Rough Hands

"Sometimes love isn't about how much someone suits you but how much your willing to change to suit them."

The floor was littered with opened books and the window was open, letting the balmy night air permeate through the room. It was completely silent aside from Hermione Granger’s light intakes of breath as she began to doze off, her face seemingly glued to a long roll of parchment. Her windswept hair had been unconsciously highlighted with ink and her robes were bestrewed upon the floor with a sort of elegant carelessness that only she seemed to possess. Normally, she would have been nestled in her grandiose mahogany bed whilst spells and homework assignments reverberated in her mind, lulling her to sleep. Hermione would have paid any extraordinary amount to go back to those less stressful days when an impending war didn’t plague her every thought, even while in repose.

“I’ll just close my eyes for a moment,” she said to no one in particular. Her final thought, well it was more of a prayer really, was a plea to any sort of deity for a peaceful sleep void of any nightmares and, as per usual, that Harry was still alive in the morning.

Down in the dungeons, the night held a very different meaning for Draco Malfoy. It either consisted of mentally summarizing everyone he desired killing in a gloriously bloody fashion or slightly nudging a sleeping witch out of his bed. Draco believed sleepovers were for little girls or nancies, and he was neither. He was currently reflecting upon the very pugnacious girl snoring loudly beside him. “Pugnacious…” he snickered, thinking of how appropriate the word was for the girl in question. Draco recalled, after attempting at the futile mission of cuddling with his person, how Pansy crinkled her pug-like nose in obvious irritation and settled for just sleeping in the self-proclaimed Slytherin Sex God’s bed. He would give her another ten minutes to slumber, out of courtesy. Draco could not blame these witches for falling into a comatose state post-coitus; he truly knew how to operate his ‘Sorcerer’s Stone.’

“Pansy,” Malfoy quickly whispered, clearly annoyed.

She awoke with a start and snorted in alarm. “What, have the Death Eaters entered the school already? Oh Merlin, they’ll think I’m a slag. I can’t have them see me this way!” she replied, in whining tones before hurriedly passing out again.

Draco tugged at her shoulder and sneered “Pansy, the Death Eaters will look merciful compared to what I will do to you, if you do not get your bloody carcass out of my bed!”

Finally, with a dignified ‘hmmph,’ Pansy rose off the bed and sauntered over to her disheveled clothing. She began shuffling through the small stack and to the annoyance of Draco, humming a jaunty little tune. It is just like that miserable twit to sing after being kicked out of man’s bed, he thought.

“You have three minutes to leave my sight before I start casting Unforgivables,” Malfoy stated smoothly.

Pansy’s oddly slanted eyes widened in shock, making her resemble a Nogtail being violated. “You might not want to admit it to yourself, Draco Malfoy, but you are deeply in love with me,” she retorted confidently. Without waiting to hear a reply, she promptly ran out of the room with nothing but her robe on.

Draco watched the door slam with utter disgust and vowed to himself that it was the last time he ever gave Pansy the privilege of touching him, not that the loss of one witch would be at all detrimental to his shagging quota. He had a line-up of all too eager wenches at his beck and call. Smirking, Draco cocooned himself in Egyptian cotton sheets and visualized an orgy with him as the ring-leader. There would be curvy blondes and classically beautiful brunettes all catering to his every whim, as Harry Potter and the rest of the Golden Trifecta watched in awe.