse and penitent things.

“Touch me.”

He forced her hands flat against his skin. Eyes closed. Breathing rough.

And her palms lay there. Pressed.

He was breathing- panting with her heavy, saturated, palms against his chest. Flat-out. His skin stretched out underneath. And then she could feel, so painful, so mind-numbingly soaked inside her, his darkened nipples harden beneath her hands.

And surely, it was nothing. She’d seen so many. So many male torsos, all those quidditch matches they got too hot, all the times she stayed with Harry, with Ron, all those embarrassing, self-conscious, youth-flooded moments she’d spent with Viktor-

But nothing. Nothing seemed to compare to this.

This. Fucking beautiful.

So electric it wasn’t normal. Something wasn’t normal.

Something was too different about him.

And she couldn’t pull free. So her fingers pressed against him further. And she almost drew in her face, almost breathed it again, stared at that skin with such wonderment, such frantic, panicked, desperate wonder. All the dried blood, dirt stains, pale pink.

(That’s right. Feel the surface. Touch the pain. We need this.)

That beating. So wild it scared her. So fresh and feral and frightening. His heartbeat pulsated so raucously through her fingers, up her arm, across her neck, and down. Down to her own.

And yes. They were. They well and truly were. Hearts beating in unison.

Two people. Barely adults. Standing in that room. Shirt open. Hands pressed against it. And breathing. Breathing so hard and loud and close it was unnatural.

And Merlin. His muscles. Damp, sullied and hardened. Swelling, flowing, heaving underneath. He jerked on her wrists and pulled her in even further. Even harder. And she stumbled forward. Bodies crashing as she dug her nails into his flesh. Angry. Upset. Distraught.

No. Think of what he is. Think of what his father was. What his father did. What they all did. Maimed and murdered and raped and slaughtered. Think of it all.

Stop doing this. Stop making me touch you. Stop making me feel these things.

And then suddenly, his hands released her wrists and so quickly, arms wrapped around her waist and lifted her up- her feet, no ground- couldn’t find the floor- and she was above it, up against his skin and in his arms, wriggling against his grip. And in a second, split right down the fucking middle of a second, Draco swung her around, crashed her body onto the desk- paper and ink and pots and books to the ground- and her head hit back against the wood. Loud clashing, harsh bashing to the earth below. And his body, torn cotton hanging open, breathing vicious, harsh metal eyes through white hair- he was above her, mouth open, and she was beneath him, whimpering, chest heaving so hard she felt the fabric threaten to rip against her skin. Her wrists either side of her head.

Draco held her there. “I don’t understand,” he was murmuring, “I don’t understand why you’re so dirty. So knee-deep dirty. I wish you weren’t, Granger” He pressed down on her hard. “I wish you weren’t.”

No, no pull away. You said those things, now mean those things Hermione, don’t let this be the end- this isn’t how it ends. Not with your body. Not with his.

Don’t do it.

Don’t let him.

“You can feel it, Granger,” he breathed, somewhere into her hair, and then the devastating touch. The hard and spectacular grind of his hips against hers, and the feel of it. The feel of him. Solid, throbbing, hotter than her. “Now tell me you don’t want me.”

The enemy. I can’t have. The enemy. I can’t have. I don’t want. I don’t want you and I can’t have you and now leave me-

“I don’t want you!” she almost sobbed it, nails digging in harder.

Please stop holding me here. Please stop throbbing into me, heat next to my skin, hot and damp and blood rushing fierce.

“I don’t…”

“You’re so beautiful,” he growled, “So fucking beautiful it’s foul, Granger. And once I’ve had it. Once I’ve had it, you can forget. We can both forget, Granger. Go back to normal.”

Draco stared into her eyes one final time. One final time to see if he could find anything- anything telling him to stop. But she knew it was useless. Fucking mind-shatteringly useless. Every burst of brown in her eyes was screaming at him to touch her.

And so his mouth lowered, then hesitated, then crashed onto her neck.

And Merlin. Did she feel it. The hot, wet, burning desperation that flushed over and across and between her thighs like a rabid animal.



She was wriggling, writhing, half moaning, half screaming, but still. Until he knew, until he knew for sure that she didn’t want this, he was never going to stop. Even if he wanted to. His tongue and his teeth, licking then scraping against her pulse-point, underneath her skin. Whispering the words, sucking them out to the surface, sucking and biting-

“Beautiful…disgusting…”

-Completely gone, completely buried in the curve of her neck, lips latching on so fiercely, every whimper of frenzied pleasure- and it had to be pleasure- was a triumph.

He let go of one of her wrists, thoughtlessly unravelling, brought his hand down in between them and over her shirt, flattening his palm against her breast. Fuck- fuck, the feel of her, let me hear those sounds, Granger, make them for me, need them, need you. And then he lifted his face from her neck, both hands to the buttons, wrists released, and ripped, a swift, fast, brutal downwards motion, and oh…oh Merlin fuck…

“Fuck, Granger…”

Those breasts, those beautifully heaving, bursting breasts, frantic and alive and screaming beneath that dark satin. He didn’t even notice the colour- just dark- he didn’t even notice the shape, his head was too far gone and his mouth was too soon pressed into them, tongue wet and dripping against satin- and he could feel her nipple harden beneath it.

No- too much- too much that I can’t take just let me inside Granger I need that inside-

- and his hands left her breasts, moved down, brushed roughly against wild skin, towards her thighs, under her skirt and over the tops of her legs.

“Let me…” he was growling against her skin, “I want…”

His hands began to wrench them apart, pull them open- tearing at them swearing at them fucking with them-get him in them, between them, wrap them around him pull him closer- And slowly, lips still buried against the pulsating movement of her breasts, thoughts still mesmerised and roaring with the moans from her lips, her thighs began to yield, began to move, slowly, accommodating, giving in. And as soon as he could, he shoved his body violently between them, pressed it into her, pushed down so hard his cock throbbed violently and Draco groaned, so low and so deep it vibrated their bodies- anxious, frenzied thoughts of fuck fucking fuck she’s right here she’s this close- head girl- and you’re here up against her, hard and there, there- Her prized and precious pussy, soaking through her knickers. Feel it. Feel it. Those wet, white, so completely Granger soaked knickers.

A sound escaped her throat. Desperate. Insane. Low, half-stifled, because no- it was obvious- she didn’t want him to see. Didn’t want him to see that she was hot and wet and ripened and ready.

But Draco knew- he knew because as soon as he released her hands- they did nothing- they did nothing to push him away. And he could smell her dripping and needing and begging him to come- to touch her- use her- work her up and waste her- because that’s all this was- he kept saying, kept telling himself- a fuck, a hard and brutal heart-shattered fuck.

And her whole body was screaming yes.



Yes. Hermione knew that. Knew it somewhere in the back of her blurred, fizzing head. That line that this he had so precariously touched-

-that line bordering rape-

-was no longer. Because she knew that now she had consented, feeling herself arch her back into him desperately, despairing consent, consent for what she didn’t, still didn’t want, but needed, like he needed, so it would go, leave-her-alone-and-never-come-back. And so here she was. Devastation, desolation, mingled in this wreckage of bodies, his mouth moving up from her skin- something missing- in this heat- his mouth moving up to her neck- burning, something burning all this time- I hate you- lips pressed up to her jaw, and then nearer. Fast, determined, deliriously longingly desired. His lips reach hers, mouths crashed-

-and he kissed her.

He kissed her and then she realised, realised that they hadn’t- not since that night, not tongue-against-tongue, lips fused together. And she knew what had been missing. Knew why it was like it was- why they were like they were- why this, this frantic moment, this harsh misunderstanding and drowning, suffocating, overwhelmingly hot mouth- was here. Knew why that mouth was on hers. She could barely breathe. His feral moans, tongue thrashing against hers, mouth pressing so hard her head hurt against the desk, thudded against the wood, and fuck-surely-fuck it would splinter, cut her, slice her and there would be blood, even more rich rampant blood as his teeth bit down on her lip once again, and that pain- tongues clashing frenziedly- that pain she had felt the very first time, it returned with a rush of brutality, sharp, forbidden teeth, pulling her lip into his mouth. She could feel it swell, feel the blood rush to the skin, and he knew, he bucked his hips, shoved his cock once more- deep growl- against wet cotton because he knew. That was her blood against his tongue. Mud-filled and ready. Blood in his mouth.

She could taste the dirt on his skin. Bitter and satirical soil pressed into the pores of it. And she concentrated on this- wanted to desperately concentrate on this- ignoring his hand, his fingers, travelling up the underneath of her thigh- just concentrate on it- think of the dirt so you don’t think of the touch- because then you have to stop the touch- and you’ll never forgive yourself if you don’t Hermione so- fuck. The incredible weight of his body upon her. No- his hand sliding up to the apex of her thighs, touches damp, wild, reaching the edge and oh no no- no- don’t let him, don’t let him and he’s feeling that skin, your skin-

-her skin, and Draco couldn’t stop his hand from shaking, his tongue fervent and deep and bursting in her mouth, pulling out, and now licking along her jaw line. One, long, trailing lick of his tongue, and mimicking fingers, sliding, finally, so fucking finally inside drenched knickers-

“Wet for me Granger, so fucking wet for me…”

-her flesh so warm so hot so tight he almost wanted to sink his teeth into it and drink her dirty blood- drink it all- almost too much. Blood trickling down his throat. How wrong. How fucking bad, bad sin fuck- drink- no- WRONG- Granger… And fuck- fuck his fingers had reached that place, that place he wanted to be, up inside, hard, brutal, fuck her senseless and leave her dry- that harsh wet wanting cunt Granger and yes- so wet, so fucking wet for me you whore you beautiful whore-

-and no- Hermione please- now it was going too far. Now his fingers- Merlin his fingers- stop them- rubbing around her, sliding and burning so fast that no- not a single coherent thought- not a single fucking one- as he pushed the soaked cotton further aside - never heard him breathe so fast so loud so brutal, rough-

Walk into that room. See them there, a fusion. Together. Lips, fingers, tongues and breath, so much heated breath. Wet. Need. The ending. The fucking solution.

Draco had never felt anything so wet, so hot, so necessarily open and waiting and- what it would be like- what it would be like to touch the inside of her- and so yes, now two, slow, screaming fingers pushed up, up and into her, as far as they would go, up inside of her. Her cunt, clenching pulsating and throbbing around your fingers. She almost screamed, stifled another scream, arched her back wildly, writhed against him- oh fuck Granger, fuck, you’re killing me-

“…killing me.”

-wriggled to feel them deeper. Wanted his fingers deeper and nearer and closer inside her. His breathing rough and drenched against the skin of her neck.

“-you’rekillingme-”

-or something like it. Some words she could barely hear, as her head cocked back and she felt his thumb brush over her clit and- oh no, no no, I can’t handle that- circle it, press down, circle it again.

Draco was staring at her now. Staring at her flushed and naked skin as she squirmed beneath him, rolled her hips and moved herself around his fingers. Her eyes closed. Her eyes. Continued to move his thumb against her clit, moved it, hungry, hard- so fucking hard and near and fuck- it would be over- would be all over, he would come in his fucking pants if this didn’t stop- so dangerous, so near her tight, sensitive flesh.

And then with his other hand, fingers still deep inside her, body still shaking around them, he reached to the zip on his trousers, unfastened, tugged down, and groaned- fucking growled so low and deep inside his throat- as his cock- so painfully, skull-splittingly hard, released from his trousers and was there- there between her legs.

Hot wet tight fuck yes-

-ready to move into her, impale her, ready to slide his cock all the way into that wet- fuck- heat- sliding around and across those soaking, dripping folds- too much- that wetness- those eyes-

They were so wide.

So fucking wide.

And then he noticed.

He noticed and the realisation hit him so hard in the face he froze.

Underneath the tremors, underneath the fingers and the tongues, underneath the dark and dirty breathing- her body had completely tensed.

No- no don’t- not now- not now Granger-

Don’t look so terrified now.

I’m so fucking close if I don’t get inside of you-

But she did.

And she was trying to hide it.

And that only made it worse. So much worse that Draco could barely understand why-

He looked down at her.

He could almost feel the wall of muscles clench tighter around his fingers. It drove him wild. But it was a sign- a sign he knew devastatingly well. Fuck- fuck- tell him she’s just nervous, this girl, wet and panting and stiff underneath him- don’t bother- don’t bother asking her, you’re a Malfoy you shouldn’t care- you’ve never cared before- and look how far she’s let you go- look how much she’s let you do- don’t ask it- don’t- because what if she says-

Draco tried, tried to form some words, tried to ignore her body, skin, wet heat around his fingers, hard cock against her flesh.

“Granger…” voice so hoarse, breathless, barely audible this close to her lips, but why- for some reason he had to know, “…are you a virgin?”

And suddenly, suddenly something burst and flowed and stained her skin even redder than it was before.

Merlin. No.

Don’t say it.


“Yes.”


His mind froze.



Hermione watched in horror.

Something in Draco’s face changed so fast she barely had time to understand what- why, when his fingers pulled out of her.

What? Malfoy what? Why do you care? Why? We need this you said we need this and look at me- I’m so ashamed I’m so deliriously hot for you just please- please just finish what you’ve started.

And with that shame, with that beaten shame she knew she would cry over later, her fingers reached down to his hardened cock and wrapped around it.

His groan was so deep, her body shuddered.

“What?” she whispered, still wet, still burning, still needing and now- tearful. “Malfoy?”

And as she began to stroke him, something shot through his eyes and he grabbed her wrist.

“Stop-” he rasped, “Don’t.”

“What?” Her cheeks were burning now.

Humiliation.

Why?

What was wrong with her?

What had she done?

And then those words. Those two, mortifyingly degrading words.

“I can’t.”

You can’t?

Hermione’s heart jolted so hard it shook her body.

Immediate anger splashed onto her skin.

Fine. Fine. You bastard. You fucking bastard. Tears threatening more and more.

She pushed him up. Pushed hard against his chest and he moved away from her.

It hurt.

Like hell.

“What the hell is wrong you?” she spat, desperately pulling down on her skirt, cheeks burning so fierce she must look ridiculous. “What the hell…I mean what…what…”

Stop Hermione. Don’t ask him that question. You shouldn’t be doing this anyway. Just run. Run away, pretend you’re glad. You are glad, you should be glad- he stopped it- snapped you out of it- ignore the throbbing and the heat and that slick sticky wet that’s rubbing against your thighs.

Draco had stumbled back against the wall. Head down, breathing hard, hand flat against it. She could still see his cock through his trousers. Hard.

(Painfully hard.)

And he was trying to control it.

So why? What the fuck and why?

“I think you should go, Granger.”

What?

She stared at him in disbelief, those tears beginning to fall. Why was he doing this? Was this some sick new game he had planned? Fuck her up, break her into it and then leave her? Alone? Laughing that he could have had the mudblood bitch if he’d wanted to?

Laughing that she was wet for him?

That she gave in?

No. Merlin, don’t let that be it.

The tears fell violently now.

“Just go for fucks sake!”

“Malfoy-”

”No.”

Draco didn’t want to hear her voice. Didn’t want to see her there. He would lunge back. He would lunge back and slam her into the ground and take her, finish it, fill her to the hilt and end it all so fantastically hard her head would explode.

But no- he couldn’t.

And he felt sick because of it.

Why the fuck couldn’t he?

The hurt on her face was so fervent he could almost taste it. And it was killing him. Granger- please, don’t look at him like that. He can’t- he just-

I just can’t. Not like that.

And he saw her, out the corner of his gaze, eyes fixed to the floor, saw her turn and run and run up the stairs, stifled sobs, muffled moans, and then the loud, spectacular, deafening slam of her bedroom door.



Draco collapsed, heaving.

What was it. Why was it that he cared?

He’d never needed to be inside someone so fucking much in his entire life. He’d never seen anyone so tantalisingly wet and open and beautifully dripping in all his memory. He’d never. So many nevers.


But.

Granger was a virgin.

No. He can’t be this fucked up.

And suddenly. He hadn’t wanted to be the one to take that away from her.

So fucked up.

Not like that. Not in desperation and despair.


Because in that moment, in that fucked up, nauseatingly broken moment.

Draco had cared. Cared beyond words.



And now. That changed everything.




*

Disclaimer: All these characters belong to JKR. I own nothing, much to my dismay, and make no money whatsoever out of this story!

Chapter 9.



Ron could sense the difference more now than he ever could before.

It wasn’t that Hermione had avoided Ron and Harry over the weekend, (much to his own surprise), she’d sat in the common room several times, smiled at a few jokes, helped Ron with an essay and sorted out Neville’s Transfiguration homework, but there was something extremely unnerving about it all. Something odd about the way she turned the pages her books, even though Ron could have sworn she’d been staring at the same word for the past five minutes.

It was all, almost. Not Hermione. Emotionless, in fact.

And her eyes. Hermione had stared. There had seemed to be plenty of places for her to lose herself in. The wall. The desk. The Gryffindor fireplace. The amount of times Ron had waved his hand in front of her face, laughed, mumbled something about zombies and received a faint smile of apology in response.

Merlin, Hermione, snap out of it.

And the strangest part. To Ron at least. Was that she wasn’t ignoring Harry. She hadn’t even passed him a cold look before muttering responses to his ridiculous, for-the-sake-of-it questions. She was quiet, but it wasn’t a quietness aimed at anyone in particular.

And to be honest, it drove Ron absolutely wild.

In his head, of course.

Because something wasn’t right. He knew Hermione was mature. Mature and sensible and Head Girl material. But when Harry over-stepped the mark, and the mark had definitely been stepped over, Hermione was the first, the second and the last to put him in his place.

Harry had tried to talk to her about it. Ron knew. But she’d shrugged it off, told him to-

“Forget about it.”

-and since when? Since when did Hermione Granger say ‘forget about it’? If you disrespect Hermione, you learn to accept the consequences. It was a basic and well known rule. One he and Harry would often bitch about when shoved into the proverbial dog house for Merlin only knows what- sometimes for things Ron still, to this day, remained completely clueless about.

But now Harry. Harry had done something wrong. And yes, Hermione had shouted at him that night, he’d heard all about that, but the next day? And what about the day after that? Not even one bitter comment.

Nothing.

Absolutely fuck all.

And that just wasn’t right.

The last time Harry and Hermione fell out over Malfoy-related matters, it was only words, only careless words. Not punches being thrown and blood being splattered. And they practically ignored each other for a whole week because of it.

What’s more, the argument that her and Harry had engaged in after the fight between he and Malfoy, had ended completely unresolved. Or so he was told.

So where was the closure?

Even Harry was feeling uneasy about it all. And he, out of the both of them, would surely feel the most relief at the shortening of the consequences.

Really, Ron should too. You know, “good job Hermione isn’t on your case so we can bloody well get on with things for once” and all that. But instead. He was pissed off. Pissed off because now, more than ever, he felt that there was something pretty damn gigantic that he was missing.

And even after he’d put Harry into bed the other night, loosened his tongue a little with the dreamy side effects of one of the healing potions his mother sent him, he was still holding something back.

“There must be more to it, Harry.”

“What can I say, Ron? Pansy said that Malfoy wanted Hermione. Wanted her for- Merlin- I don’t know. A quick shag. Something unforgivable. But he’d have to kill me first.”

“Did she say anything else?”

“No.”

“Nothing?”

“Nothing.”

And of course it made Ron angry. Of course the idea of Malfoy wanting to be within two metres of Hermione grated on his brain with an incessant need to punch the guy.

But Hermione was attractive. Noticeably attractive. He didn’t like it, didn’t like that other boys looked at her, but there was nothing he could do about it.

She’d grown up to be beautiful.

And so the fact that Malfoy desired her, though initially the biggest (and most infuriating) surprise he’d had in a long time, wasn’t the strangest thing in the world. And surely he still hated her, surely he wouldn’t touch her. Not with his mentality. Blood and pure blood and blah fucking blah. So surely, really, it wouldn’t come to anything. Pansy had probably caught him staring at Hermione for a second too long. Something accidental like that.

The only problem being- Ron couldn’t help but feel that this theory might well be complete and utter bullshit.

And only because of how things were unravelling around him.

Because really. It just didn’t add up.

Harry had, though perhaps not acted completely out-of-character (yet most definitely a little too over the top), thrown himself into the room, ignored anything Hermione had had to say, and decked Malfoy several times around the head for good measure. And then of course, shouted at her in the corridors afterwards, just in case he wasn’t already being a big enough arse.

Okay. Idiot. He was a complete idiot. And he should never have gone there in the first place. (He should have waited for a different opportunity to pound Malfoy into the ground. A less conspicuous, Hermione-present situation.)

But what made it worse, so much worse, for reasons Ron couldn’t quite word correctly in his head, was that Hermione had seemed to forgive him the very next day.

And if that wasn’t unusual enough. These past weeks. What had felt like hundreds of them. Hermione was becoming increasingly distracted- Harry, increasingly stupid. Something had happened, somewhere amongst it all. Whether it was to do with Hermione, Harry or both of them. He didn’t know. But there was something that had gone wrong. And at the time, it had clearly passed Ron straight over his head.

Yes. He was definitely missing something.

And the only likely place to find Hermione late on a Sunday evening, was the library. So that’s were he was. Ready to learn and understand what the bloody hell was going on in his best friends’ heads.

Starting with the most rational one. The most likely to string together three or four decent words that wouldn’t fill him with the same disbelief and frustration as Harry.



“Alright Granger.”

She jolted so hard he may as well have poked her in the ribs.

“Merlin, Ron,” breathed Hermione, “I thought- honestly- since when do you call me by my last name, you prat?”

“I don’t know. Just sort of slipped out.”

“Okay, Weasley, how about you leave that to the Slytherins and just call me Hermione?”

“Sorry.”

“What are you doing here?”

Ron pulled out the chair opposite her and sat down at the table. He peered over at the piece of paper underneath her hand.

“Is that for the ball?”

“Yes. It’s the rules.”

“The rules?”

“No magic, no smuggling in intoxicating fluids, and such like.”

“I see.”

“What are you doing here?” Hermione placed her quill down on the table. “It’s late. Where’s Harry?”

“It’s not that late. And he’s up in the common room. I just wanted to- er- talk. To you. About something. If you don’t mind- because- I mean. Well. It’s possibly. Quite important.” He moved his hands a little. “You know. You and me. Just a quick- or not so quick, I mean that part’s up to you- sort of chat.”

And then a strangely uncomfortable, very unfortunately placed silence set in.

And they simply stared at each other.

Hermione expectant.

Right. Okay. So. Yeah. Say something.

Something slightly better than what you said just then.

Ron had never been gifted with a fluent tongue. If only, at this moment, it was the one thing that he did possess.

Hermione‘s eyebrow had raised predictably, and Ron was feeling a thorny rush of unease that he hadn’t anticipated. He’d known it would be difficult to bring things up with her. But he’d done it before, and yes, at times it had been awkward. But it hadn’t felt like this.

Perhaps it was the fact that he really had no idea where he was going with any of it. He didn’t know what to ask. Didn’t know how to approach it. Didn’t even understand what exactly he was looking for or how the bloody hell he was supposed to get there.

“Ron?”

“How are you- I mean- you know, after the other night? How are you feeling?”

She took at deep breath. Because yes, noted Ron, her over-sized brain had probably seen this one coming.

“I’m fine,” she replied, looking down briefly at the table before focusing her eyes back on Ron.

“Are you, though?” he asked, hesitantly edging his hand a fraction towards hers. “Harry-” And then he paused for a split second to anticipate a change in her expression, uncomfortable shift in her chair, roll of the eyes- anything.

Nothing.

“Well Harry really is sorry you know,” he continued, oddly disappointed. “If you just let him talk to you about it then maybe- maybe things can get back to normal.”

“This is normal, isn’t it?” she asked, “We’re talking, aren’t we?”

“Yeah but…” Ron paused for a second. “You may as well not be, Hermione. It just all seems so- well you know- forced. And I really don’t think even Harry wants it to be like that. He’d rather you gave him the cold shoulder than this- weird sort of- thing- that you’re doing.”

A frown suddenly appeared on Hermione’s forehead, and Ron found himself anxiously repeating his words back in his head to see what it was that had done it.

“This ‘weird sort of thing’ that I’m doing?”

Ah. That must have been it.

“Well not weird as such. Just you know, it’s not you.”

“Merlin, Ron. You complain when we don’t talk, and you complain when we do.”

“But this time, I’d understand if you didn’t want to talk to him for a while. At least then it would be, I don’t know…” What was that word he’d thought of earlier? “Closure.”

Hermione shook her head. “No, Ron. That wouldn’t be closure. Nothing will ever be closure with Harry. It’s useless.”

“How is it useless?”

Hermione took a deep breath. It was one of her do-I-have-to-spell-it-out-for-you sighs. Ron didn’t like it. But all the same, was glad she was responding to him in the first place.

“Well, what’s the point? We can talk about it, over and over again, I can ignore him for a couple of days or we can scream our heads of at each other. None of it makes a difference. Not in the long run. Harry will always be like this. He’ll always do these things. I’m not going to go out my way to try and stop him the whole time, Ron. I just don’t have the energy to do that anymore.” She leant back into her chair and looked down at her lap. “I’m tired, Ron. I’m just too tired to argue, alright?”

Too tired? Ron didn’t like the way she said that. It made her sound old.

“He didn’t mean it,” he insisted, “Honestly, Hermione.” Because Ron didn’t like hearing that she was too tired. Too drained.

The day that Hermione was too tired to put Harry in his place was the day that Ron would know something was very, very wrong.

But then again, he realised, staring into her pale face, didn’t he already know that? Wasn’t that why he was here?

“Don’t give up on him, Hermione.”

“Don’t be daft. I’m not giving up on him, alright? It’s got nothing to do with that. I just- I just have too many things to think about at the moment. I can’t deal with Harry all the time.”

“What things?” Yes, what are these things? Because Ron had a feeling whatever they were, they were big, and- to state the obvious- they weren’t helping. “What are these things you think about so much?”

She shrugged. “Prefect duties,” she mumbled, brushing a strand of hair out of her face. “What else?”

“You tell me.”

“Excuse me?”

“Oh come on. You reckon I’ll believe that all of this is because they made you Head Girl?”

“All of what, Ron?” Her eyes had narrowed.

Merlin. Would he have to be the one to spell it out this time?

“This, Hermione. You. This whole bloody change that’s been happening recently. It’s so damn obvious, not even you can pretend you haven’t noticed.”

“I have a lot of responsibility now. A lot of stress.”

“And that’s it?”

“That’s it.”

“That can’t be it!”

“Be quiet, will you? We’re in the library for Merlin’s sake.”

Argh, Hermione. Who gives a flying fuck about the library?

Ron had pressed his hands flat out on the table. His breathing was becoming deeper. If she wasn’t even going to try and be honest about her feelings, then where the bloody hell did that leave them?

Surely this should be easier that talking to Harry.

“You can talk to me, you know. I’m not going to tell anyone. Not even Harry if you don’t want me too. And I’d understand. You know.” He lowered his voice again. “If it’s about Malfoy. Anything about him at all. I’d understand if you didn’t want Harry finding out.”

And then Hermione flushed so unmistakably red it made Ron’s heart skip a beat.

Did that mean.

Malfoy.

The bastard.

This was something to do with him.

“So it is Malfoy then?”

“Oh please, Ron. What makes you think you’re so much more tolerant than Harry? I understand that he takes it that one giant step too far, but you both hate him. Both of you.”

“Is it Malfoy, Hermione?”

“No, alright? No it’s not. What makes you think-”

And then Ron growled a little. “Merlin. How long are you going to keep up this stupid pretence?”

Her cheeks stained darker, and he knew that this time it was probably more due to anger than anything else.

He definitely should have remembered never to use the words ‘stupid’ and ‘Hermione’ in the same sentence.

“This isn’t some ‘stupid pretence’, alright?” she frowned, her voice a heated whisper, “You should try being a head prefect, Ron, I’d love to see how you’d handle it all.”

“Seriously, Hermione, even you know you haven’t been paying full attention to the job. And that must be for another reason.”

“I see. So now you’re questioning my commitment to Head Girl as well, are you?”

“No. No, you know that’s not-”

“What exactly is it you want to ask me, Ron? Because I suggest you just come out and say it.” The same strand of hair fell back onto her cheek, and she pushed it away again irritably. “Please. I’m sick and tired of people pussy-footing around their words. Merlin- I can’t read minds. I have no bloody idea what goes on in peoples’ heads. Don’t you realise it will make my life a hell of a lot easier if you just get to the point?”

She was still frowning.

And Ron struggled to figure it out. Work out the point. His point. And how on earth he was supposed to get there.

“I don’t know, Hermione.”

“You don’t know?”

“I don’t know how to say it. “

“Well then leave it. Just leave it and let’s forget about it.”

And then Ron almost found himself growing angry with her. In fact, no, not just almost.

“Bloody hell, Hermione,” he growled, “Don’t act like I’m stupid. Like I don’t have a single reason for bringing any of this up. If you’re just going to treat me like I’m mad- like there’s nothing wrong- like there’s been nothing wrong for Merlin only knows how long now- then this is a waste of time.”

“I’m not-”

“I just want a bit of honesty. Just a small insight into what the hell is going on in your head. I’m lost, Hermione. Lost in Harry’s stupid rage and your countless distractions. I have no bloody idea what’s going on, but I know there’s something-”

“Fine, but-”

“-and I’m not about to accept any more lies.”

“Will you stop that, Ron?”

“What?”

“That. The implication that I’m lying about everything. I don’t appreciate it, you know.”

“And I don’t appreciate being lied to.”

“Ron!”

Fine.

He inhaled deeply.

Perhaps Ron didn’t mean she was lying- not the big fat black lies sort of lying- but he couldn’t deny that that was certainly what it felt like. Still, it was clearly not the way to tackle the situation.

His hands remained pressed onto the table as he attempted to level out his breathing again.

“Sorry,” he murmured.

Her eyes softened a little. “It’s okay.”

“At least I’m getting a decent reaction out of you.”

“Pardon?”

“You know. At least I’m talking to the real Hermione and not the cardboard cut-out we’ve been hanging out with all weekend.”

Her eyebrow raised again. “I see.”

And then, with a small hesitation, Hermione shuffled her chair closer into the table.

She took a deep breath. “Listen, Ron,” she whispered, half sighing, half something else in her voice Ron couldn’t quite work out, “I suppose I should probably be the one to apologise.”

Well that was- unexpected.

But good. Yes. Good. Ron deserved an apology what with the being kept in the dark part, and all those- dark places, and everything. And this was obviously going to lead to a small explanation of some kind. A little enlightenment that can finally pave the way back to normality.

“You’re right about the whole weirdness,” she continued, “About me acting out of character this weekend. I didn’t mean to upset you. Or even Harry, in fact. It wasn’t aimed at anyone in particular.”

“I know.”

“I just- maybe- something just…” She diverted her gaze and stared down at the table. “I’ve been- I mean recently, Ron, strange- sort of- Merlin.”

She was having trouble.

Hermione barely ever had trouble.

And then, if Ron wasn’t completely mistaken, she may have very quietly muttered the words-

‘I can’t say’

-under her breath.

“You can’t say what?”

She looked startled.

“What?”

His voice was gentle, concerned. “You can’t say what, Hermione?”

She stared at him, eyes wide. Pearly, dark, glistening with firelight.

Stared.

And stared.

Bit her bottom lip.

…what? What?

“Head Girl, Ron-”

His heart sank once again with the ever-familiar disbelief.

“Oh don’t start.” He growled and rolled his eyes. “Don’t go back to the whole prefect thing again. We’ve already been there-”

“Can’t you just listen to me?”

“What? Listen to you tell me how hard it is? I’m sure it’s hard. In fact, I don’t doubt it for a second, Hermione. And I would share the load with you, I honestly would, were it not for the fact that I’d be bloody useless at it. But it shouldn’t be as soul-destroying as this, surely? I mean, I know my brother acted like a stiff-arse prick when he was made Head Boy, but he already was a stiff-arse prick as far as I’m concerned. What’s your excuse?”

Hermione’s eyes narrowed so fast he barely saw the change take place.

“And what exactly is that supposed to mean, Ron?”

Play that one back in his head again.

Had he just called Hermione a stiff-arse prick? Because he really, sincerely hadn’t meant to.

“Oh, no, no- Hermione-”

“You really don’t go the right way about offering someone a shoulder, Ron.”

“I’m so sorry, I really didn’t mean-”

And then- Merlin. No.

No. Please.

A tear fell onto her cheek.

“Please, Hermione- don’t cry. You know what I’m like- never think before I speak. I swear on my life I didn’t mean to say-”

“Don’t.”

“Hermione-”

“Don’t. It’s not you, alright?” she mumbled, and then another tear fell.

“Please don’t cry.”

Hermione shook her head. Her lashes fell.

“I don’t mean to. I’m sorry,” she sniffed, “I’m sure it’s just hormones or something or- oh- Ron- I’m such a mess.”

No- no, no. Hermione.

Ron blinked.

Because at that moment, those last words seemed enough to shut him up for life. That voice. That something close to pain. Hermione sounded. Hurt. So hurt that for a fleeting second, it didn’t even matter that he didn’t understand why. Couldn’t piece things together, couldn’t get her to talk. All that mattered, right then and there, was making her feel better. Making the sudden tears stop.

And then Ron was just about to pull out from the table, rush over, pull her into his arms and whisper he was sorry- that no she wasn’t a mess- she was beautiful, she was his best friend, and that he and Harry would take care of her. Whatever the problem was. They would be there.

Just the three of them.

To talk about things. Sort them out. Help each other.

But suddenly. He saw something that stopped him. Saw someone else, from the corner of his eye, walking up towards them between the towering shelves of books.

And when they came into light, this someone, this surprise, low brow cold eyes sharp stare, Ron’s heart clenched so tightly with his fists that he was sure the loathing had replaced every single trace of concern in his face.

Absolute loathing. And nothing else.




*




She looked up as Ron’s expression changed remarkably.

She noticed. He was looking straight passed her, glaring at something over her shoulder. And oh. No. That look.

Company.

A company that was clearly, visibly, splashed across every feature on his tightening face.

And every single tiny hair on Hermione’s quivering body shot up so fast it snatched her breath away.

Because there was only one person that made him look like that. And she almost could feel his breath whispering against her skin.


“Granger.”

She didn’t turn around. Just froze. Let the cool waves of dread relish her.

“Piss off, Malfoy,” scowled Ron, voice deep, eyes narrow.

“I don’t believe I addressed you, Weasley. I’m speaking to Granger.”

“We’re busy.”

Hermione hastily wiped the tears away from her cheeks. Clearing her throat in an effort to- to something. To compose herself.

Because if Malfoy knew- if he saw them, those wet cheeks- then she would never be able to swallow that sour stinking shudder of shame. It was important, so incredibly important, that it seemed as if she didn’t care. About. Any of it anymore. As if it had passed her by. As if now, his presence meant nothing. Since she didn’t care anymore.

She didn’t care.

“Tough shit,” she heard him breathe from behind her.

And then Ron rose from his chair with the same threatening posture that evoked singeing memories of Harry. No. Enough of the stupid “I’m the man, you’re not the man, who’s the man let’s battle it out” face offs.

“I suggest you leave us alone, Malfoy,” he hissed.

“Ron, wait,” said Hermione, mirroring his movement and pushing her chair back to step around it. She turned away from the glaring response and looked at Draco.

Looked at him.

She’d avoided doing that ever since. Ever since-

“What do you want?” she asked- be Head Girl, be Gryffindor, be Hermione Granger. Just for now.

Because whatever it is you want- whatever the words, the remarks, the stupid bloody plans- as it’s all coming out of your mouth, know that I don’t care.

Just like you don’t care. About me.

I care even less, about you.

“It’s Dumbledore,” he answered, his eyes. Straight back into hers. Slicing. Hot.

“What about him?”

“He wants to see us in his office.”

“We don’t have a meeting planned.”

“He still wants to see us.”

Why? And now? (And please just go away.)

“But- what’s it about?”

“He didn’t say.”

For a moment, the complete and utter devastation underneath the surface of her skin was replaced with yet another chaos.

What could it possibly be about? Where they in trouble?

It was late, after all. Too late for a regular meeting with the Headmaster. Too late and too ominous. Because there were a million and one things he could have picked up on. A million and one ways he could kick them both out on their ex-prefect arses and hand over the job to someone else. Someone better qualified.

Two people who weren’t a total marvel of a mess together.

And Merlin- hadn’t she seen this coming? It was Professor Dumbledore. Wouldn’t miss a bloody thing even if he were blinded.

He must be able to sense that something is wrong. Something is going on between them. Something. Very, very wrong.

“Why the hell would Dumbledore want to speak to you at this time of day?” spat Ron, his expression ridden with suspicion.

“Maybe you can totter along with us and find out for yourself,” snarled Draco, “I’m pretty sure he’ll ask why the hell the Weasley runt has turned up, but if it means you’ll sleep in a dry bed tonight, then by all means, come and make sure Granger gets their safely.”

“You fucking-”

“Don’t bother, Ron,” murmured Hermione, turning back to him briefly, “He’s not worth it.”

“That’s right, Weasley,” growled Draco, “I’m not worth it.”

Hermione turned back.

Draco was staring at her.

Something on his face to match that comment.

She swallowed.

“Shall we go, then?” she mumbled, gathering up the scattered papers from the table.

“Hermione-”

“If you’re awake, Ron,” she said, glancing up at him, “I’ll stop by the common room on the way back, okay?”

She could almost hear Draco rolling his eyes.

“Fine,” mumbled Ron, eyes fixed on Malfoy with a threatening malcontent. The usual silent warning.

Hermione sighed a little. A half deep inhalation of air. Air that she begged to fill her with a strong sense of self-assurance as she turned, walked past Draco, left the library and began to make her way to the Headmaster’s office.

Draco’s footsteps close behind.




As Hermione trailed uneasily through the darkened corridors, past the glimmering firelight and in between the shadows, his unmistakable presence was deafening. Deafening and destroying. Peeling back the hardened layers of her determined defence. Every sound of his feet touching the ground. Cold, hot, shots of upheaval running up her spine.

And all just because he was there. Close on her heels. Sharing the same air.

And as they slowly walked, Hermione with Draco, with and in front of, away from, she felt it. The return. The bringing back, bit by bit, of everything she had spent the best part of the weekend attempting to ignore.

Attempting and failing. Astoundingly. But never giving up.

The only successful part of her time being the strenuously planned ways of avoiding him. Avoiding everything about him. Words. Eyes. Presence altogether. Because it seemed extraordinarily important that she never- ever- spoke to the bastard voluntarily again.

Because it had been confirmed. Once and for all.

He was a Malfoy. Through and through and fucking through to the very inner core of his body. And she was a fool to ever think otherwise. To ever invent fantasies about a tortured heart, screaming for redemption, trapped in the shell of his father.

There were no excuses for Draco Malfoy anymore.

He had made that perfectly clear. As clear as sharpened crystal, if that’s all it had been. All that time. Just a way to humiliate her. Butter her up and leave her to drown in the shame of it. Whisper wicked things and relish the reactions.

Smear Hermione Granger’s good girl glaze.

It must have been such a power rush.

If that’s all it had been.

Maybe now they could just return. She could hate him more than she ever had before. Ruined. And full of it. But left alone. Now he was done with her. Return to how it used to be. Pretend to forget she ever tasted the darkness of his mouth. Skin.

Like she never opened her legs for him.

Merlin, Hermione, why were you so fucking stupid.

And the worst part, she remembered, and will until her dying day, is that she was still. Begging. Her body still soaking. Upstairs. On her bed. After he’d asked her that question.

Still throbbing and moaning and crying with need. Disgrace, dejection, denial. And need.

She was a virgin. And almost hated herself for it. How was any of that right? She had been so careful. So sensible. Beautiful. The original “your parents must be so proud of you” daughter.

Maid. Pure. Chaste.

Innocent.

Yes. The innocent maid that would have let Draco fuck her so hard into the desk that it split in two. And through. To the ground. Again and again. Begging and screaming and dying for more.

Yes Mummy. You must be so proud.

And no. She never wanted to think of it again. Lying on her bed. Breathing so hard she heard sounds escape her mouth. Heated. Frustrated. Devastated. At how she lifted up her skirt. Closed her eyes with those tears. Tasted them on her tongue. And touched herself.

Furiously.

Back arching. Muscles pulsating. Eyelids flicking. Swollen and sodden. Until the need quietened.

Because regardless of the inside, her body wasn’t glad he’d stopped. Touching her. Looking at her like that. That look.

Hermione had, for one ephemeral moment amongst it all, felt something else. Inside those overcast eyes.

And what? What the hell do you think it was, you stupid little girl?

It was triumph. That’s all it was. Triumph. And how you couldn’t have seen it coming-

“Granger.”

Her movement jolted suddenly, and then picked up speed.

“Granger, stop walking so fast. We need to talk.”

She had nothing to say to him. Nothing to say.

And thank Merlin that they were almost there. Almost at the office.

Even if she was dreading the consultation almost as much as the voice persisting behind her.

“Granger, you stupid bitch. Just slow down, will you?”

Her fists tightened.

But honestly. She almost laughed at herself. She could hardly argue with the label of stupid bitch now, could she?

That’s exactly what she was.

Completely stupid. To ever look twice at him.

And then suddenly he stepped in front of her, stopped her moving. Glared at her angrily.

But she looked past him and realised. It didn’t matter. It was too late. Because Dumbledore’s quarters stood right behind him. And there was no time for him to say anything else. Chew up her insides with anymore revelations and insults.

She was going in that door. Getting this over with. And resuming the avoidance of anything even remotely associated with the bastard.

“I’m going in, Malfoy,” she frowned, head tilted in defiance, “And it would probably move things along a lot quicker if you did the same.”

“We need to talk first.”

“I have nothing to say to you.”

And she moved around him, heart pounding, brought a fist to the door, and knocked loudly three times.

Hermione breathed out because- yes- it was clear, no matter how afraid she was of what the Professor had to say, anything to prevent a confrontation with Draco was a blessing.

“Please, come in.”

But then. Hermione’s mouth went dry.

And all the what-this-could-be-abouts came rushing back into her head with a sharp and brutal stab.




*




“Thank you for coming at such short notice, Miss Granger, Mr Malfoy.” Dumbledore nodded at both of them in turn. “I hope this isn’t too late for you, but I have an unfortunate knack for impromptu meetings.”

He had an unfortunate knack for a lot of things, noted Draco, determined not to glare in an obvious fashion. The old man had an unfortunate knack for existing, for example.

Draco glanced at Hermione from the corner of his eye. Her fingers were gripping the arms of the chair so tightly there was a distinct possibility her nails would bend backwards and snap off.

And he hoped they did, his mind spat, for being such a obstinate bitch and not even granting him so much as one distant comment the entire weekend.

I know you’re hurt, Granger, and I’m desperately trying not to care.

But without you around to insult and shake it out of myself, it’s proving very difficult.

It’s felt a lot like suffocation.

He let Dumbledore’s drone re-enter his head.

“I’ve been slightly concerned as of late, I must admit,” he had began, voice stupidly gentle, “And before I continue, please, do not assume I am stating any sort of claim that either of you are incapable of the job at hand.”

Draco couldn’t help but indulge in the moments relief that washed over his body. Hermione was still rigid in her chair, but his posture slumped slightly with the realisation that tonight was not a night they would have their positions withdrawn.

“..the job at hand. On the contrary, you were elected for the very reason that you are both very able and proficient students who…”

Blah, blah, lar-fucking-lar and such like. The man’s voice had a distinct way of making Draco’s eyelids droop. He really didn’t want to be there. He really didn’t need to be there. The only part that made this situation even remotely redeemable was that it had provided him with an opportunity. An opportunity to talk to Granger.

Not that he should want one, he reminded himself, stupid, messed up and completely infested with some sick little attack of crawling guilt that he had been desperately scratching off for the past two days.

That suffocation.

Without her.

Without her?

Fuck that and fuck you.

You’ll pay for that one later.

Now stop thinking. As soon as the walls of his head collapse in on him he won’t be able to fight the urge to be sick. And sitting in this office. In front of Dumbledore. Next to her. This wasn’t the right time for any of it.

Just listen. Listen to what he has to say.

Distractions. Be thankful for them.

“…I do not want you to feel you have to hold anything back from the professors. Any concerns you may have- any at all- it is important you share them. Being Head Prefects is far from easy, and the inevitable strain is certainly not something to be underestimated by anyone. If you are feeling the extent of the pressure, do not hesitate to let me know.”

“Thank you, Professor.”

Listen to her stupid voice. Stupid answer.

Dumbledore nodded to her and continued.

“There are, of course, some things I have noticed that lead me to suspect that such anxiety amongst you both has grown.”

Draco felt himself tense suddenly. Some things he had noticed?

“For instance, I have not seen either of you attend many of the meals in the Great Hall, recently. Particularly you, Miss Granger. It is understandable that you may occasionally be too busy, but at the same time, it is important that the Head Prefects try to maintain a regular appearance at mealtimes.”

He wasn’t sure what exactly was about to come out, but nevertheless Draco opened his mouth to speak.

“As I said, Mr Malfoy,” added Dumbledore, peering at him over his spectacles and cutting him off before he could begin, “I appreciate that it may not always be convenient, but it provides an opportune time for students to come and find you if they so wish. It also sets a good example to the rest of the students. We do not look too fondly upon those who skip meals.”

“We apologise, Professor, I can assure you our attendance will improve.”

Granger, again. He couldn’t quite understand why her remorseful tone was annoying him so much.

“Thank you, Miss Granger. And now really, the most important issue. It has not completely passed my notice that interaction between you both has been somewhat- distant. I would encourage more shared effort with the forming of plans and so on. I understand that, perhaps, differences exist between you, but on a purely work-related basis, it is important to learn to place these aside.” Dumbledore clasped his hands together on his desk. “I am not completely foolish. I realised, upon appointing you both, that your relationship was far from comfortable. However, I also trusted that you may benefit from learning more about each other. I’m not asking you to be friends- Mr Malfoy, Miss Granger- I’m asking you to be colleagues.”

Draco had to stop himself from rolling his eyes.

(Something, he quietly noted, that he had quite clearly and irritatingly picked up. From her.)

“I must emphasise, once again, that I am not doubting your capabilities. I believe you both possess the ability to provide a sound prefect system for Hogwarts. And I hope you do not let whatever it is that is creating so much pressure, ruin your chances of success.”

“We won’t, Professor.”

“No,” murmured Draco, “We won’t let that happen.”

And then he and Hermione glanced at each other momentarily.

“Excellent,” smiled Dumbledore, “In which case, Mr Malfoy, if you wouldn’t mind remaining seated for a further minute. Miss Granger, you may leave.”

As if he hadn’t seen this one coming.

Draco noticed that Hermione froze for a second. Hesitated before she got up.

You’re off the bloody hook, Granger. Don’t drag it out.

He felt her eyes drift over to his head. Her mouth open, and then close. And then disappear altogether after a few short words of farewell.

Draco stared back at Dumbledore across his wide oaken desk.

“Is there something else wrong, Professor?” asked Draco, desperately trying to keep the contempt from his voice.

Do you want to tell me that actually, Granger is fine as Head Girl, but on second thoughts you’ll have to retract my position? Replace me with Potter, perhaps? Your gold star wonder boy? He’d surely do a much better job in a position of power. The hero of Hogwarts. You may as well give him all that’s left.

“Well I’m afraid, Draco, that it is up to you to tell me what’s wrong,” he answered, his head tilting down slightly.

“I’m sorry?”

“I spoke with Professor Snape over the weekend,” he began, “He mentioned, or rather, came to me specifically to mention, that he saw you the other night, Draco. You’d been hurt. Severely, by the sound of things.”

“I fell off my broomstick,” he replied, fast, toneless, “During quidditch practice. It was raining.”

Dumbledore’s eyebrow raised.

“I see,” he answered, complete and utter disbelief soaking his words, “And I suppose that Mr Potter had a similar accident that night, as well, did he?”

Draco shrugged. “I wouldn’t know.”

“Healing charms can’t fix everything, Mr Malfoy.”

He shrugged again.

“It wouldn’t be the first time you and Harry have gotten into a fight.”

“Potter and I don’t get on, Professor, I’m not going to lie about it. But we had nothing to do with each other that night.”

“Of course,” replied Dumbledore, touching the side of his spectacles lightly with his hand, “Because you do realise that if I discovered the Head Boy had involvement in such violence, Draco, I would have no choice but to take serious action.”

Draco swallowed. His throat was raw.

“I understand,” he mumbled, “But I assure you it was an accident.”

“Lets hope so,” he nodded.

And then Draco felt quite overwhelmed with surprise. Was that it? Was he letting it go this quickly? It was as clear as day. He believed none of it. And Draco could hardly blame him.

Surely even the very suspicion that he’d got into such a serious fight-

“I think it’s clear I will be keeping a close eye on you, Mr Malfoy,” continued Dumbledore, “You and Miss Granger. I believe you both need to be very careful how you conduct yourselves over the next few months.”

“Granger hasn’t done anything wrong,” said Draco, before he could stop himself.

Unnecessary. Unnecessary on so many levels.

And incredibly screwed up. Yet another constant reminder.

Dumbledore’s eyebrow had raised again.

“I hope that neither of you have done anything wrong,” he replied, slowly, “And I also hope that you begin to find more of a direction this term with your handling of Head Boy.”

More of a direction. That sounded almost comical.

“Yes,” nodded Draco, rising from the chair.

The Headmaster stared at him for a moment, eyes fixed upon him with an unreadable expression that took nearly every nerve in Draco’s body to stop him from asking what the hell it was supposed to mean.

“Thank you for your time, Mr Malfoy,” he said, finally, standing up from his own chair and gesturing a hand towards the door, “I hope I haven’t kept you up too late.”

“No,” was all he could mutter in response, turning his back and heading purposefully towards the door. “Goodbye.”

“Goodnight, Draco.”

And then the foreboding light and sinister warmth of the office had gone.

And he was at the bottom of the steps, pushing open the door onto the corridor.

What a stupid waste of time that was. And no surprise there. This was Dumbledore. Dumble-fucking-dore. Supposed greatest wizard of the century. Harry Potter’s third best friend. Or perhaps fourth, after the bastard giant.

But if he was chanting on about pressure and stress, he’d done a pretty spectacular job at adding to it all with his stupid interference. No doubt Granger would be more on edge now than she ever was before. If that were at all possible. Which, thinking about it, it surely wasn’t.

And keeping an eye on him? How kind of him to care so much. Probably looking for a perfect mistake to use against him. Throw him off the top. Watch him crawl back down again. Stupid fucking Dumbledore. If ever his father was right about anyone. It was him.

And most annoyingly, being kept behind had meant he’d missed his chance to-

“What did he say?”

Draco jolted hard. So hard he was almost embarrassed.

“Fuck,” he mumbled, involuntarily, “Where the hell-”

“Well? What did Dumbledore say?”

Draco breathed out.

Good.

She was still here.

And not good in that sort of way. Argh.

But now he still had his chance to say the things he felt he needed to say. Whatever these things were.

Lies. Truth. Something in between.

And now. How the hell does he say it.

“Malfoy?”

“Not a lot.”

“I gathered that. You were barely in there for a minute. So whatever it was, he obviously got to the point quickly.”

“Nice deduction, Granger.”

“Just tell me what he said, Malfoy, and then I can leave you the hell alone.”

“What was going on earlier, by the way?”

Hermione’s face screwed up in frustration . “What?”

“Between you and Weasley. What had he done? You were crying.”

“He hadn’t done anything,” she hissed, cheeks visibly reddening even in the dim light of the corridor, “And it’s none of your business anyway.”

“Well then neither is this.”

“Oh don’t be so stupid,” she spat, voice hushed, “Of course it’s my business. What did he say to you? Was it about Harry? About the fight? Does he know?”

“No.”

“He doesn’t?”

“Well yes. He does. But he doesn’t have a way of proving it. So there’s nothing he can do about it.”

“But he asked you about it?”

“Yes.”

“And what did you say?”

“That nothing happened.”

She paused for a second. He could almost hear the moral arguments of his lie fizzing inside her skull.

She stared at him. Or not quite at him. A point just to the left.

It was irritating.

“Granger, what the-”

But before he could finish his sentence, she’d spun around and began pacing off down the darkened corridor away from him.

“Where the hell are you going?” he asked, immediately moving his legs to follow, “I said we needed to talk.”

She didn’t reply.

“Don’t you dare,” he growled, almost catching her up, hearing her breath, “Don’t you dare start ignoring me again, Granger.”

“Oh fuck off, Malfoy!” she exclaimed, her feet moving faster than he remembered them doing in a long time.

No. You can’t walk away from me. You can’t do this. I don’t care what happened the other night.

I don’t fucking care, Granger.

I’ve spent the whole fucking weekend staring at the back of you disappearing and I’m not going to do it again.

“Will you just slow down,” he breathed, deciding to actually run. No matter how ridiculous.

Run in front of her. And stop.

Hermione glared at him. “Move, or I swear I’ll-”

“If you just let me say what I have to say-”

“No! No more words, Malfoy!”

She moved to step around him.

He mirrored her.

Her eyes seethed.

“Calm down, Granger.”

“Fuck you!”

“Oh for the love of-”

“Shut up, Malfoy!” she frowned, voice raised, eyebrows as deep and low as ever, “I don’t know if it’s completely passed that sick and twisted head of yours by, but I’ve been going out of my way to ignore the hell out of you, and I’m not about to jump into yet another bloody confrontation just because you feel you’ve been missing out your chances to mess me the hell up again!”

“Of course it hasn’t escaped my notice, you stupid bitch,” he snapped, his expression changing to match, “What the hell do you think I’m doing here now? Asking you how your weekend has been?”

“Just let me pass-”

“No! Not until you tell me what the fuck is going on!”

Yes.

The shock, the parted lips, the incredulous frown.

“Excuse me??”

And the infuriated disbelief in her voice that flashed right across her face.

Fine, Granger. Fine. I already know what the fuck is going on but what else can I do? There’s no way on earth I’m going to apologise for it. I still don’t want to think about it long enough for any sort of words to come out. But this. I don’t know about anything else but this. This weekend. And you pissing about behind every other corner in this castle and refusing to so much as look at me.

And I don’t want to care about it. In fact I don’t fucking care. I don’t.

Don’t.

But if it’s screwing me up as much as this- then anything. Anything I can do to stop my head from hurting so much I’ll do.

Even if it involves this.

Just talking.

Just seeing you look at me.

I’m so pathetic and desperate now I’ll stoop this low, Granger, I’ll run after you. Just to shout. Hear something alive.

Feel something inside myself.

And be honest, you miss seeing how fucked in the big fat fucking head I’m getting. Just look on this as a little update.

“It’s you,” mumbled Draco, searching, snatching desperately at any words he could find amongst this sudden, burning psychosis, “You know I’ve tried to talk to you several times this weekend, Granger. You’ve ignored me. And I don’t like it.”

“And you really have to ask yourself why?!” she growled, voice still unusually loud.

“Well it’s not like I wanted it to happen either!”

His comment threw them both slightly.

Confused. Just for a moment. For some reason. Because he didn’t know quite what to make of it.

Because what hadn’t he wanted to happen?

Which part?

The whole thing?

Or the fact that it ended.

“I think you should step aside, Malfoy,” breathed Hermione, “You’ve done enough damage as it is.”

“I’ve done enough damage?” he laughed, “And I suppose I’ve managed this all by myself, have I?”

She stared at him.

Yes. That’s right, Granger. Did I ever tell you how much I can taste the guilt whenever it washes over you? It’s ripe.

Like those lips.

“We’re both a part of this,” she mumbled, voice suddenly quieter, “I don’t deny that. But. You. You just- what you did. Don’t think I don’t know.”

“Don’t know what?”

“What it was all about. I’m not stupid, alright? You made your point so why can’t you just leave me the hell alone now? It’s finished. It’s done.” Her lip quivered slightly. “It’s over.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Oh don’t!” she laughed, voice louder once again, “Don’t pretend you have no idea, Malfoy! Don’t make this even worse! You really don’t know when to stop being such an absolute arsehole, do you?”

“Maybe if you stopped with the cryptic shit, I’d be able to understand what it is you’re banging on about.”

“What I’m banging on about?” she hissed, eyes narrow. Shaking her head. “A load of shit? Is that what it sounds like to you?”

“What the fuck-”

“Well you’re the one who wanted to talk! Let’s here what you have to say!”

“Tell me what you meant, Granger.”

“No.”

“Tell me.”

“If you can’t even admit it yourself, then it’s not worth the breath, Malfoy.”

The impatience began to creep just that little bit further across his skin.

What had she meant? It was about the other night. But what? ‘Don’t think she didn’t know that he’ what?

His fingers slowly curled over into fists.

“You’re going to explain, Granger. Now.”

“Why should I?”

“Because.”

“Because what?”

“I mean it.”

“Fuck you.”

“What is it, Granger?!” exclaimed Draco, “Don’t be such a stupid little bitch! Just tell me, or I’ll-”

“How about I throw myself against the wall this time, save you the trouble?”

“Oh shut up-”

“But isn’t this where this is leading?” she asked, skin frantic, chest rising and falling so furiously it was driving him mad. “You’ve already taken two steps towards me, Malfoy, I can only expect the rest! Let you give it another go! Let you see if I’m pathetic enough to let you do it all over again! Watch you lap up all the humiliation into that perverted mouth of yours and swirl it around your tongue like you can’t get enough!”

“Humiliation? You want to talk about humiliation?”

“Are you joking?” she laughed, “You aren’t honestly about to turn this around are you? Don’t forget it was you who forced me down onto a desk and had your way with me! Your sick plan to ‘solve’ the situation! End with that complete feeling of power! Because that’s all it was, wasn’t it, Malfoy? A power struggle? You used me. And you won. So congratulations. The triumph. I hope you fucking choke on it!”

“Triumph?!” Draco needed to punch something. Anything. “What’s wrong with you, Granger?! At what point did any of it look like a victory for me? Use your eyes!”

“I couldn’t! They were so full of tears, stupid, pitiable tears, I could barely see my own insides lying on the floor in front of me! And do you hear that? I’m telling you, right here and now, just how much you won that night, Malfoy! You ruined me spectacularly! Achieved your goal! Now why can’t you leave me alone?!”

“Because I don’t understand! I don’t understand you, Granger! I was so fucked up that night, I was so sick and twisted and insanely lost, and not for those reasons! Not for kissing you, for feeling you moving underneath me- but for pulling the fuck away! Because when you told me- when you said that you were- that you’d never- I couldn’t do it anymore! I couldn’t let that- I just- FUCK! I don’t even know! Listen to me! I had my chance to ruin you completely, brand whore all over that pretty porcelain skin of yours and I stopped! Don’t you understand that?”

“You went as far as you ever planned on going, Malfoy. Don’t lie! I’m a mudblood remember?! Don’t pretend you were ever going to do anything more than what it would take to humiliate me!”

Draco cringed.

Blood.

“It wasn’t like that. Not then. I didn’t- I didn’t think about it like that, alright?”

“But that’s all I am! Just a stupid filthy mudblood! You would have thrown up for days if you’d gone through with any of it, be honest, Malfoy! You never would have been able to live with yourself!”

“Fine!”

Fine.

“You’re probably right, Granger! I probably would have thrown up for days! My head imploded weeks ago and I haven’t been able to stop throwing up since! I can barely keep anything down!”

“Because of me!”

“Because of us!”

“It’s the same thing, Malfoy! The same thing! There is nothing about any of this that makes sense! Nothing about it that is genuine and good! And I hate you! I haven’t stopped, not once!”

“I hate you too! I always have!”

“And that’s just it! That’s it, right there! All these things between us, Malfoy, they’re just raw! Just raw and bloody and rotting! This hatred! Why do you want to continue this? Why can’t you just leave me alone?!”

“If I could answer that then maybe my head would stop feeling like grating lead the whole time!”

“Oh you poor thing, Malfoy! Is it all taking it’s toll on you? Getting too much?”

“Shut up, Granger.”

“Why should I? You don’t get to play the victim, Malfoy, you don’t get to do that! You’re the biggest bastard in this whole school! You’ve made countless lives a complete misery whilst you’ve lived between these walls, so the day you turn around and look for sympathy, you must be fucked in the head to think you’ll get any!”

“I’m not looking for sympathy, you jumped up little whore! I’m not looking for the kind and caring compassion of Princess fucking Granger and her wise words of advice! It’s the last thing, the very last thing I want from you! I’d never ask for your pity!”

“Pity and sympathy are different things, Malfoy, and do you want to know how I know that? There is no way in hell you’ll ever get my sympathy, but you should know that I have pitied you for the past six years more than anyone I’ve ever met!”

NO.

Draco stared back at her.

Pity.

If only she knew. It was practically his father’s favourite word.

You’ll never learn, Draco, you’ll never become what you’re supposed to be. A Malfoy. You’re too incompetent. Too riddled with failure.

I almost pity you for it.

“You can’t say that,” he murmured. And swallowed.

But her eyes were still ablaze. And she looked certain, in every part of her body, that she could say it again. Again and again.

“Why not?! Because I do! I pity you for feeling you have to be like this! Like you have to act this way! Pity you for ruining so many chances of happiness! Not just for others, but for yourself! You’ve self-destructed since the first moment I met you, Malfoy! So yes! I almost pity you for it! And it’s completely destroying me, dragging me down, taking my happiness, and it’s enough! You’ve done enough! I don’t doubt your capable of more, alright? You don’t have to show me. You don’t have to prove it! I just want you to leave me alone!”

And she hurt. Anyone could taste it. And she wanted him to hurt with her.

He knew this because he did. He hurt. Hurt along with her.

“I don’t know why I need you to know,” he breathed, voice lower than hers, quieter by miles, but not calm, still jagged with breathing, “I just need you to know. I hate myself for it, but I just do. And I don’t care what you think of it. I don’t care because I hate you. I still do. Right this very minute. But. The other night. Granger. I didn’t stop touching you because I wanted to. I didn’t stop touching you because it was a plan for humiliation. And if it was a power struggle- that night- I lost. Because I was completely helpless. And it took all the strength I had ever given myself to stop. Granger.”

“You’re lying,” her voice had fallen so dramatically, it was almost a whisper.

“No I’m not. I needed you that night. And I still need you. I’ve spent the whole term needing you, Granger. But I couldn’t do it. When I realised. I couldn’t take that away from you.”

“Don’t,” she breathed. He could almost hear tears.

“I’m not lying.”

And suddenly, “Yes!” Voice higher again, strained with emotion, anger, frustration, confusion, “Yes you are lying! I’ve had enough, Malfoy! I’ve had enough of these cruel games! I don’t want anymore! I can’t do this anymore!”

“But I’m not-”

“How can you expect me to believe you?! After everything?! After knowing who you are?!”

“Because! Because it’s not as if I’m telling you I lo-”

But then something inside him fell silent. And so did he.

Completely.

“I don’t care! I repulse you, remember? I disgust you! I’m so muddied up that I’ll never feel what it’s like to be pure- I’ll always be rank with dirt! The kind of dirt that never cleans, never disappears, never changes! No spell can fix me, Malfoy, I was born like this, and I’ll be this way forever and ever! Just think about that! Think about my blood! Thick and black. Bleeding. Think about it on your tongue when you sunk your teeth into my lip, Malfoy! How long till you stopped vomiting after that? And the second time? No bath could ever have been long enough, could it?! Nothing could ever wash that foul, stinking taste away! That stench! You tell me all the time! So many times it’s drummed so hard into my skull that I can’t forget it! Yes! YES! I’m a mudblood! And that’s how I know, Malfoy! That’s how I know you’re lying! Lying through your fucking teeth! Just waiting for the next moment to strike me down and break me again! But I’ve had enough, alright?! I’ve had enough, Malfoy! You can’t anymore, I won’t let you-”


It was all he could do.

He knew he was doing it again.

Noticed she let him again.

Both falling.

With the feel of each other.

But it was all he could do.

Draco kissed her so hard he almost lost balance. Almost lost. Just. Completely. Lost with the feeling.

The severe simplicity. The sheer difficulty. Of kissing Hermione Granger.

But before he could reach down, wrap his arms around her, stumble her back into the wall and feel her glorious skin burn under his lips- she pulled away.

Pulled away. Panting. Stepped back.

“Don’t, Granger,” he rasped, “Don’t.”

“Not again,” she murmured, shaking her head.

“Don’t,” he repeated, and then mindlessly, desperately, he grabbed her hand and pulled her back towards him.

She stumbled. Body crashing against his.

Standing there. Pressed together. Sound of breath.

Draco pressed his cheek against her.

“I want you to see,” he breathed, so close to her ear he could almost hear the tiny vibrations of his voice inside it.

I want you to touch me and feel it burn holes through your skin. Understand. The explanation.
He reach between them and grabbed her other hand.

Pressed it, shaking, firm against his cock.

Draco groaned at the contact, resting his head on her. Hard and painful against his trousers. Pulse racing.

Hers.

Hermione whimpered.

“This- this is what you do to me, Granger,” he growled, “Can you feel it?”

She said nothing.

“When I think about you,” he murmured, voice thick, dark, hips bucking against the heat of her hand. “Whenever you’re around. There’s nothing I can do, Granger. I’m falling. And I can’t get you out of my head. I can’t- I can’t fucking think straight.” His breath quickened. “Do you understand that, Granger?”

Hermione moved against him slightly.

He held her still.

“I wish it wasn’t like this. I swear on all the life I have left. But there’s nothing I can do to stop it.”

And then she moved again. Harder, this time.

Snatched her hand away.

No. Please just- no.

“Let me go,” she muttered, somewhere against his skin.

But I don’t want to.

“Malfoy.”

Slowly. He brought down his arms.

“If you just listen to-”

“Don’t speak, Malfoy,” she whispered, tears abundant in her swollen eyes, “Just. Just don’t.”

He stared at her.

Don’t?

Why not?

If I can’t touch you. I need words. To touch you. Anything. To feel.

Look at me.

Just fucking look at what I’m becoming.

“We can’t do this anymore,” she murmured, “You have to understand that.” The back of her hand brushed against her cheek. “I’ve had enough, Malfoy. This can never. Never be anything more than devastating.”

No. Now. Don’t look at me.

“I just- I’m saying this. For the both of us, Malfoy. For the sake of everything. For Harry and Ron. Head Girl and Head Boy. Everything that either of us have ever worked towards-”

“Granger-”

“Please don’t, Malfoy,” she sniffed, wiping her face again, “Just don’t. I can never understand what this is. We can never understand it. And it’s too dangerous to try. It’s too painful. And I don’t like hurting like this. I don’t-”

“But it’s not something you can just-”

“Stop!” she whimpered, eyes falling instantly back down, another drop landing to the floor, “I’m sorry. Or- I don’t know what I am. But that’s how it has to be, Malfoy. That’s it now. It’s finished.” She looked back up at him. “We’re done.”

We’re done.

Draco was still.

No. This isn’t like that. It’s not that simple. You can’t just say those words and expect it to-

“I really do mean it, Malfoy,” she breathed, “I really do. If we go on like this, I’m going to- to end up so broken. So beyond repair. And I won’t do that to myself.”

Her mouth was still moving. What could she possibly say?

He’d heard enough. Understood.

Understood that she understood nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

And it was all he could hear. “Over.”

Over. Say it over again. Over the top. Over the rainbow.




She was so wrong. Wrong about everything. Why couldn’t she see that? You can’t decide to end it. If you could. It that was the way. He would have done it, didn’t she understand? He would have done it so long ago. Before it had even started.

He didn’t want this. He didn’t want any of this. And now she thought. She thought it was over.

And she believes herself. Completely. Merlin- why- can’t you understand it’s too far gone.

Mumbling goodbye as she disappears around the corner. As he watches the back of her.

Once again.

She can’t believe it. Can’t honestly believe it.

Because he didn’t.






*

Disclaimer: All these characters belong to JKR. I own nothing, much to my dismay, and make no money whatsoever out of this story!


Chapter 10.


“I’ve been doing some thinking, and- well, a few things need to change, Draco, but I’m ready to give things another chance.”

“What?”

Pansy had followed Draco out of the Great Hall, and cornered him in a deserted corridor on the third floor.

“Us. I’m ready to give us another chance.”

He hadn’t eaten much at breakfast. He had just. Sat there and thought of reasons to disbelieve. Reasons that she was wrong. Staring across at Granger. Potter’s back was to him, but Weasley’s wasn’t, and the thrashing look of disdain he received upon briefly meeting his eyes should have been enough to look down, and away. But his eyes merely flickered back onto Hermione. Waiting for her to look up.

Not once. Not once did she acknowledge him.

“Draco, are you listening to me?”

Pansy’s hand had moved irritably onto her hip. There was a severely self-conscious air about her posture that struck Draco as being very unusual. Very unusual for a slag like Pansy.

“Yes, I’m listening.”

“Well?”

Well, what? I mean, I presume you’re joking. You’re possibly the very last thing on my mind, Pansy. So much the very last, in fact, that I doubt you’ll ever make it back into my thoughts again.

Draco sighed. “Look, Pansy. What makes you think-”

“I’ve noticed the way you’ve been acting recently. You know. You look utterly miserable, Draco. And I can only assume that it’s because of what’s been happening between us.”

“What?”

“I’ve been miserable too, you know. That’s why I think we should just try and put things behind us. I mean, obviously a few things will have to change, but-”

“Shut up, Pans,” murmured Draco, shaking his head and feeling really, terribly exhausted, “Just please. Shut up.”

If this were any other day. If he weren’t too busy simmering in disbelief. Lost in and over and without her. Granger. Then he would have laughed, quite loudly. Laughed at the fact that Pansy ever thought their relationship mattered to him more than making sure he didn’t miss out on his morning pumpkin juice at the breakfast table. Which, in all honesty, he didn’t really care for much either.

Of course, she looked very put out by his interjection, quiet though it was, and true-to-character, silently demanded an explanation with pursed lips.

“You’re talking rubbish,” said Draco. Plain and simple.

“Excuse me?”

“Come on, Pansy. You and me? It was just fucking.”

“I’m giving you a second chance here, Draco!” she fumed.

Draco shook his head again.

“I don’t have time for this. I’m sorry.”

“You’re sorry?”

He thought about it.

Yes. Yes he was sorry. And wasn’t that odd? He didn’t care about her feelings. He didn’t care like a decent man should, but he was sorry all the same. Sorry because he wished beyond belief things were different. Almost wished it was her and not Hermione that had made him feel this way. How simple that would have been. How convenient.

“Yes, Pans. I’m sorry.”

And yet, she looked as if he’d just slapped her across the face.

“And what exactly are you sorry for, Draco?” she spat, “It’s that Granger slag, isn’t it? Just come right out and say it. It’s not as if I don’t know already.”

She was so quick to bring it up, Draco almost wondered if she hadn’t been expecting him to turn her down from the very start.

“I don’t have any feelings for you anymore, Pansy. You’re going to have to accept that.”

“Answer the question, Malfoy!”

He wanted to. At that moment, he well and truly wanted to. He would have admitted it, right there in front of her. Knowing she’d tell the world. Malfoy and the mudblood. The biggest shame on his name he could ever induce. What did it matter anyway? This would probably kill him, eventually.

So, yes, he wanted her. Shove that into your over-sized gob and swallow it, Parkinson.

“I’ve told you before. And I won’t tell you again.”

“So what? Nothing is going on? And you expect me to believe that? After everything?”

“Actually, I don’t give a fuck. I’m past caring, Pansy. How long before you realise that? I don’t answer to you. I never have. This thing that we had was never more than shagging.”

“You said her name.”

“What?”

“You said her name that night.”

“Which night?”

“That night you came back from one of the prefect meetings. You were angry, remember? You told me to shut up. Not to say anything. You turned me around and bent me over your bed. Why was that? So you didn’t have to see my face? So you could pretend I was her?”

“Maybe I just like that position.”

“And when you came, you growled it. You growled her name.”

“Perhaps you misheard, Pansy. Did you ever think about that?”

“I didn’t mishear anything, Malfoy. You were pretending I was her.”

Yes. I was. And it’s taken up until now to admit it to myself. But he couldn’t tell her. And it wasn’t just because of his own shame. It was almost. Almost because of Granger herself.

If it got out. It would ruin them both.

“Why are you doing this to yourself,” he asked, voice slightly drained, his head immensely so. “If you’re so convinced I said some other girl’s name, then why are you even considering giving us a second chance? I thought nobody could ever disrespect you, Pansy. Not without the severe consequences. So why bother?”

She looked hesitant for a moment. And then seemed to find the words.

“It makes sense,” she said, “It makes sense that we’re together. We’re pureblood, Draco. And purebloods shouldn’t mix with anything else.”

He completely agreed. They absolutely shouldn’t.

But he was, anyway.

“Then why not someone else? I’m not the only pureblood in school, Pans.”

“You’re missing the point.”

“No. I think you are.”

“But everyone’s always thought it, Draco. Everyone has always thought that you and I are meant to be together-”

Who in Merlin’s name…?

“-and you need to marry a pureblood. We’re in our seventh year, Draco. Your time is running out.”

Draco almost wanted to laugh. And be sick at the very same time. “Get married? Us?”

“It’s what your father wanted.”

“No. It’s what my father implied. And in case you hadn’t noticed, he’s dead.”

And then. A small dried up part of his head whispered to him. That he may be dead, but he still knew. And Draco had managed to disgrace everything he had ever strived to be, don’t forget.

“But-”

“I think this conversation has come to a close, Parkinson. I suggest you move on.”

Pansy’s eyes glistened ominously. “You can’t…not her…” She trailed off. Sniffed, and stepped back. Slowly, and into the shadows of the wall behind her. She shook her head. The pain in her voice was enough to make Draco wince. “You’re making a big mistake with her, Draco,” she murmured, and he could hear the tears streaming down her cheeks and straining her voice, “I don’t know what it is that’s going on. But I know one thing. You’ll regret it. You’ll both regret it.”

Yes. Have a congratulatory thump on the back from him. He already regretted every single image of Granger that flashed incessantly into his head. And she most likely regretted him the hell back. The remorse was so incredibly pungent that he could taste it dripping off the roof of his mouth.

Not that it stopped him. Not that any of it stopped him.

“I’ll say this one last time. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Well. At least you’re right about one thing.”

“And what’s that?”

“No one messes me around and gets away with it.”

Draco’s teeth clenched.

“Is that a threat, Parkinson?”

“You’ve ruined my life, you bastard.”

He looked up at the ceiling. “I sincerely doubt that.”

“But you’ve ruined yours a hell of a lot more.”

Draco snapped his stare back towards her.

Because even though he knew that. Even though he told himself every morning and every night and every minute in between, hearing it out loud like that, hearing it from a different voice that didn’t sound like his father’s- it made Draco’s heart coil.

He’d ruined his life. Was that true? Granger had ruined his bloody life.

And she was probably almost pleased with herself. Almost. Teaching him a lesson. A taste of his own arsenic.

But he’d never made anyone feel like this. That would have been so far from possible. Because this- he was cruel, and he enjoyed being cruel- but this was too abrasive, sodden, saturated with hatred and love for the hatred and love for her skin. It was more fucked up than anything he’d ever inflicted on anyone else. It was more compelling than any magic he’d ever dare to use. Almost more compelling than the laws of his father. Than the unwritten rules of his life. And he supposed it would have to be, seeing as it went against all of them.

“Don’t tell me the infamous Draco Malfoy doesn’t have a comeback to that?” scorned Pansy.

He was still staring at her, frowning, head tilted down slightly.

He didn’t hate Pansy. He just found her incredibly irritating. And today, this morning, she had interrupted his disbelief. Stuck a big fat spoon in his head and whisked his brain around into an even bloodier pulp.

It was those last words. About ruination.

He had been thinking of Granger, of how wrong she was, of how this disaster wasn’t finished since that hole in his lungs remained. And he was still suffocating through it. He had been thinking about it all through the night. All through the nights before that. Three, since they last spoke. What felt like thousands, since they last kissed. And the thought of her distracted him from thinking about himself. Thinking about how completely pathetic he had become.

Pansy was right, most probably. He was ruined.

“Maybe, when the fact that we’ve finished makes it into that thick skull of yours,” growled Draco, words scraping across his mind to quieten his thoughts, “We can be friends again, Pans. Until then. Leave me the fuck alone.”

Leave me the fuck alone just like she has.

Pansy shook her head at him. “Do you know the worst part?” she murmured, face still in ugly shadow, “She probably doesn’t even want you.”

“Didn’t you hear me? I said leave me alone.” He almost wondered why he didn’t just walk away. Wondered why it was that his body felt it necessary for him to hear these words.

“I bet I’m right though, aren’t I, Malfoy? She doesn’t want you ruining her perfect, prissy little petticoats, and you’re all frustrated and fucked off about it. Is that why you’ve been going around like this?”

“Shut up, Parkinson. Or I can guarantee-”

“Rejection from a mudblood. It doesn’t get any lower than that.”

“You wouldn’t believe the depths I’ve reached,” snarled Draco, “Having a relationship with you, for instance.”

“Don’t lie to yourself!” she exclaimed, “Don’t pretend I meant nothing to you!”

“You meant nothing to me.”

“I know that’s not the truth.”

“And how do you know that?”

“Because it’s been four years, Draco!”

“Most of which we’ve both spent screwing other people.”

“No. Most of which you’ve spent screwing other people. This past year, Draco? It’s only been you.”

“Don’t make me laugh, Parkinson. You’ve even admitted it. We both have.”

“Well I lied,” she breathed, “I lied because I didn’t want it to look like I cared so much.”

Draco stared at her incredulously. “And you’re sure you aren’t lying now?”

“Yes. I may have let a guy go down on me after sucking his cock a couple of times, Malfoy, but this last year, you’re the only one I’ve let take it all the way. You’re the only one who’s made love to me.”

Draco felt almost winded for a second.

“What the…? I’ve never made love to you in my life, Pansy. I didn’t even realise that was in your vocabulary.”

“Well you were wrong, weren’t you?”

“And I’m not the only one. I can swear on my father’s grave that making love to you would be the very last thing on my life’s agenda.”

“I would think so,” she scoffed, “Seeing as your ‘life’s agenda’ is too full with ways to get into Granger’s dirty knickers, right?”

“Whatever you say.”

“Either way. You could be as rough as you wanted to be, Draco, but even you couldn’t deny that we had a connection. More than you’ll ever have with your stupid mudblood.”

More than? You have no idea. There is no more than. “We had nothing.”

“You didn’t love me? Not even a small part of you? It didn’t even cross your mind?”

Where have you been for the past years, Pansy? He was a Malfoy. He didn’t know how to love. Even if he wanted to, he told himself, he couldn’t. He was a son of a dead Death Eater who raped and maimed and tortured and killed. He was never taught anything other than how to work his way up to that. He even learnt to hate the way his mother loved him. It made him cringe. The hugs, the kisses, and not just in the way most sons would squirm. In a way his father had taught him.

Ask Draco about love, and all he can tell you is he only ever loved one. His father. And it destroyed him completely.

“Draco?” Her eyes shimmered. Hope and desperation and expectancy, all in a small reflection of light.

“What more can I say?” he hissed, “You were nothing more than a hole to fuck, Pansy.”

And even to himself, his words, they made him cringe. Because something about that callous rejection was familiar. Something about her standing in front of him now and so suddenly dejected by his words tightened his breath a little. Had he never made anyone feel like this? Was it really that far from possible? Because maybe, he was getting there with Pansy.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered, before he could stop himself, “I didn’t mean that.”

Draco wasn’t sure what her expression was responding to. Still those words, or the fact he had just said sorry for them.

“I- I don’t even know you anymore, Draco,” sniffed Pansy, voice cracked straight down the middle.

“I’m sorry.” He said again.

“Why- why can’t you just- just forget about her?” Pansy stepped forward. Her cheeks were stained black, her eyes swelling. “You’ve said- done- so many horrible things, Draco, but I can- forget. About all of them, maybe. I’ll try. Just- can’t you remember, what we had?”

He shook his head. He didn’t like this. Didn’t like this diminution of character before him. No one should ever be as desperate as that. Not like him. Not like he was for Granger.

His heart almost skipped a beat for Pansy’s pain. Because it tasted so familiar all of a sudden. Rank and dirty. Clinging to the air.

“Don’t do this to yourself, Pans,” he mumbled, “We didn’t have anything. It’s not worth the tears.”

“How can you say that?”

Because he was slowly growing numb. Because standing in front of her was like standing in front a mirror. A fraction of a reflection of just an ounce of his pain. Draco was almost.

Sympathising. Suddenly. So quickly it was strange. Draco was almost empathising.

“I just- I just don’t think we should be involved anymore, Pansy.”

“Why?” Her eyes streaming. “Whatever it is-”

“No, don’t-”

“No, you don’t, Malfoy!” she exclaimed, and then took a deep breath, eyes wider than before. “What makes you think she’ll have you, Draco?”

“Pansy-”

“What makes you think she won’t humiliate you for it? She’s friends with Potter, remember. We hate them. You hate them.”

“I know that. I still do.”

“So what’s changed, Draco? What the hell has changed?”

I don’t know. I’ve never known. I never will. It just has. So much it may as well have always been this way. And you should stay as faraway from me as possible, because that’s what I would do, if I wasn’t stuck inside my own head. I’d leave and never come back.

“You’ve got it all wrong, Pansy. It’s got nothing to do with Granger.”

Stranger still, that was for Hermione again, as well as for him.

“Prove it to me.”

“I can’t.”

“You know you can. Just once.” Pansy sounded so utterly depleted it almost made him feel sick.

And yet, what it seemed she was asking- for a fleeting moment- almost sounded like refuge. Almost told him to just close his eyes and do it. Just once. And imagine soft curls, dark eyes, books and quills and legs under desks smudged with so much desire and temptation it stung.

“Draco?”

Small voice. And his eyes opened because they had, whilst thinking, whilst considering, closed to that darkness with those bright pictures of her. Granger. As always.

“Just go, Pansy,” he breathed, almost growling it under his breath, “Just do yourself a favour and get lost.”

“Why can’t you-”

“Go. Now. Before you make things a hell of a lot worse.”

She stared back at him. Devastation etched into her face like rotting wood. It said all those things he wanted to shout. Wanted to shout at Granger. I don’t believe you and I hate you. I want you. I can’t not have you. And why. You don’t understand what it’s like.



Pansy turned to leave.






*





Hermione turned the page.

How long had it been seen they’d last spoken? Three days?

Three days since she’d told him how it would be from now on. No exceptions, no alterations. Over through and through and over again, to make no mistake. That was Hermione Granger, after all. That was who she’d been searching for these past weeks. Herself, again. Talking sense, making sense, doing sense.

And of all the sense in the world. Her and Malfoy made the least. That was the most important thing that she must never forget. Ever. Because she’ll deteriorate without reason, she told herself, and he was so far from reason, morality, sanity, he was better off left. Alone. And that. That made more sense than anything she had ever felt flaming underneath her skin.

He wanted a solution, after all. And she gave him one. One that wasn’t tongues and touches and inside-outing her body. Just an answer. Over. Done.

Hermione turned another page.

It didn’t matter what he had said. About stopping because he cared, about something being different this time. She hated that now, she couldn’t stop thinking about what she had thought was there, when he was breathing, seething, burning above her- what she had thought was in his eyes. She’d disregarded it before- as victory- but now, after those words, his words, now it was back in her mind and playing, rolling over and around in her head. But it didn’t matter. She’d think about it until the memory was so blurred she could no longer recall the colours around them-

-but it didn’t matter. Whatever it was. Whatever it had been, it was better left as alone as he was.

She knew she felt bad. Worse than. Felt dead. But she would recover, like everyone recovers. The lights hadn’t gone out. She wouldn’t have to fight for long. This was the end, remember? The hardest part was done. The saying it to him. The seeing his eyes.

Him.

Malfoy.

Draco.

Soon, that name wouldn’t make her want to cry, wet, throat dry, breath useless. Air completely hopeless. It felt as if three hundred feet of her heart had gone wrong. But eventually, she wouldn’t care, and in this eventually, he wasn’t there.

Another, turned. Page fifty-nine.

“Are you even reading that?”

Hermione’s head snapped up. She’d almost forgotten she was sitting in the Gryffindor common room and not her own. She missed the quiet atmosphere, but this was how it had be. Until she didn’t care anymore, at least.

“Yes. Why?”

Harry shrugged. “Your eyes aren’t even moving.”

“And?”

“I don’t know.”

She shook her head and looked back down at the book. Damn boy. Turned the page again.

“But you’ve only just turned to that one,” insisted Harry, a clear element of humour to his voice, “The page before. You haven’t read it.”

She looked up, irritably. “And? What’s the problem? I’ve read this textbook cover to cover already, Harry, and about ten times more than you have.”

“I was only joking.”

“Well don’t.”

“Calm down.”

“Excuse me?”

Ron swallowed his chocolate frog, hastily. “Shut up, Harry, alright?” he mumbled, shooting him a warning look that said a lot of things. One of which Hermione was certain involved snippets of their conversation a few nights ago.

“Sorry,” muttered Harry, turning back to the fire, “I guess it was a pretty unnecessary comment.”

“Are you really sorry, or do you just think you should be because of that look Ron just passed your way?”

Bloody hell. What’s wrong with you, Hermione? She hadn’t realised it had pissed her off so tremendously. It seemed highly out of proportion, and-

“What look?” asked Ron, defensively.

“Oh don’t bother, Ronald,” she frowned, “I’m sure you’ve told Harry all about how sensitive I am lately.” Even though he could probably see that for himself. “You know? Tell him to be careful around me.”

“But Hermione…” Ron looked completely startled. As did Harry. She closed her book with a loud thwack.

Harry jolted a little. “I’m sorry because I’m sorry, alright?” he said, sneaking in a momentary dart of his eyes over to Ron.

Hermione was now certain that this look was saying, wow, that time of the month, huh?

“Will you both stop that?!”

“Stop what?” they asked, voices overlapping each other in confusion.

It surprised her. All of it. The sudden urge to bang both their heads together for no good reason at all. Perhaps Harry deserved a whack on the shoulder, but Ron? Ron had done nothing. So why was it she wanted to leave them both, in that moment? Why did she want to go back to her own common room.

“I just want some peace and quiet, alright? Is that too bloody much to ask?”

“No,” replied Ron, silencing Harry’s opening mouth. “Sorry, ‘Mione.”

But then she shook her head.

“Merlin,” she sighed, “Look. I just- you know. The Ball is in two days and I’m stressing out a little.”

“Of course,” nodded Ron.

Of course, she repeated back to herself. You’re a lying bitch, and they’ll both find that out one day.

“Did Ginny give you the dress she bought?” asked Harry, using all the effort he could gather to quickly change the subject.

“Yes,” she nodded, creamy white flashing through her memory as she shoved a long dress into her wardrobe to avoid throwing up all over it.

“And?”

“It’s lovely,” she lied. Though it was. But unfortunately, it happened to represent everything about that evening. That evening when she will have to walk in on the arm of Malfoy. The night when, undoubtedly, all her best laid plans will unravel in front of her in a spectacular mess at her feet. Because Hermione wasn’t stupid. She begged not to care, but at the moment, that could only be done away from him. And the Ball was not away from him. It led her straight to the boy.

“Yeah, I thought it was nice,” agreed Ron, “Bit like a wedding dress though.”

Harry made a face at that.

No. I don’t suppose you like the idea of me going as Draco’s bride, either.

“I haven’t tried it on yet,” she mumbled, still, for some reason, with the urge to leave, “But I will. At some point.”

She would have gone into Hogsmeade and bought it herself. Of course she would have done. Had she been any other girl. The idea of shopping for a dress excited most of the girls around her as much as the event itself. It simply heightened the anticipation, it allowed plans, exhilaration. But she had said “Sorry, Ginny, not today. I’ll have to take you up on that offer of getting it for me. I don’t care what it looks like.” And given her the galleons. Ginny had frowned, looked at her as if there was no way in hell she would ever understand why on earth Hermione didn’t want to come.

It’s because it reminds me of the Ball, Ginny. Which reminds me of Malfoy. And that, brings everything I’m trying to hide to the surface. His tongue, his hands, the way he so almost buried himself inside of me. So I can’t, Ginny. I’m sorry. Because any chance I have to pretend he doesn’t exist, I’ll take.

Ron was muttering, grumpily. “I’m just glad I don’t have to wear those bloody dress robes again,” he cringed, “They completely butchered the Yule Ball. Worst night ever.”

“Still blaming that on the dress robes, are you?” smirked Harry.

“Quite rightly,” he insisted, frowning back at him.

Hermione wanted to say something then, say something else to tease Ron for that night as they endlessly did. But for some reason, she couldn’t find the words. Couldn’t find the energy to smile.

Yes. Her day had quite clearly reached that point where the depression had severely set in. Sucked away anything with the mild potential to warm her heart. It was time to leave, she realised, there was no hope of distraction once lessons had ended for the day. Not even with her two best friends. Not in that moment, at least, and it saddened her.

“I’m quite tired- Ron, Harry- I might go back to my common room now.”

“It’s only half past six,” replied Harry, regarding her with subtle and wary eyes.

“I know,” she shrugged, “I might have a bath and get an early night.”

“Fair enough.”

But before she got up to leave, before she gathered her things and straightened her posture, Hermione made sure she pleaded with enough heart that Malfoy wouldn’t be sitting up there. Ready to add words to all the painfully miserable stares he’d been giving her for the past three days. Breaking in silence.




*




She would feel better that this. Draco knew that much. The way she had moved beneath him those few nights ago, it had driven him beyond wild. Just like his dreams. Yes. Granger had moved just like she moved in his dreams. No. More. She moved like she knew them, like she’d played her own role, crawled into his skull and let him fuck her inside it.

Writhing beneath him. That’s what she would be like. So if he closed his eyes, if he let that wash over him, he could almost shut out enough light and pain and wrong wrong wrong to lose himself in her eyes, imagine her own body clenching around his.

“Draco!”

But not when she spoke. Not when Pansy said his name.

“Shut- up,” he panted, thrusting into her so hard and fast the words were almost lost.

- She had been standing there in the common room. Cheeks still tear-stained, eyes still bloodshot and red. The password. She knew the damn password from all the times he’d shoved her up there for a quick shag. And there she was, ready to beg for another.

But Draco wasn’t giving in. She could have been anyone. But she wasn’t Granger. -

Her skirt was bunched up around her waist. He wanted the uniform on. With the uniform on he could draw similarities. Just stare at the shirt, imagine that Slytherin tie- imagine that tie was his, and that she was wearing it for him. Betrayal. Dirty betrayal of the Gryffindor house, and all for him.

Draco growled, deep and low and coarse. He began to slam into her harder -granger if only. She was moaning beneath him, and there was nothing he could do about that but try, try desperately to distort the sound in his head. Make it higher, softer, make it her. And then make it louder, because he wanted to make her scream.

“Scream for me…” he rasped, grabbing her wrists and pinning them above her head. Driving into her so hard he saw sparks form in the corners of his vision. He was still staring at the shirt. His tie.

- Earlier, when he’d seen her. He had thought for a split second that it was Granger, waiting for him, standing by the fireplace and ready to tell him how she hadn’t meant it. How she understood, there was nothing she could do, she was falling. Like him. But he was wrong. His stomach had crashed so violently he almost wanted to spit blood.

So when he said no to her, no again, he almost felt a flicker. The anger, the disappointment, the frustration, despondency and anguish all balling in his throat. It wasn’t Granger. But he needed something. Anything. Imagination. It was a thought.

Use her. And wasn’t Draco a bastard? Hermione didn’t want him, but this girl still did. So use it like your father brought you up to use it. It’s not even second best, but it’s something.

The only problem being, something that isn’t enough. –

“Draco…!” she whimpered, and then louder. Half-screamed it as her head banged against the wall behind his bed. He moved to put his hand behind her, and then pulled it away again. Because what was he doing, this was Pansy. This was only Pansy. He hated her so much for being the one underneath him, she may as well bang her head until it cracked.

And did she like this? Did she like getting fucked so hard she could rip? Did she know- did she have any idea how it would feel when it was over? When he threw her out and got himself off again- this time, without her, but still with the same pictures in his head. Surely, she must know. And if she does, that makes her as desperate as he is. Both there, together, fucking out their hopeless desperation beneath the heat.

He was getting distracted. Feeling the intensity lessen. He had to forget again, had to forget who it was and make it who it should have been.

- He had said to her “Pansy, I don’t love you.” And she had nodded, tasted a tear. She understood, and he was glad, because that meant when he told her to “Go upstairs”, her eyes hadn’t lit up. She had just cried harder. But gone all the same, because he knew, he knew that feeling, when anything was better than nothing at all.

And he had given in simply because he had nothing left to do. Simply because, all day, since Pansy had left him with these thoughts, all he had wanted to do to feel her even closer. Granger, of course. Wanted to touch her even more, clinging onto the small possibility that, maybe if he took her, once for all, this would end for him. This would all end for him, and he could begin to rebuild those pieces that were broken.

But then he realised. Things had surpassed all reason and repair. That wasn’t how it would be. So why not grab the nearest girl and pound her senseless? No reason. No repair, remember? Maybe it won’t even hurt her. Maybe she won’t even care. You may as well. Close your eyes and imagine. -

Granger’s muscles were pulsating around him. It pushed him closer. He lowered his head and bit down onto her shoulder, teeth marking through her shirt, pinching at her skin. But the shirt- it wasn’t right- it was doused in chemicals. Strong perfume. It stung his tongue. He pulled away.

Pansy’s eyelids were flickering, her nails scraping against his back, long, manicured, nothing like how they should be. He hadn’t kissed her yet, and he wouldn’t. He wouldn’t go anywhere near her lips since he knew that would break any illusion he was struggling to form. It would snap it clean it two, because nothing was like how he kissed Hermione. Nothing was like how she kissed him back. Dirty, hot, desolate. Nothing had that. Not even Pansy’s grief, as he pressed down harder on her wrists and watched the thin film of sweat forming across her brow.

Merlin, Pansy, I’m sorry. But I hate that it’s you. And not her soft eyes. Deadly. Longer lashes. Without those lips, glistening, moistened with her tongue, smaller nose, wispy hair, flushed cheeks. I want Granger. She’s all I want. Lean down and lick her neck, lick her pulse, beat into my mouth and graze her skin with my teeth. Taste the dirty and the beautiful.

But you’re pure and you’re hideous. You’re all my father wanted me to have. You’re nothing like her, nothing like how my fingers felt stretched inside her body, hot, wet and tight.

Draco pulled out of her as he came. Head bent down. Teeth clenched. Breath short, gasping, sharp. He came over her skirt, on the bed sheets, across the inside of her thighs. He had to. He couldn’t come inside of her. Just- hopelessly unknown to him. Why in Merlin’s name. But he couldn’t.

Sorry. Sorry, but he couldn’t.

Pansy’s eyes were wide. Far wider than they had been earlier. And her mouth. It had parted.

“You…” She panted, trailed off, swallowed and opened her mouth once more. “You said it again.”

“Said what?” he asked, screwing his eyes shut, breathing as deep as he could to stop the sudden waves of sickness. He would never be able to stomach coming over Granger. He’d never get over how wrong it all was.

“Her name.”

Draco pushed himself off her and fell onto his back, breathing heavily. “I didn’t,” he murmured, knowing full well that he most probably had.

“Yes you did.”

He could hear the reflection of tears reforming in Pansy’s voice again. Merlin. What had she expected? Surely she must have realised by now, even if Draco was denying it all, he was lying. Completely.

He was only lying for the sake of words. His feelings were as bright as day. He was hardly trying to hide them from her.

Pansy sat up, she was pulling at her knickers hastily. “You bastard,” she mumbled. But hadn’t she already known. She must have. “I’ll never forgive you for this.”

No, you probably won’t. And then, as a small after thought, Draco wondered if she had reached a climax or not. He hadn’t felt anything, but then he wouldn’t know. He wasn’t thinking hard enough about her. And if she hadn’t, well, congratulations Draco, the Granger bitch might have just about managed to completely lose it for you. He almost had the sudden urge to check, check with Pansy if she had or not. Trivial, pointless, and yet something to fill a silence.

So he acted on in it. “Did you…?” he began.

“Did I what?” she spat, movement fast as she got off the bed, smoothed down her hair and began looking for her shoes.

No. No, he wouldn’t ask. There was no point. No point in knowing.

“Did I enjoy it?” she hissed.

Something like that.

“Why do you care, Malfoy?” she shouted, shoving her feet into her shoes and heading towards her bag. “I’m not her, am I? I’m not the filthy tart who sleeps across the walls from you at night! Do you have a good wank over her, Malfoy? Do you go into your bathroom and press your ear up against the wall just so you can hear her breathing?”

“Just get out, Pansy.”

“Don’t worry,” she growled, “I’m going.”

And like that, so soon Draco was still lying there, panting on the bed, his bedroom door opened and slammed with enough force to shatter the windows. Shower him with glass.

They both knew how this would end. Pansy wasn’t stupid. But it didn’t stop it from being any the less painful in his head, which thumped with a delirious vengeance.

Draco lay there and thought that, when you really think about it, the whole bloody mess inside the walls of his body was just a joke. Just a big fat hilarious joke. Those last ten minutes he had spent with Pansy were anything but fulfilling. A magnificent disappointment, but then what had he expected, short of shoving a polyjuice potion down Pansy’s neck? And the part that made it funny? Fucking Pansy would probably be the first thing he’d done right in a while, according to his father. And yet he had to stop himself from hating every minute of it. Hilarious. Either that or the dreadfulness that, all along, he had rather have been shagging a mudblood.

Maybe, somewhere inside himself, Draco had thought that being inside someone else, remembering how much the others still wanted him, would help. Help bring him back to the surface, get some air, refresh his head a little. Maybe, if just a small part of him could have remembered that his life didn’t just exist for Granger, he would have realised the depths he’d sunk to.

Because that was it. He knew he was low, buried, deep and beneath the thick black soil of his head, but he couldn’t tell how far. He had no counterpoint, no rationality in his head to compare it to. Just wild extremities. The compulsion for her dark beauty against his father. Who would probably have near killed him for these past few weeks. Not that Draco would have cared. He was still a Malfoy. He still hated mudbloods. He still understood that for everything he had done, for everything he was doing, punishment was almost more important that making it out alive.

And Merlin. He was exhausted.

This story was getting old. But it still went on.


Suddenly, Draco could hear shouting coming from beneath him. A loud, scathing, high-pitched screaming of words.

Pansy.

And there was only one person. One person that could have been down there with her.

Draco shot up so fast his head spun.




*




Hermione had frozen as soon as she stepped into the room.

She could hear them, loud, droning, venomous moans coming through the ceiling above her. Calling his name. Over and over again. Near screaming.

Malfoy. And he had someone else with him, some other girl, thrashing underneath the sheets as he fucked her so hard she could almost hear the clashing of bones.

If only, at that point, Hermione could have walked up to her own body, she would have turned it around, pushed it back through the door and led it away. Placed her hands over her ears and sucked all the memory of those sounds from her brain, dissolving them. Dissolving them into a painless oblivion where she never heard them, never felt the tight and sudden twist of anguish in her throat, sheer slice of shock through the beating of something bloody and brutal inside her ribs.

But she wasn’t around to take herself away. And so she stood there, and listened, and almost fell down, fell backwards against the wall.

But why?

Why was hearing those sounds so cutting? Why was hearing him go about his daily routine, shagging all the girls that wanted it, so suddenly a surprise? What had she thought? That something about the words he had said to her, about the way he had looked at her, all meant that he wouldn’t be able to touch anyone else?

For fuck’s sake you stupid, stupid bitch. So naïve. You told him it was finished, and so here you are, he’s accepted it. After three days, he’s over it. Because Merlin, it’s what you’ve wanted.

Don’t forget that it’s what you’ve wanted.

And Hermione repeated those words back to herself, over and over, as she stood there hearing the edges of her mind shake. She couldn’t move away, and she didn’t understand why, because slowly her heart was breaking all over again. She hated herself for it. Her stupid, fucked-up heart. Why did it care? She promised herself it would get better, recover. But now the water was getting so cold she could barely breath.

So Hermione had stayed there. Stayed there until the words stopped, the muffled moans and poisoned praise had finished. She planned to leave, just as soon as her feet would move, take her away, back to Harry and Ron, up to her own room, out into the freezing air of the night. It didn’t matter where. Just as soon as her feet would move.

Move. Please, just go.

And she had almost left. Honestly, swearing on her life. She was about to leave and run and beg for every inch of her skull to explode and start again, but then the shouting had begun. And now, it was more obvious than it ever was before, that it was Pansy Parkinson. It was her that was calling his name, thrashing underneath his skin, tasting his tongue and sweat and, yes, Merlin, yes she still hated him so much. Hated them both.

She couldn’t make out the words, couldn’t even hear him make a sound in response, but she couldn’t stop herself from hoping that he had pushed her out. Asked her to leave. Told her she meant nothing to him. And about as much nothing as Hermione herself, of course.

And then, almost as sudden as the sound of Malfoy’s bedroom door violently shutting, Pansy had flown down the stairs, face smudged, red, demeaned and trodden-

-and that’s where Hermione stood now. Pansy stopping dead in her tracks as soon as she saw her.

Right. If ever there was a time to leave, if ever there was a time to move your bloody feet. Hermione turned one way, hesitated, and then turned another, heading for the direction of her bedroom.

“Hold it,” barked Pansy, voice seething.

Hermione looked around, slowly. Pansy’s eyes were so narrow they barely looked as if they were open. Merlin, she had never hated her so much in all her life.

“I think what you mean to say is hold it, please,” she corrected, and then felt a slight twinge of something. Because a second look at Pansy’s face told her this girl had been crying. All day. Perhaps all week. And now was not the time to provoke her.

“I hope you’re happy,” murmured Pansy, dragging the back of her hand roughly against her cheek and smearing the black stains further.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” muttered Hermione, heart stabbed with the sudden realisation of exactly what she was talking about.

“I hate you,” she breathed, “Did I ever tell you that?”

“Yes.”

“Well I’m telling you again.”

Hermione stared back at her. She wasn’t going to walk away. Because whatever Pansy wanted to throw at her, she’d catch it. She’d catch it and hurl it the hell back, reasonable, rational, exasperatingly calm. She knew how much Pansy loved that. And she deserved it after- whatever that was.

When she had listened to the noises- just- before, upstairs with Malfoy. She had wanted to suffocate Pansy to shut her up.

No, she wasn’t going to walk away. She wanted to know why she was supposed to be happy, why it was that Pansy looked as if she would kill her in a moment. Even though she already knew.

“Did you have something you wanted to say, Pansy?”

“Don’t play dumb, you stupid bint,” she spat.

“Excuse me?”

“How long have you been down here?” Pansy took at step towards her. Hermione noticed.

“I’ve only just got here. Why?”

“So you didn’t hear us then?”

So loud I almost felt you.

“Hear what?”

“Draco and me. We just had a good, hard shag, Granger.”

She swallowed. “What a shame. I must have missed it.”

“That’s not all, though.”

“No?”

“No.” Pansy took another step. “But there was a slight problem.”-

Hermione didn’t want to ask what it was.

-“You.” But she got her answer all the same.

Her. She was the problem. Draco had- something- at some point- been thinking about her. It was both terrifying and sardonically pleasing.

Hermione felt her wand in the lining of her inside pocket. One second, that’s all it would take. “Maybe you should leave, Pansy.”

“Not until you admit it,” she snarled, her face even redder upon the shortening distance. “Draco won’t, even though I know already. But if you do, if you say the words, then I guarantee I’ll hurt you less for it.”

Hermione slowly felt her mouth turn dry. “I don’t understand what you mean,” she answered.

“You’re fucking each other, aren’t you?” Pansy’s voice cracked slightly.

“I don’t-”

And then she erupted. It was all far quicker than Hermione would ever have anticipated. Because sometimes, she saw small similarities between her and Pansy. They would both try and stay as cool for as long as possible. For Pansy, it was probably a tactic. For Hermione, it was being mature. Usually.

“Shut up!” Pansy yelled, “Don’t deny it! You’re a mudblood slag, Granger, someone like Malfoy comes along? You’d beg for it! Don’t think for a second I believe your straight prissy schoolgirl act! You’re a whore, you’ve always been one!”

“Is that right?”

“It’s more than right, you bitch! I bet you couldn’t wait to get your dirty hands on him, could you? I bet you’ve waited for years to get him into bed!”

“You’re wrong.”

“You reckon?” she exclaimed, “You reckon I’m talking out of my arse, Granger? Wake up, you jumped up little tart. I’m not thick. I can see what’s going on around me, and you’re going to regret it all! If you ever thought you could go behind my back like that. You have no idea. No idea how much of a mistake you just made!”

“Somewhere along the line, Pansy, you’ve got your wires badly crossed. I would think about what you’re saying.”

“My wires? What the hell are you talking about, Granger? Don’t start throwing your dirty muggle words at me! You should just save them for the bedroom. Draco’s become such a sick and twisted bastard I bet they really fucking turn him on!”

“Just stop it, Pansy, alright?” Hermione began to hear the traces of panic in her own voice.

“No I won’t stop it, you bitch!” she spat, “You didn’t, did you? You didn’t stop fucking Malfoy all those times you knew he was still with me!”

“I haven’t- I’ve never-”

“Oh don’t play the innocent, you evil slag, you’ll make me throw up!”

“Merlin, Pansy! You’re talking rubbish, ”said Hermione. Plain, simple.

Something about those words seemed to strike a chord with Pansy. Renewed tears began to spill over onto the cheeks, her teeth clenched, fists balled. She laughed slightly. “Do you know something? That’s exactly what he said to me. Both of you. You’re even becoming each other, it’s disgusting! You’ll fucking pay for this! And you know what? You’re going to hurt, Granger, you’re going to hurt so much more than you’re hurting me! And I hope it kills you! I hope it fucking-”

But before she could pull out her wand, Hermione’s was drawn, pointed, rigid and sure, straight in the direction of her head.






*






Draco had only just managed to drag on his trousers as fled down the stairs and burst into the common room.

He hadn’t expected it- Granger’s wand pointing directly at Pansy. Pansy stiff, fuming, eyes wet and hot and hitting Hermione’s so hard he wondered how she managed not to drop the wand.

And then Hermione saw him, and the look splashed across her tightened face was enough to pull him back down and under again. It was cold. It was knowing. It was so almost how-could-you that his lungs half collapsed.

She’d heard everything. Heard them fucking into his bed. He hadn’t realised, hadn’t thought about the silencing charms. He had never had to bother before- before when he always almost wanted her to hear. Just for fun.

“Granger…” he began. But what words? That look. Wasn’t it what she had wanted? She told him they were finished. This was why he had never believed it.

“Take her away from me and get her the hell out, Malfoy,” she spat, so fast, so hurting that he had to play it back in his head again just to hear it properly. Or maybe it was just her voice. Finally speaking to him after all these days apart.

“Granger-”

“Just do it.” Her wand still held in position. “Before I do something I’ll regret.”

Draco kept staring at her, kept his eyes fixed on hers. Tried to tell her with them, sorry- no- no, he wasn’t sorry, he was just- something. Because she asked for this.

It’s your fault, Granger. So don’t look at me like that.

“Why don’t you do as your beloved mudblood says?” Pansy sneered, her eyes fixed on the point of Hermione’s wand. “Maybe after you’ve got rid of me, you two can make up. See how we compare against each other, Draco.”

“Shut up, Parkinson,” he spat, striding over to her and grabbing hold of her arm, “It’s time to leave.”

She shrugged him off violently. “You’re both forgetting I can walk,” she seethed, shooting Hermione a look of sheer abhorrence. “I can get myself out, you slag. I wouldn’t want to stay here any longer,” she hissed, closing her bag from the failed attempt to draw her wand. “You both make me sick. I can barely breathe in here.”

And Pansy stormed across to the door and flung it open, pausing just long enough to spit out final words. “You’ll both pay for this,” she murmured, sniffing, weeping, walking through the door way and turning slightly, “I swear it, Malfoy-” because she was talking to him “-You’ll both pay.” And the door swung shut. Heard her stamp out through the passageway, the portrait swing.

Draco growled inwardly, exhausted inside his head. Were it not for Granger, Parkinson, you’d be the biggest mistake of my life.

He turned to Hermione. Her wand had lowered and she was staring at the ground. She was clearly about to say something.

Without raising her eyes, she opened her mouth. “If she tells Harry or Ron-”

“She won’t,” he said, staring at her paled face warily, “Trust me. Pansy won’t want many people knowing about this.”

Hermione looked up then.

“So you told her?” Her tone sounded agitated.

“No.”

“Then how does she know?”

“She doesn’t. She just thinks she does.”

“It doesn’t sound like she thinks it to me. It sounds like she knows for sure.”

“I didn’t say anything to her-”

“Well then how does she know?” she demanded.

“For fuck’s sake, Granger, I won’t let your beloved Potter find out, alright?”

Don’t fret. You can stay on your safe merry-go-round of sanity with your two best friends. I’ll just be here watching on. Hating you all.

Her head moved back slightly. “Fine,” she breathed, and then his heart sank as she turned to leave. “Next time, if you wouldn’t mind putting up the silencing charms,” she mumbled, “I’d be grateful.” And she began walking up the stairs to her room.

Draco started after her. “Granger, don’t.”

“Leave me alone.”

“You asked for it, alright?” He followed her up the steps, was sure to keep two behind, watched her legs, the curves of her body, swinging in defiance as she moved faster. Merlin. Let me taste-

“Go away.”

“Stop. Just let me explain.”

She turned and looked down at him. “I heard everything I needed to hear through the ceiling, Malfoy,” she growled, “And do you know what? You’re right. I asked for it. It’s what I wanted all along.”

“Look, I’m not saying-”

“No, really. You’re completely right. I didn’t care, Malfoy. I didn’t care one bit.”

“You’re lying.”

“Am I?” she retorted, turning back and reaching the top of the stairs. She muttered something and the door swung open. “I told you it’s finished. And I meant it.”

“No you didn’t.”

She could say it a hundred times over and he still wouldn’t believe it. It was like ice and rain. Completely pointless. Meaningless. It solved less nothing than what had been solved before. And even that made more sense than what she had said.

“Well you’re wrong,” she breathed.

Hermione moved to push the door closed, but Draco’s hand shot up to it. “Don’t Granger,” he said, “Don’t make this harder than it has to be. How much longer do you think you can manage this senseless silence for? It won’t change anything.”

“What?” she spat, “You don’t like my way of dealing with things? You don’t like that I’m ignoring you? Would you rather I went downstairs and shagged the next Gryffindor boy I could get my hands on?”

He growled, clenched his teeth. “Don’t be stupid.”

“Stupid?”

“It didn’t mean anything. Pansy. She meant nothing.”

“They all mean nothing.”

“Why are you doing this?”

“Why do you care? This is just a game to you, after all.”

“A game?” Sometimes- just sheer, absolute frustration. “You think I’m just in this for the glory, Granger?”

“I never said that.”

“This is anything but a game to me, you idiot.”

“Let go of the door, Malfoy.”

Merlin- he just- fuck. If she weren’t so dangerous with her wand he would have wringed her neck by now. For all of it. For the biting aggravation of the smack-you-in-the-face fact that they just couldn’t communicate. It was impossible. It seemed beyond them both.

“Do you even have the faintest idea in that thick head of yours, Granger?”

She narrowed her eyes at him briefly. “The faintest idea of what? How the hell I’m going to stay away from you? Because yes. I do.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Well I’ll tell you anyway,” she barked, bringing her face slightly closer to the wide gap in the door. “I’m going to close this door, and I’m going to go back to the silence. Like you don’t exist, Malfoy. And it will be beautiful again. Because you and me? We can’t talk. We can’t be around each other. And I can’t even bloody breathe underneath your stupid staring. So stop doing it. And stop doing this. Just leave me alone.”

It will be beautiful, again? Where do you find these twisted words, Granger. How do you get them so wrong.

“The more you say that, the harder I’ll try, you stupid bitch,” he warned her, tone low, scathing.

“And the harder you try, you ignorant bastard, the higher the chance that you’ll push me just that little bit too far.”

He had to smirk at that. He had to sneer and soak in his own stereotype, if only for a moment. If only just to piss her off for the smallest of seconds. Piss her off under those hard to reach vessels beneath her skin. Just make them itch a little, like his did, constantly with her disregard.

“What?” asked Hermione, traces of unease in her voice, “You think that’s amusing, do you?”

“I was just thinking, Granger,” he drawled, “How far I’d be able to go until that happened.”

“Is that right?”

“I’ve got pretty far already, and if that wasn’t the edge? Well then, I wonder-”

“That was the edge, Malfoy,” she seethed, “Make no mistake about that.”

“And you’re sure about that?”

“I’m positive.”

“No. You’re not positive. You’re not honestly sure, either.”

“Excuse me?”

“I’m just making it clear. I’m not a delusional.”- well, apart from around you. Apart from being inside my own head and sometimes hearing things that aren’t even there. “I’m not giving up because I know it’s not just me that’s feeling like this. And I won’t let you deny it, Granger. I won’t let you make me the fool. Because I could have gone further that night. You and I both know that. If I hadn’t have stopped myself, you’d be something less short of what you’re still desperately clinging onto.” His top lip curled slightly. “So go on. That wasn’t the edge. Because I could have taken it all the way, Granger, couldn’t I?”

Just answer him that one question. Because he’s got millions more like it lying around. Maybe then you’ll begin to understand the turmoil raging on in his head. Questions about when you became so beautiful, about when your blood became such a craving- his craving. When it was that he started to be able to hate you and need you all at the same time, whilst that sharp conflict grinded slowly against his skull. The hatred and the desire. The two canons of the Malfoy mind.

Hate you. Need you.

And I can only guess which is more.

“Either way,” she murmured eventually, voice weak, “I’ve never been more grateful to you in all my life.”

“For what?”

“For stopping it.”

“You don’t mean that.”

“After that? With Parkinson? Of course I do.”

So it had hurt her. And if it weren’t for that fact that both of them knew she had no right to say it, the sound of her voice may as well have been screaming how could you.

“I told you. It didn’t mean anything.”

“No. I don’t suppose that it did. Sex is more of a sport for you, right, Malfoy?”

Don’t torture him with the memory. It had been. Simple and meaningless. Satisfying. Self-gratifying. Everything and anything he had wanted it to be.

Draco was so angry, so exhausted. And he didn’t know. He wasn’t sure how to react. Does he sigh. Does he growl. Would it even matter if he lied and said yes, yes it was still just a sport for him. Still just his talent.

No. All it had been was despair, revenge, refuge, and only then for a moment. Only for the saddest of moments before he came, called her name, mind shattered into a thousand tiny pictures of her eyes. And all along, it wasn’t Granger. He had been inches away, breaths, but he hadn’t got close enough. Not yet. He hadn’t folded in and out and up, up deeper into her body than she had ever felt. Her first time. Because he would have been her first.

And Merlin. Don’t let it be anyone else. As ever, he loathed himself for it, but he wanted no one to feel what he had felt. No one to taste that glorious heat that had radiated off her damp skin as he pushed his fingers just that little bit deeper inside of her.

No one.

His silence was just an excuse for her to try and close the door again.

“Look, will you just stop?” he frowned.

“No, I will not stop. This is pointless, Malfoy. Just go to bed.”

“So that I can wake up tomorrow to find you’ve started ignoring me again? I don’t think so.”

She rolled her eyes. “What is it that you want from me?”

“I don’t know what I want. I know absolutely shit all. That’s the fucking problem, Granger. When are you going to understand that?”

“I already understand that, Malfoy. I understand it a hell of a lot better than you do. I understand that sometimes knowing nothing is better than knowing anything at all.”

“And what’s that suppose to mean?”

“It means what it means. Stop trying to work things out, Malfoy. It’s better off left alone.”

His growl started off low, meant to stay that way, but the rising irritation within him was beginning seep out the surface. Draco banged his fist firmly against the door, and she flinched.

“Don’t,” she whispered, almost half-whimpered. The voice tore at him. Scratched his mind. She sounded scared, if only for a moment. And it made it worse.

“Don’t do what, Granger?” he barked, “This?” And he banged his fist again, this time on the doorframe, harder, louder. Hermione flinched again. And he begged himself to stop making her do that.

But before he could do anything else, the fear turned into anger again. Which was better, he told himself, anything was better.

“Isn’t this how it always ends?” she frowned. He could hear her breath shaking.

“And how’s that?” he hissed in response, head down.

“You bang your fists a few times. Grab my wrists and pull me towards you. Maybe push me up against a few objects.”

“What else am I supposed to do, Granger?” he growled, “You won’t listen.”

“There’s nothing you have to say that I want to hear.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because there’s nothing I want from you.”

“You’re lying.”

“Stop telling me I’m lying!”

“Well then stop, and I won’t have to.”

She growled. “Why can’t you just leave me alone, Malfoy?”

“Because I know you don’t want me to,” he replied, bringing his head back up.

“Oh you know, do you? And how is it you know this?”

“Remember that time when I wanted to you turn down your music?”

“Barely. You’ve been a prick for so very long, Malfoy, all the moments just merge into one big-”

“You used a spell.”

“What?”

“To close the door. And you would have used the same one by now, if you really didn’t want me here. I can see the wand in your bag, Granger.”

She looked outraged. It pleased him a little.

“Shut up,” she growled. Completely, deliciously red.

“You know it’s true.”

“Oh don’t bother, Malfoy,” she mumbled, her voice slipping slightly, “Just go and find some other slag to lose yourself inside.”

No. Stop bringing that up.

“And what exactly is it you want from me?!” he exclaimed, overwhelmed with frustration, overwhelmed with dead ends, and no win situations. “If I can’t have you then I’ll take whatever I can get, don’t you understand that, Granger? I was thinking about you while it was happening. You’ve got nothing to worry about, I’m still fantastically fucked in the head.”

She stared at him for a second, and hesitated.

Merlin. What? What can he do? What on earth can he say to break down those barriers? If she just gave him this one thing, just this one chance, then maybe things could get better. Rebuild. Maybe he could get it out of his system and get on with his life. Live it how it was supposed to be all along.

“Look,” she breathed, “I’m not- I don’t care, okay? I’d be stupid to care. You can do whatever you like to whoever you want. I don’t own you. We’re nothing to do with each other anymore. And even when we were- I don’t see how that should have stopped you. And it probably didn’t.”

“You think I-”

“Just leave, alright?”

“No.”

“Let go of the door, Malfoy.”

“Why should I?”

“Like you said. I have my wand.”

“Then go ahead.”

And damn.

One split second, and the door slammed shut, familiar green sparks showering onto his shoulders momentarily. He heard it click. Draco banged his forehead irritably against it. For fuck’s sake. Why did he have to bring up the fucking spell in the first place.

“Magic can’t stop this, Granger” he growled through the door, “No matter how hard you try. You’ll come back to us. I swear it. This isn’t your decision. This isn’t a sodding choice. You know we have things to say. You know we have things to-”

“Your wasting your breath, Malfoy.”

And it was true. Because any other word he bothered to shout after that would be lost into silence. She wasn’t going to do this tonight.

The stupid bitch.

He banged his fist against the door again angrily, hoped she could see it shake. She was trying too hard. She was trying too hard to keep them apart.

Merlin, Granger. Let me taste this air that your breathing, let it wash over me and calm me and do the same things to me as it does to you.

Because I want the strength to ignore this. I don’t want to be the one whose sliding down your bedroom door, head rested against it, hoping that maybe, just maybe, you’ll open it to me again and let me in. Let me in and let me finish this.

Or at least touch you.

Just remember that it won’t last long. This silence. I haven’t forgotten that you’ll be on my arm in a couple of days. Walking beside me. Surrounded by eyes.

And that was all Draco could think about, sitting there so wretchedly on the ground. The one night were she would be truly and utterly forced for the sake of duty. He would think. He would find a way. And he would make her listen to every single word that he had to say.







*

Disclaimer: All these characters belong to JKR. I own nothing, much to my dismay, and make no money whatsoever out of this story!


Chapter 11.

“All wands are to be handed into the Heads of Houses by five o’clock tomorrow evening,” said Dumbledore, hands clasped together on his magnificently wide desk, “There will be an announcement over breakfast to inform seventh-years, but I would suggest visiting the common rooms around lunch time to remind those who have forgotten.”

Hermione was severely distracted. Draco kept looking at her. His head was turned slightly, and he appeared to be, quite possibly, attempting to take an unsuccessful stab at subtlety. Even Dumbledore had noticed, which made it even worse. Hermione’s face was flushing hotter than it had in a while, and she could only imagine how unbelievably crimson she was turning.

Stop looking at me, you prat. Just stop.

“A few students have complained about the wand arrangements, Professor Dumbledore,” mumbled Hermione, sweeping a hand up to her hair and letting it fall from behind her ears to cover her cheeks. “They would rather keep them locked away in their bedrooms.”

“As was the procedure a few years ago, Miss Granger,” nodded Dumbledore, “However, it appeared that one year a couple of students were intent on using magic to cause as much chaos as possible. Unfortunately, when wands are kept in bedrooms, the opportunity to break the rules becomes a much more achievable reality.”

Hermione nodded. Something about achievable realities. If only that boy would stop looking in her direction. The timing was almost rhythmical, once every three seconds or so. It looked unnatural.

“And do you have any questions, Mr Malfoy?” asked Dumbledore.

Draco’s head snapped towards him. “Not that I can think of,” he mumbled, but then, “Apart from…” He trailed off in thought for a moment. “What exactly are the arrangements concerning Head Boy and Head Girl?”

“What is it that you wish to know?”

“In context of the tradition, Professor. What I mean to say is, are we required to spend the full occasion together? Is it compulsory for us to dance together, for example?”

Bastard. You absolute bastard. Hermione’s face was ablaze.

Dumbledore’s eyes travelled between them briefly. Hermione diverted her gaze as nonchalantly as possible.

“I don’t believe that you are required to spend every minute together, no,” he replied, “Of course it is necessary for you both to announce the occasion and other such formalities. As for the rest of the evening, it is for you to spend how you please. There are certain degrees of responsibility assigned to the prefects, but this shouldn’t be something that stops you from enjoying yourselves.”

“I see,” nodded Draco, “Thank you, Professor.” And then- for goodness sake- he flashed Hermione another sideways glance.

You heard him, Malfoy, we can spend the evening however we wish to spend it. Three guesses where I won’t be for the majority of the night.

“Of course, several of the teaching staff will be present,” said Dumbledore, “And if all goes to plan, everything should run smoothly. I trust that you have both prepared for this as much as possible. I for one have been more than aware of the excitement amongst the seventh-years.”

Draco and Hermione nodded.

“Well, I think that concludes the meeting for today. Please ensure you pass on this information to the prefects.”

“Yes, Professor,” replied Hermione, rising from her seat.

“And you must not hesitate to let me know if there are any problems,” he added.

“Of course,” Draco answered, waiting for Hermione to walk to the door before he moved to follow.

She looked at him uneasily, hesitated for a moment before saying her goodbyes, and headed towards the door. Draco shot in front of her.

“After you,” he gestured, opening it.

Argh.

She flashed him a look that was, what she believed to be, a threat of death, and walked through the doorway feeling more than a little uncomfortable with the blatantly sarcastic gesture.

They reached the bottom of the stairs and stepped out into the corridor. She turned to him.

“What on earth are you playing at, Malfoy?”

“Excuse me?” He acted thoroughly baffled.

“Don’t you dare open a single bloody door for me again.”

Draco smirked at her. And it pissed her off beyond belief.

“Why do you keep doing that?” she asked, frustrated.

“What?”

“Wearing that stupid smirk on your face.”

“I’m just looking forward to tomorrow.”

“Oh shut up, Malfoy. I don’t know what it is that you’re expecting, but you sure as hell aren’t getting it.”

“Nice job, by the way.”

“Of what?”

“You managed to ignore me all of yesterday again. I thought it was a pretty commendable effort on your part, Granger.”

Just- argh. Argh.

“You’re a bastard, Draco.”

“Thank you.”

“And I mean it.”

“About what?”

“Opening those damn doors for me. You did it twice yesterday. Perfectly timed so that Harry and Ron saw on both occasions. What exactly was it you were playing at, Malfoy?”

“Don’t worry, Granger,” he sneered, “They aren’t the brightest of couples. I’m sure they didn’t conclude that me opening a door for you meant we were shagging.”

Her face felt hot again.

“Don’t pretend you weren’t trying to make things awkward for me.”

“So what? I still hate Potter, remember? Anything to mess with that priceless head of his. Besides, you were ignoring me, Granger. And I don’t like being ignored.”

She rolled her eyes and began to walk ahead of him. “Get used to it,” she mumbled, letting out a long breath as she turned the corner and lost sight of him momentarily.

“I won’t have to,” he replied, following her.

Hermione wasn’t stupid. Of course she wasn’t stupid. She was one of the most intuitive people to ever hit Hogwarts, and so Draco’s delicate little references to the Ball were not passing her by completely unregistered. He had certain ideas about tomorrow night, an obvious expectation that she would have little choice but to endure his company. But he was wrong.

“I’d give up now, if I were you,” she replied, turning in the direction of the Gryffindor tower.

“Give up what?” asked Draco, meeting her hastened pace, his hands in the pockets of his robes.

“Whatever you’re planning,” she said, annoyed and, though trying desperately to hide it, slightly put off by his casual what-are-you-on-about tone. She thought he didn’t do that anymore. He was supposed to be desolate and breaking. Not making her want to tear her hair out simply because he was just so damn irritating.

And all of yesterday it had felt like this. After their short conversation the other night, Hermione hadn’t been able to sleep. His every word had permeated into the very corners of her thoughts, and apparently there was nothing she could do about it but replay them again and again, until finally the exhaustion took a hold of her and she drifted off into a restless sleep. She had awoken the next day with a feeling of dread so thick she could almost cough it up. And the first thing that happened when she saw him at breakfast?

He had smiled at her. Just an average, normal, friendly smile. Bordering on insane. And what in Merlin’s name…?

There were other differences as well. Alternate reality kind of differences. He was laughing and messing around, showering the Slytherin table with jokes about goodness knows what. Sex, probably, judging by the revolting way Blaise Zabini laughed one of those, “Wow, Draco, you’re such a man’s man” laughs. And they were whacking him on the shoulder, impressed, enthralled, and lapping it all up with their stupid jugs of pumpkin juice. And then Draco spotted Hannah Abbott wearing, what Hermione believed to be, a wholly unnecessarily short skirt, and coaxed Crabbe into the most boisterously disgusting wolf-whistle she had ever heard in her life. It made Hermione choke so badly on her porridge that Harry had to yell at Ron to thump her on the back. Which had hurt.

Not that it didn’t most probably save her life- it was just- ARGH. Again. For lack of a better phrase. He had annoyed her in such an indescribable way that she barely found the words to explain it in her own head. How dare he. How dare he act so blasé and needlessly outrageously pleasant. Hermione felt like her body had been incarcerated and hung upside down since it all began. She was so far off courtesies and the ability to shove it out of her head that it was driving her crazy. And she almost had, up until now, believed Draco had it even worse.

Up until the apparent “Malfoy’s back in town” performance yesterday morning. Draco had the Slytherin’s attention in the way he used to have their attention. Undivided. And it was something Hermione hadn’t seen in weeks. It confused her beyond any realms of confusion she was used to. Because yes, it had all troubled her greatly, Draco’s behaviour, but now it had undertaken such a deformed turnaround that she no longer had to try and fight small traces of sympathy. She was just angry, because what the hell was going on?

“I’m not planning anything,” shrugged Draco, “There’s no need to get those dirty little knickers of yours in a twist, Granger.”

“I’m not an idiot, Malfoy” she frowned.

“I would never suggest such a thing.”

“You can play the innocent with me, but we both know you’re far from it.”

“Unlike you, you mean?”

She wanted desperately to flash him a look as they neared the Gryffindor common room, but surmised that would probably slow her down, not to mention take away from the fact that really, she was supposed to be ignoring the skin off the boy as they spoke.

“What’s wrong, Granger?”

“What do you mean, what’s wrong?”

“You look like someone just sat on that bloody cat of yours.”

Which you happened to have done, many, many times, she thought to herself.

“What do you expect?” she asked, “You’re walking next to me.”

“Don’t pretend you haven’t missed me.”

“Shut up.”

“Suit yourself.”

Really. What the hell was he doing? It irked her beyond belief that she couldn’t work it out.

“Yes. It does suit me,” she replied. And then thought, why, since it sounded somewhat stupid when said out loud. “It suits me very much,” she added. Which did absolutely nothing to redeem the comment whatsoever.

She had the distinct feeling one of his eyebrows had raised, and she rolled her own eyes. At the situation. Because honestly, she had sincerely thought that there was nothing left that could surprise her. Ever again in her life. Not after everything that had happened between them.

But there she was. Struck dumb by his sudden change in attitude. She hated that there was something preventing her from being able to rule it off as a full recovery. Because he was still incredibly pale, paler than usual. He still looked like he hadn’t eaten in days. His eyes were still deadened and dull from all the staring.

But something was etched over all of it. Some strange sort of impenetrable veil of pretence. Or so she strongly believed it to be. Because it couldn’t be real, it couldn’t be honest and genuine and true. No one falls that deep and claws there way up again that quickly. They had yet to resolve anything. Not that she planned on doing so. Ever. She added. Since that was the reason for her ignoring him in the first place, was it not?

Yes. It was. The disregard was the resolution in itself. So stop caring about his bloody charades and get on with it. And thank Merlin that the Gryffindor common room is on the same floor as the Headmaster’s office.

Hermione stood outside the portrait.

Draco stood beside her.

“Er-” she frowned, “What are you doing?”

“What?” he looked at her blankly.

“Go away.”

“Why should I?”

Seriously. Hermione even started to wonder if this was quite possibly the most irritating she had ever found him in her entire life. Stupid, pathetic, petty irritation that seemed to temporarily curl itself around the deeper, blacker hatred and lust and broken thoughts.

She shook her head and sighed, mumbling the password to the lady in the portrait, who raised her eyebrow at Draco in a very disapproving manner.

“Watch it,” drawled Draco, looking up at her, “I’m the Head Boy, remember.”

Unfortunately. Hermione rolled her eyes. “Midday for the prefect meeting, Malfoy. I’ll see you then.”

He turned to her and nodded. “Yes you will.”

Who answers like that? He was an idiot. And she rolled her eyes one more time just to emphasis this point, as the portrait swung back behind her and he was finally gone from her sight.








*








“I’m fine about it, just in case you were wondering.”

“I know.”

“Well you didn’t even ask.”

“Sorry, I was going to.”

Harry stared at the dress robes laid out on his bed and sighed. He honestly was going to ask Ron if it was okay, but he just hadn’t got round to it yet.

“How did she ask you then?”

Harry shrugged. “I don’t know. We were just sitting in the common room together and she came out with it.”

Ron frowned. “I don’t like that. Ginny has always been too forward.”

“What?”

“You know. It should be the boys asking the girls to the Ball, shouldn’t it? Besides, it’s supposed to be up to you anyway, seeing as you’re the seventh year.”

“I think she just wanted to go. A couple of her friends got asked by some Ravenclaws.”

“No, I think she likes you, mate.”

He shrugged again. “Well at least I’m not dateless anymore.”

Ron must have been slightly tired of Harry’s shrugging recently, it was a popular occurrence that generally seemed to mark the beginning of him replying to a comment. It was just that, lately, Harry felt like he was permanently stuck with an air of futility swirling around his head. As if anything he said or did wouldn’t matter. Not to Hermione at least.

The feeling that he’d messed up so fantastically still hung over him like a looming sickness. Every time he spoke to her, every time he sat down next to her, it all seemed different. She seemed different. And he wasn’t sure why it was.

He had his ideas though, of course. Every single poisonous comment that had left Pansy’s mouth was still branded across his brain, vibrating against his ear drums. The only thing that stopped him from asking if she was okay, if it was Malfoy- which was the real question- was that maybe, this time, he might just push her that little bit too far. And then he would lose her trust completely.

It didn’t stop him from thinking about it though. And now, the day before the occasion when Head Boy and Head Girl where required to go together, it was playing on his mind more than usual.

“Do you think she’ll be alright?” he asked Ron, looking up from his robes.

“Who? Ginny?”

“No. Hermione.”

“What do you mean?”

“With Malfoy,” he said, looking back down to avoid any look Ron was planning on passing his way. Anything that would say, ‘now, Harry, don’t go and mess things up over Malfoy’. It annoyed him that Ron was acting so mature about it all. They both hated him, it was a shared loathing, and he often found it difficult to understand why Ron was overlooking it on so many occasions.

Ron had explained it was because of Hermione. Because the most they could do to support her was to stay out of Malfoy’s way. Harry wasn’t pleased with this either. Ron sounded more and more like a father everyday. And was that what it had come to? Was Harry acting so irrationally that his best mate felt the need to wise up and hand out the advice of a forty-year old?

“I don’t know, Harry,” replied Ron, “She’s been acting a little quiet these past few days. Maybe she’s nervous.”

“It must be hard for her,” mumbled Harry, “You know. So many of the girls are looking forward to this. Hermione should be one of them. Instead she’s dreading it, and all because of him.”

“I doubt he wants to go with her either.”

“You reckon?” he snarled, almost accidentally.

Ron looked away. “Well I don’t know. Either way, we’ll be there, won’t we? He can’t try anything. And he won’t try anything. Otherwise he would have already. Picked a time when she won’t be surrounded by her mates.”

“Maybe.”

“Seriously, Harry, don’t go-”

“Yes, alright, Ron. I’m not planning on doing anything.”

“Well I wouldn’t be completely crazy to think it.”

“Trust me, I don’t want to make things even harder for her.”

“That’s good.”

Harry began to fold up his dress robes. It made him slightly anxious that he was fully aware of the fact it would take a lot for him to stay completely calm tomorrow night. Seeing Malfoy that close to Hermione, seeing all those many, many things that had been scarring his head just materialise in front of him. And even if they didn’t, even if Harry didn’t notice those little nagging signs- which he was sure he would anyway- he’d sufficiently reached a state of paranoia that could fabricate them all for him. He almost wished she’d come dressed in an oversized sack. Or something similar to the curtain Ron had suggested a while back. At least then he’d feel slightly more comfortable knowing that Malfoy’s eyes wouldn’t be filled with dangerous wonderment all night.

“I wonder how she’ll look.”

“Eh?” Ron was busy trying to work out how he’d managed to button up his shirt wrong.

“In her dress.”

There was a silence in which Harry realised Ron was looking at him, a confused expression marking his face.

“D’you mean Hermione?” he frowned.

“Er-” murmured Harry, catching himself slightly, “No. I mean- no. I meant Ginny.”

Ron kept the dubious look. “Right,” he said. “I don’t know. I haven’t seen it yet.” He looked back down at his shirt and resumed the working of buttons. “Whilst on the subject, I should probably do that whole brother thing, shouldn’t I?”

“What brother thing?”

“You know. Don’t mess my sister around, treat her well and so on.”

“Ron we aren’t going out.”

“Even so. She’s your date.”

“Well. Go on then.”

“What?”

“Do that thing.”

“Oh right. Yeah. Don’t mess her about mate, or you’ll have me to deal with.”

“I won’t.”

“Good.”

“We done?”

“Yeah.”

Perhaps Harry would be able to give Hermione a once over before she went. Add a few extra pieces of material in places were it seemed most necessary. He almost laughed at himself. He’d probably leave the room without any balls if he tried to undermine her like that.

Besides, maybe he was overreacting? Maybe tomorrow night would be fine- smooth-sailing, easygoing kind of fine. Yes, Hermione could take care of herself.

Hermione could take care of herself.

Harry would never understand why that sentence never quite stuck. But, excluding Dumbledore, the person he trusted more than anyone else in the world was himself. And so naturally he felt that she was safer in his hands than her own. It wasn’t fair, and Harry knew that. He wasn’t completely irrational. He understood that her independence was important.

But Harry knew that Malfoy was dangerous in a way he believed no one else did. And so no, he wasn’t happy about her around him. And no, he didn’t believe she could take care of herself.

All the same, he knew there was nothing he could do about it. Not tomorrow night, at least. Not without a he’s-pinning-her-to-the-ground good enough reason to do anything. And even Malfoy was more subtle than that.

He just hoped more than anything that what he was afraid of happening, hadn’t happened already.





*





Draco watched Hermione disappear upstairs to her bedroom, growling as she slammed the door shut. She never was quite pleased with him after a prefect meeting.

He sat down by the fire and stared into it, considering what exactly it was he hoped to achieve by acting in a way that made her want to strangle him. Maybe it was the very thought that, yes, she would actually strangle him. Leave him for dead. That would certainly solve a lot of his problems.

In all truth, Draco barely understood what he was doing himself. He had simply woken up the other morning feeling so incredibly numb that he may as well have been missing some limbs. It was as if his body had reached the edge. Reached that delightfully high edge of feeling where there was nothing he could see anymore but darkness, and one small bottle of poison by his feet that came without instructions.

Just drink it, and fall. How wonderful that would be. Leave your father, leave her, leave her blood, leave this fucked up excuse for an existence.

He was in a strange sort of overdrive. It was almost like- if his body had gone on any longer pining for her, aching for her, self-inflicting pain with every rush of blood through his heart, then he well and truly would have dissolved. Right there and then, lying in his bed. Dissolved into nothing. So he just dived into something- anything else. Dived into some warped sort of normality, a shiny gloss coating, as if any of it could save him from the end. And the way he was acting around Granger. He liked to see her bones grinding together with annoyance, liked to see her eyes flicker red with heated exasperation. Liked that she seemed almost as bewildered as he was about it all. But at the same time, he wanted to throw it up all over her, wanted her to never forget what he had said to her over the past few weeks, and wanted her to know that he still meant every word of it.

What I’m doing now, Granger, it’s just- something. Something to stop me from going completely insane every time you turn your back and look away and mutter your fuck offs and get losts. And I’m not going to apologise for it, since you’re the bitch that did this to me in the first place. I know it’s getting to you in a way you can’t exactly decipher in that obscenely attractive head of yours, and I’m glad. Perhaps now you’ll understand that lost feeling of helplessness a little better.

Draco didn’t know how long it would be until his terrific mirage of pretence snapped. It wasn’t as if he didn’t feel a small trace of appreciation for the sudden- albeit very temporary- return of his Malfoy senses. His friends, that he had no longer cared about for so very long now, were looking at him again in that familiarly admirable way that used to comfortably inflate his ego. Now it was just a small something that pulled him through to the next hour without her skin on his.

What Draco didn’t understand, was that his father had often told him about girls. Told him about lust and love and all the passion involved. And it was never like this. He never told him that it could mean as much as this- do these things, be so horrifically wrong and distorted and almost evil. Lucius had adopted the whole sex as a sport attitude to women, something in which he’d clearly and- what Draco had initially thought- irrevocably passed onto his son. Or so he told him, at least. He never spoke of love as if it were anything more than a way to pass the time.

And Draco had believed him, for many, many years. Many years until one night, as he hid behind the stairs and watched his father crumble in his mother’s arms. Crying. Sobbing that he loved her, that he was sorry. That he loved her.

Draco never did find out why. What had just happened. That was the night things began to get worse for Lucius. The night that marked the end. But seeing his father so incomplete and broken had been a good enough reason never to think of it again. Since it shook the foundations of his whole belief system.

But now, he found himself thinking of it a lot. Thinking of his father’s words, of how not all that he’d been told was based on the truths that Lucius had held. But it didn’t change anything. Nothing whatsoever about Granger. Because so what if his father and mother had loved each other?

They were both pureblood. It was okay.

Draco caught himself suddenly. Love. He hadn’t even shagged the mudblood. He didn’t even like her. He still wanted to tear out all that wild hair of hers and gauge out those beautiful eyes. None of it was love. It was just necessity.

Remember?

She was a mudblood, and it threw Draco for a second to realise that he was thinking of that less and less.

Never forget it, he told himself. Above everything, never forget that she’s lower than everyone in this school. Tainted and touched by the blood that rushes underneath that pale, sickly silken skin. Rushes through and behind those eyes, behind that cotton, up and down those legs that he never could understand. To be so delicious. Pumping around and inside those moistened lips, in that tongue that sweeps across them, right to the back of her engulfing throat. The blood that seeps from her skin, runs down between her breasts, drips out between her legs.

Draco was growing hard. And his teeth clenched as he shifted his position.

No. That blood is dirty. That body is marked. And all of those thoughts, just- hideously wrong.

None of this could last, simply because if it went on and on, his life would unmistakably end.

If she didn’t kill him, then Potter most probably would. And if Potter didn’t manage it, then Draco would have to hand him back his wand and instruct him to try again.



*




That night, Hermione dreamt of that memory of her, Harry and Ron. It was a short interlude amidst the dreams of truth and hurt and confession. Dreams of Harry’s face cracking as he found out. His anger. Of Ron’s head in his hands. Disappointment and shame.

Dreams of what it would do to the three of them, if they ever found out.


“Promise me?”

“Yes.”

“You too, Ron.”

“I promise, alright?”

“Good.”

Yes. And please. Please. To whoever is up there. Just the three of them.

Don’t ever let that change.


When Hermione woke up, she was crying.



*



The buzz over breakfast was unimaginably loud. The seventh year tables had been swept across and drenched by a vicious infection of excitement that was clinging to every tiny vibration of air.

Hermione had a splitting headache.

“Cheer up, love,” grinned Seamus, shovelling sausages into his mouth.

She smiled faintly back. “I’m fine,” she replied, looking down at her plate with an overwhelming need to throw it on the floor and run away.

She looked across at the Slytherin table. Draco looked less energetic than he had done the past couple of days. His skin was almost paler than usual. Goyle was thumping him hard on the back about something or other, and she almost caught his face wince at the gesture. When he looked up, their eyes met briefly and her heart scolded her against the side of her ribcage. She snapped her stare away and back down to her plate.

He had seemed somewhat surprised that she was looking. Which annoyed her.

Usually, Hermione positioned herself with her back to Draco. Some days, however, this wasn’t possible. Like the past few days when she had been late down and couldn’t choose her seat. And like today. When all the seats had already been taken by eager seventh-years waking up early for the ‘big day’. And she hated it when she had to face him, because she couldn’t stop looking up, and that really made her want to fork out her eyes and shove them in her pocket.

“Are you eating that?” asked Ron, already sticking a fork into her piece bacon and lifting it off the plate.

She slapped his hand. “I am now!” she exclaimed.

“I was only asking!”

She rolled her eyes. “Fine, take it.”

“No it’s alright-”

“Just take it, Ron.”

He shrugged and stabbed at it again. It didn’t even land on his plate, just went straight into his mouth. Hermione made a sound of revulsion.

“What?” he mumbled, mouth full.

She shook her head. If she were to leave the breakfast table now, head straight to the library to study, maybe time would speed up a little and tonight would be over and done with before she knew it.

Or perhaps, she wanted time to last as long as possible so that she would have more time to prepare herself. For whatever it was that she needed to be prepared for.

Hermione thought about it. What exactly was it she was so frightened of? There was nothing Draco could do whilst Harry and Ron where around. And she would leave before he did so that she could reach and lock her bedroom door before he even so much as whispered a devastating interruption.

“Does the dress look nice on, Hermione?”

Hermione raised her head and looked around. Ginny was talking across Harry.

“Er-” She hasn’t tried it on. It didn’t even cross her mind. “Yes. It’s lovely. Thank you so much.”

“I thought it would be a nice colour for you.”

Hermione smiled, “Yes. It’s really beautiful.”

Ginny smiled back, proudly. And then she turned towards Harry and nudged him for stealing a sip of orange juice from her glass. He nudged her back in return.

Hermione raised an eyebrow. Were they flirting?

“Harry’s taking Ginny to the Ball,” mumbled Ron, “She asked him.”

Hermione stole away her glance and looked at Ron. “Really?” she asked, sounding more surprised than was intended. She had forgotten that Harry had remained dateless for the past few weeks, turning down a total of four girls in the process. Hermione looked back towards Harry and Ginny. Ginny was grinning at him.

Well. It was most probably that final smile that spat the alarming happiness drumming all around right into her face. This Saturday morning, Hermione would only be spending a short seven minutes at the breakfast table, as she rose from her half empty plate, and grabbed ‘The Daily Prophet’ beside it.

“Where are you going?” asked Harry, turning towards her.

“To the library,” she answered.

“The library?” said Ginny, “Come on, Hermione. At least meet us all in the Gryffindor common room for a bit of company. Today is supposed to be a big day!”

A big day.

Great.

“Maybe,” she said, as kindly as possible, “It depends on how much I get done. I’ll see you later, okay?”

“Okay.” Harry looked less than pleased, which wasn’t too surprising seeing as she’d barely spent a full five minutes talking to him over the past week.

As Hermione turned out of the large doors of the Great Hall and into the empty corridors outside it, something grabbed her arm and pulled her around.

“Malfoy!” she exclaimed, tugging her arm out of his hand, “What are you doing?” She hadn’t seen him leave. She hadn’t dared look again after their eyes had met. His face looked even whiter up close, and she wondered whether he’d managed to eat anything at breakfast either.

“Just before you disappear for the day, Granger,” he replied, “Don’t you think there are a few things we need to discuss?”

“Like what exactly?”

“Like if you’re going to bother turning up to meet me in our common room before the Ball.”

“Well I’ll have to, won’t I?”

“Yes, you will. And I was just checking that you knew that.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Don’t worry, I’m dreading it already.”

“What are you wearing?”

Hermione jerked her head back a little in surprise. “Why does it matter?” she frowned.

“I was just wondering.”

“A dress, Malfoy.”

“Yes, I know that, you idiot. What does it look like?”

She shook her head. “Shut up,” she replied, “Don’t try and make sarcastically charming small talk with me. I’m not in the mood for your games, Malfoy.”

“Charming?”

“What?”

“Look Granger, I’m dreading this too, you know. Think what it’s going to do to my reputation when I enter the Ball looking all handsome as I do, and then suddenly everyone notices a mudblood holding my arm.”

“Excuse me?”

“Oh come on. Surely you’re used to it by now.”

“I met the arm part. Because I won’t be holding anything tonight.”

Draco smirked a little. “Whatever you say.”

“Besides, everyone already knows. They aren’t stupid. It’s tradition, remember?”

“Well we didn’t know, did we?”

Hermione rolled her eyes at what was appearing to be a wholly irrelevant conversation. “So is there anything else, or may I leave?”

“I would say there is a lot else, Granger,” he snarled, “But I doubt that’ll stop you from turning your back on me.”

They stared at each other for a small moment. One of those moments. Short, harsh, cruel. Full of so many unspoken words, the air was almost visibly thick with them. Dripping.

Then Draco laughed.

Hermione frowned. “And what’s so funny?” she scowled.

“We are, Granger.”

She didn’t answer. Just clutched the newspaper that much tighter and flashed him her perfected look of anger, spinning on her heel and walking briskly away from him in the direction of the library.

“I’ll see you tonight,” he called after her, a clear element of humour oozing from his words.

She well and truly would be doing everything in her power to make their interaction short, silent, and, most importantly, with the least feeling of his skin on hers as possible.






*






It got dark so quickly Hermione barely saw the daylight fade. And now it wasn’t long. It wasn’t long at all.

Hermione stood in front of her bed, dress laid out before her like a death wish. She reached her hand down and ran it along the fabric, beautifully smooth, silken, saturated with please don’t make me wear this please don’t make me go.

She couldn’t hear Draco through the walls of the bathroom, but she knew he was in his bedroom. The door had opened and slammed shut about half an hour ago.

Hermione begged the night to evaporate, taking him with it.

She stood there in her underwear, staring down blankly at the dress lying on the bed. She would have to put it on, at some point, and it was almost bordering on pathetic at how difficult she was finding this to accept. What was it? Cursed?

Hermione shook her head at her anxieties and lifted the garment a little too roughly off the bed, holding it straight out in front of her and shaking it to straighten the silk.

Long creamy-white, thin straps, low neck-line, in at the waist. Those were the basics. She noted them each as if it were some sort of odd Herbology project. In that, secretly, she hated it all.

Merlin. Just get on with it, Hermione. It will be over before you know it.




*




Draco glanced at the spectacularly old clock above the fireplace. His fingers twitched.

Five more minutes and he would go downstairs.

This was supposed to be the night that he would make her listen. Make her listen to every single thing that he had to say, remember? How in Merlin’s name he was supposed to force the stupid bitch to stay still long enough was beyond him. But there was just a little something halting the belief that the entire evening was a useless waste of social detriment and longingly evil looks from Potter.

Because yes. And whilst on the subject. Tonight, she was his, Potter.

Draco shivered.

He assured himself that, somewhere, deep down inside and for-the-moment-hidden, a part of him would rather attend the Ball with a house elf than a mudblood. It was so beyond wrong that he wanted her with him. Beyond wrong and so he needed a better word. Immoral. Or something like it. It was immoral that he needed that tainted blood rushing so near to him.

He hadn’t really understood, earlier, when he’d grabbed her arm after she’d left at breakfast. He hadn’t understood about the sarcastic charm. He wasn’t being sarcastic. He just wanted to know. And what did that leave? He didn’t even know why he asked the question about her dress in the first place. It was beside the point, whatever point that had been.

Draco told himself that this thought in itself was irrelevant, but he knew it was just a way to pass the time without thinking too heavily about skin and lips and lips on skin.

But it didn’t matter. Because he was sure that tonight would be over too quickly. Where every moment she ignored him would last an eternity.




*




Hermione stared at herself in the mirror.

Just stared.

The dress was beautiful, like she had lied about before. It felt like everything she was supposed to be and wasn’t. A true mirage over her skin. It meant so much to her and yet nothing at the same time. If only. If only there weren’t so much dampened corruption underneath it all. She didn’t deserve any of it. She didn’t deserve to feel the way it made her feel.

She didn’t deserve that little girl excitement that bubbles up underneath this reflection. And so she would swallow it all down and remember that tonight was far from exhilarating. It was him. And he was capable of a lot. Too much, in fact, since he needed and hated and hurt her all over.

Hermione shook herself. It was one night, and she was Head Girl. It may have been the tenth time she had told herself, but it was important that she didn’t view tonight as inevitable pending doom, and instead raised her chin obstinately and got on with it all. It was just a duty. That was all it was.

One last glance in the mirror was the final verification that yes, she was still here, and yes, this was still happening. She had heard his door shut a few minutes ago, and that could only mean he was standing, sitting, doing something downstairs and waiting.

Draco was waiting for her.

It sent such severe shivers down her spine her shoulders hunched up and her head shook. It didn’t make walking to the door any easier, not in the shoes she was wearing. Shoes that she already had. Shoes that, she reminded herself, she knew she couldn’t walk in, and so why was a question fluttering across her brain whenever she swayed a little too precariously after a step or two. Come on, Hermione, you’re supposed to find these things easier at this age, aren’t you?

In fact, delightfully if she were to notice, the shoes had most definitely distracted her from the sickly sensation in the bottom of her stomach as she left her bedroom. And she was shaking even without the bloody shoes, mouth dry, lips quivering in a ridiculously incessant fashion that made her wonder how stupid she must look. Just one big mess. Walking down the stairs with one hand pressing against the wall as if she were terrified of falling to her death. Which she was.

Hermione took a deep breath as she stepped out into the common room. What would be the best idea- out of many, many bad ones- would be to lay down the law, there and then. The rules and regulations for the night that entitled her to as little of Malfoy as possible. She knew that-

“-we have duties to uphold, and I respect this. I also understand all the unfortunate nonsense about the tradition and so on. But I won’t have you ruining things for Harry and Ron, Malfoy. And I don’t want you making this any harder than it already is for the both of us. We know this whole situation is highly regrettable, and it is not how I pictured spending my seventh-year Ball. But then again, so much of what I would have loved in being Head Girl has already been destroyed, so why not this as well? Just don’t make it worse, alright?”

Draco may have half-nodded, or something close. His expression extremely unreadable. But that wasn’t good enough for her. She just wanted this one, small agreement. Just let tonight float past as light as it possibly can.

“Malfoy?”

His eyes weren’t exactly on hers. They were elsewhere, beneath them. Down and up and up and down and fuck. The look made her want to step backwards to steady herself. Because whilst she would never whole-heartedly admit it to herself, her voice had cracked slightly at the sight of him. Brain slightly splintering with her eyes too wide.

But it didn’t mean anything, she told herself. Because he’s always been handsome. A Malfoy has always had that. The epitome of beauty lies within. It was something women fought over. And she wouldn’t be one of them.

“I mean it, Malfoy.”

He gradually returned his gaze back up to hers. “Right,” he replied, rasping slightly. And then he cleared his throat, shifted his position, and ran his fingers around the inside of his collar to loosen it a little.

“Did you listen to what I just said?”

“No.”

“Honestly Malfoy-”

“For fuck’s sake, Granger, shut up.”

“No I will not shut up! I want you to understand that tonight isn’t going to go your way, alright?”

“And what’s my way?”

“I don’t know. Humiliating, I presume.”

He shrugged his shoulders at her. Another most unsatisfactory reaction.

She frowned at him and shook her head. “So, are we going to keep this civil?”

He was not-paying-attention-staring again.

“Malfoy?”

“What, Granger?”

“Are you going to make the effort?”

“Are you going to make the effort?”

She growled. “Let’s just get this over with.”

“Good idea.”

Draco reached to open the door as she walked towards it.

“I swear if you open that door for me, Malfoy...”

“You swear what?”

“Excuse me?”

“At least finish the threat, Granger,” he said, opening it and standing there, waiting for her to walk through the doorway.

Hermione growled again, and tried desperately to walk through it as briskly and as angrily as her shoes would allow. Which they didn’t. So she half tottered along cautiously instead.

Draco raised an eyebrow. “You alright there?” he smirked.

“Shut up,” she spat, red splashing onto her cheeks.

The walk down the corridor was lasting much longer than she would have hoped for. What perhaps made it more devastating was that Malfoy hung back slightly so that she could keep up with him. Only he was missing the point completely. Because she wasn’t trying to keep up with the bastard. She just wanted to be left on her own behind. And he kept stealing sideways glances at her. Little ones, like in Dumbledore’s office. But something was slightly different about them all, his eyes a little darker, and more importantly- he looked away whenever their eyes met. Draco never looked away. He would hold the stare for as long as it would take to drive her crazy.

That threw her a little, made her heart beat just that fraction too hard. Made her head giddy. She realised that her breathing was hard and determined, thought that this was all a little ridiculous for one night with one boy where- if she concentrated hard enough- the chaos could be controlled to a minimum. Something small and manageable and for once leaving her eyes dry. That was all that she-

Hermione tripped, stumbled, and fell to the ground so fast she would have hit it tremendously hard were it not for Draco’s sudden arms engulfing her body.

She froze.

Her heart almost stopped.

Body pressed against Draco’s chest, hands gripping his arms tightly, nails almost digging in, hair unnaturally tousled and cheeks searing hot. He held her weight, suspended above the ground. And the shock of the fall was nothing compared to this.

A moment-

A single split second of proximity consuming her. Wildly. His arms twisted around her body, his fingers against silk against skin. And the feel of his heated muscles, hot rushing blood, and beating heart underneath his shirt, dangerously edging her towards delirium. She could hear his breathing. It was deep. And it was all far, far too much.

Hermione’s feet scraped at the floor beneath. He lifted her, and they found their place, shaking and burning on the ground. And then she tried to pull away, weakly.

It didn’t work.

But then the sudden feeling that she never wanted to leave his body hit her so hard in the ribs that she jerked away from him and almost fell backwards into the wall behind.

“Granger…are you…?”

His eyes were even darker.

They stared at each other for a brief moment.

Then Hermione straightened, frowned, and began smoothing down her dress.

“It’s-” she swallowed, “-just my shoes.” She brushed the curls out of her face. “Sorry,” she added, mumbling it under her breath.

Draco was staring at her. Just staring. It made her feel even more self-conscious. Because what the hell was he thinking? Planning? Just- that look with those eyes- and having been that close just seconds ago- it wasn’t going well. Not so far. So far the chaos beneath wasn’t controlled. It was running riot inside her veins.

Calm