Water

Title: Water
Chapter Ten
Characters: Draco Malfoy, Hermione Granger, Pansy Parkinson
Genres: Angst
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Sexual References, Annnngst!
Feedback: Please. I’m hungry for it!
Summary: "...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.


Author's note: Please read…I just feel a hell of a lot better knowing you’re reading this chapter having heard all my stupid little excuses and complaints!!!

http://www.livejournal.com/users/kissherdraco/


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.



*