Water

Title: Water
Chapter Eleven
Characters: Draco Malfoy, Hermione Granger
Genres: Angst
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Sexual References, Angst
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…!!

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 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 down. Please, Hermione, just calm down.


*


Standing up on the stage in front of the students, Draco replayed the feel of Granger’s skin against his fingers in his head.

It wasn’t as if he had never touched her before. It wasn’t as if all the times he’d pushed her up against walls, down onto desks, into his arms, he hadn’t tasted the feel through his skin. Because he had, and it had burned. But touching her, feeling her collapse onto him like that, being there to stop her from falling. The pointed twist of guilt, revulsion and lust was almost too much for him to breathe.

And all whilst she was looking like that. Draco told himself. It was beauty. Loud and bright and unavoidably staring him straight in the face. And Merlin, no. Remember? It was the beauty of a mudblood whore. It was a mistake. That his tongue darted out involuntarily so often when he glanced her way. That she looked so untouchable and pure and wrong that he had almost choked on the air when he’d seen her. Breath caught so tight and taut inside his lungs he had to struggle to push it out. Just. So disturbingly beautiful underneath his eyes. Sumptuous. If only his lips could reach hers.

Draco realised that what he was feeling couldn’t be justified. Not by pretty and beauty and beautiful. She had done something to him. And, of course, he already knew that. She had dissected the very parts of his brain that he never wanted her to touch, rubbed that body of hers all inside and over and over.

Draco was almost scaring himself. Because he had never needed Hermione more than he needed her now.

He cleared his throat again. It was all he had been doing for the past five minutes, as if it could redeem him from whatever horrific state he was sinking into. He looked out and across at the students. Bright colours, black and whites, wishing his eyes would focus. He no doubt caught the looks of distaste fired his way from the Gryffindor boys, and one other sharp look of despair dribbling from Pansy’s eyes.

Then he looked back at Hermione again, because it had surely been longer than five seconds since his last glance in her direction. She was speaking to them, saying things. Talking about anticipations and celebrations and long years at Hogwarts.

He watched her lips move. Licked his own.

“-collect your wands tomorrow morning,” she smiled, “And a final thank you to those who have helped organise the event. I hope everyone has a wonderful time.”

Wonderful. Her lips were wet and sliding across one another. They were hot, heated. Red.

Suddenly she was staring at him, her eyes wild.

“Move, alright?” she whispered, “We’re done.”

Draco looked out towards the crowd. People were moving, laughing, music was playing and his head was buzzing. He looked back at Hermione.

“What is wrong with you?” she asked, frustrated.

He wet his own lips, and saw her eyes glance down towards them. Flushed. She was breathing heavily with irritation, anxiety, unease. Her chest was rising inside the dress. Her breasts swelling with each breath. Draco’s mind was clouding dangerously fast. And she was looking at him, a startled expression on her face.

“Get down, alright?” she mumbled. And fuck.

Her hand pushed lightly against his arm to move him. Draco’s eyes shot to hers, and she stole away her touch so quickly the air barely had time to refill the space between them.

Whatever had been, whatever it was between them both, tonight the distance was almost unbearable.

“You can relax now!”

Urgh, Draco hated that voice. He watched as Hermione smiled slightly at Ron in return and shrugged. And then walked away with the crowd of Gryffindors. How can she do that? How can she walk away so often without that feeling of terrifying passion rushing into her head? Because that’s what he felt. Always.

He ignored the persistent sound of Blaise calling him over, and followed after Hermione.

“Granger.”

She muttered something about just one minute to Ginny, who turned and flashed Draco a look with seething eyes. The Weasley girl had something about her, that was for sure. That smouldering look was pretty. He watched them all walk off.

Hermione was looking at Draco expectantly.

He stared back at her.

“Well?” she asked.

“Is that it then?” he replied.

How unimaginably pathetic did that just sound. He had no idea what he was doing. Didn’t understand. Was just doing anything. Fuck. Get him out of here. The music, the laughter, the noise was too loud. They could barely hear each other.

“Is what it?” she frowned.

“Come outside, a second,” he said.

She shook her head. “What do you want, Malfoy?” in a voice raised above it all.

“Just to talk to you.” As always, I just want anything I can get. Merlin. I hope this kills me soon.

“About what?”

“Can we just get out of here a second?” he growled, impatiently.

She rolled her eyes in a frustrated manner, balled her fists slightly. Turn and started in the direction of the door. Her eventual compliance startled him so much that he didn’t immediately follow. He just watched as she half-gracefully stormed out of the hall, before moving his own feet to catch up.

Suddenly, Ron stepped in front of him.

“Get out of my way, Weasley,” spat Draco, eyes slicing through him.

“What are you doing, Malfoy?” he growled in response, “Just leave her alone.”

“We’re just talking.”

“I doubt that.”

“Move.”

“If you ruin this for her,” breathed Ron, “I swear, Malfoy, you’ll pay.”

“Is that right?”

“Yes.”

Draco nodded sarcastically. “Tell me. Are you trying to come off as threatening, Weasel? Because I can assure you it’s a look you should have abandoned trying to conquer a long time ago.”

“Just don’t do anything, Malfoy.”

“It’s a bit late for that.” I already have.

“What?”

“Just step aside, you idiot.”

“If you’ve hurt her-”

“Now would be a good time to punch in that ridiculous face of yours, Weasley. But unfortunately, I have an image to uphold. I’m not going to do anything to your preciously foul princess, alright? Just get on with your night and get over it.”

“I’ll found out, Malfoy. If you’ve done anything. I’ll find out eventually. And rather you than me when Harry hears about it.”

“There’s nothing to hear about.”

“Then I guess you have nothing to worry about, right?”

Ron looked back at him for a final few seconds. There was so much Draco could say. So many words he could throw out there that could destroy so much. Crack that strong mask to pieces. Ron stepped away from him, and Draco headed towards the door.

When he walked out, his ears were ringing with the noise. And it was much quieter in this empty corridor. It was only the beginning of the evening, no one was out here crying about boys yet, rubbing their sore ankles, sitting exhausted on the stairs.

Hermione was biting her lip. It looked…

But then she saw him and stopped. Turned to him. “What is this about?”

Draco couldn’t help but think about the fact that she had come out here for him. If she sincerely hadn’t wanted to, then there was nothing that forced her to do so.

“I just- there’s just something I want to say to you.”

There’s what?

“Okay then.” Her fingers were tapping against her hip. She looked annoyed, flustered. She looked drenched in addiction. “Yes?”

“You look…” beautiful. Fucking knife-deep in the heart gut-wrenching beautiful “…nice. Tonight.”

Her tapping stopped. Her posture seemed frozen for a moment. And then she let out a small laugh.

“What are you-” She shook her head. “I mean, what is this, Malfoy?”

I have no idea. You did it to me, so you come up with the answers.

And then, before he could stop himself, he lunged forward. Grabbed her wrist and pulled her towards his lips, crashing against them and sliding his tongue into her mouth with the same desperate need he had felt crawl and cut against his skin. Soft, wet, blood-filled lips parting momentarily for him. And his hand against her cheek, drawing her closer as he thoughts burst through his teeth and ravished her mouth. Tongue pressing into hers, fighting against it.

She whimpered and shoved an elbow against his chest, pushing him away.

Draco stepped back, head down, looking up at her and breathing hard.

“What the hell are you doing?” she whispered, anger, that calorific trepidation flashing into her eyes as she put one hand against the wall to steady herself.

“I don’t know,” he replied, voice low as he moved forward to kiss her again.

“Don’t,” she said, taking a step back, frown deep, “If this is what you’ve been planning to do then-”

“Planning? Shut up about stupid plans, Granger. I don’t have any fucking plans, alright?”

“Then what in Merlin’s name are you doing?” she growled, “With Harry and Ron right around the corner? With the whole bloody school and-”

“You look beautiful.”

Hermione’s mouth closed. She stared at him with wide eyes.

Yes. His mouth had said it. It was nothing to do with his head.

“I don’t…” she breathed, shaking her head, blinking, “I don’t understand what you’re trying to do.”

“I’m not trying to do anything.”

“Then why?”

“Because.” I’m insane.

“We should go back in, Malfoy-”

He growled loudly. “Why?” he asked, “Why should we go back in, Granger? Why do you keep turning your back on me every chance you get?”

“Look, don’t do this tonight.”

“If not tonight, then when?”

“Just don’t do this at all.”

“Exactly!” Draco took a deep breath, attempted to steady his trembling body. “If we don’t talk about this now then we never will.”

“That’s hardly true now, is it? You always seem to find a way to make me listen, Malfoy.”

“Only you don’t, do you? You never listen to me. It’s practically impossible for you.”

“Excuse me?”

“You’re too thick to understand,” breathed Draco.

“Either that or you’re too mad for me to make sense of!”

“Only because of what you’ve done to me!”

“Me?!” she exclaimed, voice lost in the noise from inside the hall. Hermione shook her head. “Stop looking for people to blame, Malfoy.”

“You think you aren’t to blame?”

“What- just- what are you talking about?”

“You know what I’m talking about.”

“No- I really don’t,” she insisted, “And that’s the problem. You can’t put it into words. You won’t let yourself. You’ll probably be sick if you do. Because I’m the filthy mudblood bitch who hangs around with Potter and Weasley and-”

“Always has to be right?” he interrupted, “Always has to do things her own way as if no one else’s would ever come close to being as good? Because you know everything, right Granger? You have all the answers?”

“No. Not to us. I don’t have any answers.”

“Then what makes you think I do?”

“I never asked.”

“Yes you did. You ask all the time.”

“I’m trying to avoid the both of us, Malfoy,” she frowned, “Or had it escaped your notice? Seemed to me like you’ve been coping fine these past few days. Back with your friends, back with the old Slytherin crowd again.”

“Does that annoy you?”

“Don’t be stupid,” she scowled.

“But it does. I can see that it does. Doesn’t that tell you anything? You’re just as fucked as I am, Granger. Stop trying to bloody fight it all the time. You can’t win every battle. You can’t be saved from everything. Life isn’t always like-”

“You are the very last person I’ll be taking life lectures from, Malfoy! I can assure you.”

“And why is that?”

“Because you’re twisted! Absolutely fucking mental! Your father brought you up that way and now you’ve carried it on without him! Everything you’ve learnt about life is wrong, sordid, manipulated into something wicked and evil and impure. You don’t understand human emotion, Malfoy. There’s nothing you could possibly know about me!”

Human emotion. No. Perhaps not. It’s a disgusting stench of life that over-complicates everything. He doesn’t understand it. But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t feel it.

“You’re wrong, Granger.”

“No. I’m not.”

“I know how you feel about me.”

“Don’t! Don’t say that as if it means something,” she replied, voice strained. She looked over his shoulder again, as she had been doing for the entire time. Waiting, just waiting for someone to walk out and save her. Interrupt it all. Stop him from being able to say anymore. But no one had come.

“I’m not saying I like it,” he answered, “I’m not saying it makes me feel good. I don’t even care if you never admit it to me. But I’m telling you that I know. And that’s why I’m here, that’s why I’m still doing this. I’m offering us a way out.”

“How?” she asked, “What is this ‘way out’ you keep talking about? What are these solutions that you’re searching for? I don’t get it, Malfoy. I don’t get how you see this all in your head. It’s a mess, and you can’t untangle it. You just have to leave it. Sweep it aside. We both know that out of all the choices we have, that one makes the most sense.”

“Out of all the choices? What choices?”

Hermione sighed. “I’m going back into the hall, alright?” She moved to walk past him.

Draco stepped in front of her. “Stop trying to run away, Granger.”

“Stop trying to stop me, Malfoy.”

He shook his head. “Then tell me,” he answered, “Tell me I’m wrong. That deep down inside you don’t want any of this.”

“Deep down inside? Deep down inside I’m still sane. I’m sure of it. Deep down inside I’m still trying to crawl my way out and get everything back to normal. So no. Deep down, I don’t want any of this, Malfoy. As far as I’m concerned, this is just a temporary disease scratching at my surface.”

“Your blood is the disease, Granger,” he snarled, “You’re just kidding yourself if you think it’s anything else.”

“No. You’re the only sickness inside of me,” she hissed, “I can assure you.”

“So I am inside of you, then?”

“What? No. Look- I’m going inside, alright?”

“You’re lying.”

“I’m not lying!”

Draco grabbed her arm.

“Get off me!” she yelped, twisting against his grip.

Draco needed to prove to her that she was wrong. Needed just a few seconds to show her that all the words spilling out, all those words that strung him up and left him there despairing on his own, were lies.

Never say never when you know, somewhere inside, that you might.

He pulled her roughly around the corner, ignoring her curses, protests, threats. Watched her stumble slightly with his force, and released her up against the wall, body pressed against hers and hands moving down to pin her wrists.

“Let me- go!” she struggled. But he leant into her harder, pressed his face into the curve of her neck and breathed in her skin, deeply.

“How about now?” he whispered, shaking slightly with her protest, “The both of us. Like this. How does it feel?”

“Malfoy!”

“Stop fighting it,” breathed Draco, darting out his tongue against her racing pulse, licking a long line of hatred and fury and wanton desire across her skin. “Just give up, Granger…”

A small, almost inaudible moan escaped her lips, and the corners of his mouth turned up slightly, as his tongue travelled further, up to her jaw line, along to the corner of her mouth. Soaking.

“Just stop…” whispered Hermione, eyes shut tightly, “Please, Malfoy.”

“You don’t want that,” he answered, sucking in her top lip, lingering his tongue against it’s surface. They were trembling. Her whole body was shaking. Fear. Need. Something or both. He couldn’t quite tell.

One of his hands left her wrist, moved to her thigh. Slid silken fabric slightly up her leg, gliding up her skin, back down again and up. Draco spared a split second moment amidst the closing insanity of his mind, and cursed her beautiful dress for being too beautifully long, too desperately impossible to reach her underneath without falling to his knees.

Draco fell to his knees.

“Malfoy…no…” She pushed against his shoulders.

“I need this,” he rasped, hand down at her ankle, moving up underneath the dress and bringing it higher, high enough to expose the bottom milk purity of her thigh, sullied polluted blood raging beneath. He wanted to sink his teeth into it. As he had wanted to. So many times. He pressed his mouth to it, breathing severely erratic and heavy. Just held it there.

There. Kneeling on the ground, face against skin. Hermione struggling to control her breathing above him. She tugged down on her dress. Too weakly, he thought, grip rigid and firm as his tongue circled towards the inside of her bare leg and pushed the dress up higher.

“No…please…” Constant begging above him. But he was close enough now. So close that he could smell her waiting, wet, as she always was. He knew. She must always be, around him, because he tasted the arousal in the air like wind. And he had grown so hard, any slight movement of fabric against his cock was devastating.

It must have been his second hand. Reaching underneath the silk and pushing aside her damp knickers so that he could taste the air just that little bit stronger. Brush his tongue up just that little bit higher. Taste her. There and dripping. Right around the corner from her two beloved best friends. But Hermione pushed against him harder, her hands free, her protests louder once again and her knees almost buckling slightly.

One hard shove and Draco fell back, attempted to return but her dress had fallen back down and she was out from against the wall. Standing three or four steps away. Breathing so delightfully hard he almost wanted to lick the insides of her throat.

Her skin was flushed. Eyes angry and confused and despairing. She looked down at the hardened bulge through his trousers as he rose to his feet. Darted back up to his face again, and her mouth opened.

“I won’t…” But her breathing was too uncontrollable. She had to swallow, straighten her posture. “I won’t let you do this again.”

You always say that, Granger, but you’re just like me. You don’t have a choice.

“Maybe you don’t mean to do this,” she continued, something close to tears, “Maybe you’re telling the truth and you don’t mean to humiliate me. But you are. You are anyway, Malfoy. You’re playing with me, just messing me up and I won’t let you-”

No. “No, Granger. I’m not playing with you.” I wish I could but I don’t think I’ll ever be able to again.

“You’re making this so much harder,” she breathed, voice incredibly depleted, “Can’t you see that?”

“Making what harder?” he murmured, “Forgetting?”

She nodded.

“But I can’t forget.” And Draco’s voice sounded so small, so needing and begging and hurt. So heart out of his mouth and spat onto the floor desperate for her to understand.

Hermione’s eyes were wide. She shook her head. Her voice fell to a whisper. “Then you have to pretend.”

Pretend. Lie. Just carry on lying. Lie until your blood swells with it and starts to come out your pale and pretending eyes? That can’t be what she truly wants. That can’t be her only answer. Draco’s mouth parted to protest. To take another wild stab at pinning down her mind and tearing it open to the reality. The sick, delirious, twisted reality. But suddenly Hermione’s eyes had shot past him, wide, anxious and guilt-ridden.

“Harry!” she exclaimed in greeting, shooting Draco a warning glance and smoothing down her dress.

Snapped. The heat dissolved, just like that.

“What’s going on?” asked Harry.

Draco didn’t turn around.

“Hermione?” he asked again, “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine, Harry,” she insisted, looking briefly once again at Draco’s pale face, and stealing her chance to walk past him and towards her best friend. “We were just finishing.”

“Finishing what?” He could hear the suspicion grinding in Harry’s voice.

“Talking,” muttered Hermione.

Draco turned around to face them. Harry was staring him straight in the face.

“Yes, Potter?” he snarled, contemptuous loathing seeping through his words.

“Let’s go, Harry,” she murmured to him, tugging on his arm to leave. Draco’s eyes shot towards the touch. He hated it. Wanted to kick him to the ground for turning up in that typically spectacular Potter way. Saving the day. Leaving with the girl.

Harry nodded, still staring at Draco, and let Hermione turn him around slowly to walk off.

“I suppose we’ll finish this later then?” asked Draco, calling after her sarcastically. Desperate.

She turned back to flash him another look, before disappearing behind the same corner he’d dragged her around mere minutes before.

I should probably take that as a no. But I’ll take it as a yes, all the same.


*



Hermione stared back at her reflection.

She’d only managed to last another hour after returning to the Ball. She had to get the hell out of there again. Complained about a headache to Ron. Said she would be back soon, and that she was only going to the girls’ bathroom for a few minutes or so.

She chose the bathroom a couple of floors up. Avoided as many people as she could. And it was a good idea, because it was empty here. And she could well and truly let her eyes water without worrying about what others would think. She could absolutely let the feel on Draco’s wet tongue against the inside of her thigh make her tremble. Ferociously. Lifting a hand to her chest to feel the coarse brutality of her heart beating wildly underneath.

Draco had followed her and Harry back inside a few minutes later. Headed straight for the table of Slytherins on the right, and nodded towards Crabbe and Goyle who had, Hermione later noticed, smuggled in a tiny bottle of Firewhiskey underneath their dress robes. Draco’s presence was the only thing preventing her from marching over and demanding they hand it over. That and the sheer thick cloud of psychosis in her head that allowed few distractions from the boiling of her insides. She caught his eye maybe twice, three times. And it was almost enough to collapse under the heat.

So Merlin. Fuck. She had needed to get out of there so much. And yes, she had been longer than a few minutes, and no doubt Harry would be starting to worry already, but providing he could still see Draco standing further than ten metres away, she would hopefully be left alone for a little longer.

That memory. Pressed up against the wall with Draco on his knees. Just another scorching lapse of sanity to spit out onto that long and lustful list of ‘things that must never ever happen again’. ‘But probably will’. And argh. That was what was most despairingly loud and scolding inside her head. Because no matter how many times she was sure and believing in herself that things were over, done, and never happening again- she’s proved wrong. And proved wrong by him. Which makes it even worse.

So Hermione continued to scold herself inside her head, mentally slamming it against the mirror and cracking the shameful reflection before her.

But her grief was stumped all of a sudden. Because Hermione heard someone else enter the bathroom behind her. And within mere seconds of breathing, she felt their presence unimaginably close to her own.

Hermione spun around to meet Pansy smack bang in the middle of her face.

“Granger,” she greeted, sour breath pouring out from her mouth and rushing up Hermione’s nostrils. But before she could take a step back, Pansy lifted her arms and shoved Hermione so hard that her body jerked backwards fiercely, the heel of her shoe slipping, her body falling down to the ground with a thud loud enough to echo.

Hermione winced and looked up, opened her mouth to spit threatening words in return to shatter Pansy’s toughed expression, words to let her scramble to her feet and stand tall enough to reach her height. But she was too shocked, almost winded.

And then she saw someone else. Millicent Bulstrode, striding over to stand behind Pansy.

“You know,” drawled Pansy, “It’s such an awful shame we don’t have our wands tonight. We could have done such spectacular damage with them.”

Hermione struggled to untangle her dress from underneath her shoes.

“But I suppose old rotten muggle violence isn’t always so bad,” Pansy continued, shooting a sideways smirk at Millicent, whose eyes bore down on Hermione with anticipation.

She finally reached her feet. Shaking. “Alright, Pansy,” breathed Hermione, forced evenness in her voice, “Whatever this is about, maybe we should try talking-”

“Talking?!” she snorted, “You think your stupid fucking words will be enough to make up for what you’ve done?”

And then Pansy shot her hand across her face so hard and fast Hermione lost her breath once again. She yelped, bringing her own hand up to the harsh stinging of her cheek. Straightened her posture as quickly as she could, tried desperately to ignore the throbbing. “Get away from me now, Parkinson.”

“No, Granger,” she spat, “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Why? What’s wrong?” Hermione seethed, outraged with her violence, yet determined not to return it. “Still crying over Malfoy?” But that was most probably, definitely, the wrong name to throw in.

“You’re going to pay for it, bitch,” growled Pansy, “Right here and now. You’re going to pay for all of it.”

“It won’t bring him back,” she murmured.

“No,” she replied, “Perhaps not. But it will fuck you up enough to make sure he can’t touch you for all the bruises on your skin.”

“You’ve got it all wrong.”

Pansy growled and pushed her again, and this time, Hermione stepped back, and then forward, and pushed her back so hard, Millicent had to stop her from falling to the ground. “Grow up, Pansy,” she hissed, “Have some respect, for Merlin’s sake!”

“Respect?!” exclaimed Pansy, hair tousled and face flushed as she scrambled up Millicent’s arm, “The day I respect a mudblood whore like you-!”

“I meant for yourself, you idiot!” replied Hermione, “Have some respect for yourself! Get over it and move on. Stop looking for other people to blame!”

Pansy’s stare burned right through her.

“I have plenty of respect for myself,” she snarled, “In fact, I have so much respect that I feel I’m more than qualified to do whatever the fuck I want to do to you. Head Girl or not, Granger.”

“And what?” laughed Hermione, “What exactly is it you’re going to do to me? Come on, Pansy, not even you are that low-”

And stop. Because was she wrong. Hermione almost felt her brain hit the side of her skull as Millicent’s fist crashed into her jaw so fast the next thing she knew she was facing the floor. Skin broken, lips bleeding. Hermione had never been hit like that before. And suddenly, a cold, harsh wave of terror struck her body so fiercely she began to tremble, violently.

“Get up, you slag.” She heard Pansy mutter somewhere above her.

Hermione’s arms shook, she straightened them, desperately pulled herself up and back onto her feet.

There was so much she could say. Fists she could throw back as hard as she possibly could. But she knew, suddenly, there and then, how this would end. Millicent Bulstrode, strong, brutal, and as evil as ever, standing right next to Pansy with a look of hideous greed splashed across her face.

Hermione tasted blood in her mouth. Elbows aching, jaw stinging. Eyes watering. And in one, final attempt to stop herself from crumbling, Hermione made for door, rushing past them as quickly as she possibly could. Millicent grabbed her by the hair and pulled her back.

“You’ll regret this,” muttered Hermione, down on the floor once again. She didn’t know how, or what she could do. But it was all she had left, at that very moment, two ruthless bodies glaring down upon her.

“No more blood, Millie,” breathed Pansy, “No more aiming for the face. Just go for bruises that she can cover up. If you know what I mean.”

“I know what you mean,” nodded Millicent, walking towards the girl lying before them on the ground.

Hermione closed her eyes.




*




Draco could see the Gryffindors looking about. They couldn’t see her either.

Hermione had left over half an hour ago. Draco wasn’t worried. He wasn’t anxious for her safety. He just felt her absence like blood spilling from his throat. Felt it like he always did. And that was why his eyes were darting towards the doors every second or so, just waiting for her to walk back in and warm the air again.

“What’s wrong with you, mate?” slurred Blaise.

Draco looked down at Blaise’s large empty glass of Firewhiskey. A small, slight slice of Draco’s mind told him he should have taken it away from all of them. Been Head Boy and all that. But other things were more important. Other things that didn’t involve normal life and normal duties and being who one was supposed to be.

“Nothing,” shrugged Draco, “But I swear if McGonagall or anyone sees that you’ve been drinking that stuff, my name better be left out of it, Zabini.”

“Course, mate, course.”

Draco looked towards the doors again.

“What do you keep looking at?” asked Blaise, picking up his glass and peering into the bottom of it.

“Not a lot,” replied Draco, snapping his eyes back to the table.

“Thought you handled it quite well, by the way.”

“Handled what?”

“Having to come with that filth. Granger. You know.”

Draco’s jaw clenched. “Yeah,” he replied. Stone cold.

“An’ I mean jus’ generally, to be honest,” continued Blaise, “Having to be around her all the fucking time. Mus’ be fucking awful.”

Draco nodded.

“I mean, we all figured that’s why you been so- y’know- off lately, or whatever. Stupid bitch.”

He nodded again, fists clenching.

“If you want my opinion-”

“I don’t,” snapped Draco, banging down his glass of pumpkin juice hard onto the table.

He had the surprising urge to tear out Blaise’s throat. And all just for saying a few small remarks. Words that are nothing compared to what he’d spat at her before. But they just seemed- worse coming from someone else. Wrong. Like she wasn’t his to talk about.

“Jus’ saying. She deserves everything she gets. Hanging around with Potter and that lot. They all deserve it.”

“Don’t you ever shut up?” barked Draco, pushing back his chair.

“What?” Blaise looked startled.

“Just leave it, Zabini.”

“Bloody hell, mate! I was just saying she deserved it!”

“Deserved what, you idiot?”

“Pansy and Mill. You know.”

Draco’s face fell. “What?”

“You don’t…” Blaise trailed off. “Look, it doesn’t matter. I’m just talking shit. Drunk too much and-”

“What about them?”

“Nothing.”

No. Because suddenly, Draco became all too aware of the fact that neither of them were in the Hall. Parkinson and Bulstrode. And those words. She deserved it. A million and one things shot through his mind at once.

Granger.

“Outside,” growled Draco, rising from his seat.

Blaise looked up at him, warily.

“Now, you twat,” he hissed.

Blaise stood from his chair as steadily as possible, and Draco started for the doors, looking back to make sure he was following.

“Where are we going?” asked Blaise, confused as they left the bustle and loud music of the Hall and walked past the several people standing outside in the corridor.

Draco walked away from them all and led him around a corner. And then another corner. Until the music and laughter and talk was much fainter. He turned to face Blaise.

“Okay. What the hell is going on, Zabini?” he asked, tone low, breathing determinedly calm.

“I don’t know what you-”

And then Draco’s hand shot to Blaise’s throat, banging him so hard against the wall he let out a muffled cry. Because calm was just some stupid fucking mirage that he’d had enough of. “What about Pansy and Millicent?” breathed Draco, hissing the words right into his ear.

“Get off me, you bastard!” muttered Blaise, drunkenly attempting to push him away.

Draco shook him against the wall. “You tell me now or I’m going straight to McGonagall about the drink, Zabini.”

“Alright!” he answered, “Just get your damn hands off me!”

Draco growled, released him and stepped back. “Tell me.”

Blaise rubbed his neck. “Fuck’s sake, Draco,” he coughed, “What the hell has got into you recently?”

“Zabini-”

Blaise held up his hands defensively as Draco took an angry step towards him. “I’m not supposed to say anything,” he frowned, shaking his head, “I just let it slip. Pansy said- I mean- I don’t really know why she said it- but I wasn’t supposed to tell you.”

“Do I look like I give a fuck?”

“I just thought you wouldn’t care. You know. You hate her guts. But Pansy. She’s got some problem with the stupid slag. I don’t know what it is. But she’s done something to upset her.”

“And?”

“And so her and Mill were planning on- well, you know- sorting her out. Tonight.”

Sorting her out?

“Sorting her out? And what the fuck is that supposed to mean, Zabini?” As if he didn’t already know. But no. He didn’t want to think it.

“Well we don’t have our wands, do we?” replied Blaise, “Use your imagination.”

Draco’s blood ran cold. Hands lifted to his head.

No.

“Where are they, Blaise?”

“I don’t know.”

“Where the fuck are they?!”

“Look, I don’t know, alright!” insisted Blaise, backing away from Draco, “Why do you care so much anyway?”

But excuses were the very last thing on Draco’s mind.

The only thing was her. And what the hell was happening. Or had happened, already. And if that was the reason Hermione hadn’t returned.

Draco turned, walked briskly away from Blaise, further up the corridor towards the stairs, and broke into a run.


*