Water

Title: Water
Chapter: Thirteen (Part One)
Genres: Angst
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Sexual References, Angst
Feedback: Please! I have to know the truth!
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: Sorry this has taken so long, but we\'ve all had problems with the site!

A big thank you to Gracie who has beta read this entire chapter for me. It\'s been a brilliant help. Any other mistakes are absolutely mine! =)

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

Chapter 13.


Pain, tears, sex. Blood.

And so here they were. The morning after.

Where to begin.

He didn’t know why it was. Why it was that he had been unable to think of anything even remotely resembling a thought since it had happened. Quiet. Just so almost silent as Draco sat there in the chair, pushed into the corner of her bedroom. The only murmur in his mind, the only softness that blew across the empty spaces, was his own disbelief. At the silence. At the gentle humming in his ears, steady breathing, deadened throbbing across his skin, but nothing else.

Draco had been sitting there, in that chair, still and silent since he had laid her on her bed all those hours ago. When there wasn’t the pale glow of dawn emerging through the shadows of trees outside her bedroom window. He had just lowered her there, onto the white of the sheets, bruised and bloody and spent, and maybe she had expected him to lie there beside her. Or maybe she had expected him to leave altogether.

Draco found he could do neither. So he simply walked across the soft bedroom floor and sat. And that is where he stayed, eyes fixed upon her sleeping figure without the slightest flicker of gaze. Just staring at Hermione as her broken body laid there, exhausted and quietly escaping the reality in her dreams.

But really it had begun before then. Just before, when they were both still lying on the bathroom floor-

-the bathroom floor. The first coherent thought to enter Draco’s head. He had yet to clear up the broken glass.

But then the thought left as quickly as it came. Irrelevant. And the numb silence returned.

They had been lying on the cool stone tiles, panting, skin exposed, bruises flaring, hearts racing. And apparently he had needed to do something. Apparently he had needed to just touch her once more, just ease the burning of his blood and kill the sudden rush of severity that stabbed his recovering mind. Because Draco wasn’t ready. He wasn’t ready to recover and return and think about what had just happened between them both. And so yes. He had needed to touch her one more time. He didn’t really understand why or how. He didn’t expect anything back. But he could still feel the tingling on his hand now, as it lay idly on the arm of the chair beside him.

Not that he was thinking about it. There was nothing in his mind, apart from the disbelief, of course. There was only the vision of her lying on her bed. Matted curls scattered across her pillow. Cheeks still tear stained. Because Draco was slightly aware of the fact that she had been crying in her sleep.

She looked beautiful. Hurt and heartbroken and so royally his. How terrible. A thought not to think about. Not yet, at least.

He was waiting for the moment when his mind wouldn’t let him decide any longer. The moment when he wouldn’t be able to indulge in the silence and forget the pain. Forget how close he had come to everything, and so few hours ago.

Hermione.

Pansy.

His father.

All hushed up and swept under for now. For the short now. But Draco wasn’t foolish. He knew that nothing lasted forever, especially the good things. Like his lips on hers- never for long enough. Like his punishments- over too soon. No, the good things came and went, softly and quietly and almost so fast that once they’d happened, he immediately forgot their warmth.

Apart from he could still feel her. And he both hated and relished that feeling.

Hermione turned onto her side. She made a small sound of pain. It did something to Draco’s heart, sent something rushing into his head- which was important, in fact. He was glad for the thought that came, both glad and shamed and all sorts of things. And he was absolutely compelled to act upon it straight away.

He rose from the chair. It made his head feel slightly too light. Slightly not there. He knew he should be feeling tired, and perhaps he most certainly was, but nothing worth the acknowledgment. He walked silently across the room, pushed upon the bathroom door that had been left ajar.

The light was dim in the bathroom, nothing bright enough to reflect off the shattered blades of glass that blanketed the floor. It was soft enough not to hurt his eyes, but he still felt a slight ache as they darted around the ground, searching for the reason he had ever come back up here in the first place.

He spotted his wand near to the sink. His feet were bare, and yet his avoidance of the glass was careless. It cut him slightly on a few occasions- nothing he didn’t deserve- as he made his way to his wand, bent down, clasped his cold hand around it. Somehow, he didn’t feel the same connection to it that he usually did. Just felt like he was anyone. Holding a stick. It was perhaps the numbness that was still left inside of him, penetrating the parts that weren’t now concentrating on his one and only thought.

Draco left the way he came. The glass didn’t hurt at all this time, so it was hard to tell if he had trodden on any. He was back in her bedroom, and she was still lying on her side, breath alternating between shallow and deep. Somewhere in between. It made him feel anxious. Turned his thought into a compulsion to act.

He took three steps towards the edge of the bed, feeling slightly dangerous to be this near to her once again. Dangerous and confused, and he didn’t like that his brain was feeling slightly more alive than it had felt just a minute ago. But that didn’t matter. Because this should have been done so long ago. Draco raised his wand, and whispered the words from under his breath.

Bad memories. Nasty things.

Hermione stirred slightly. Her eyelids fluttered, and then opened slowly. Her eyes were distant, pale, staring straight up at him.

“…Malfoy?” Her voice was small and lost and muddled, still deadened by the pain.

“Don’t talk, Granger.” His own voice surprised him. Stones grinding against one another inside his throat. He brought his wand lower, and touched the tip against the skin of her shoulder.

Her eyes closed instantly, head tilted back slightly, back arched, and Draco couldn’t help but unwillingly lick his lips at the exposure of her neck. Merlin, it seemed wrong. It seemed so wrong to still want her like this.

But he did. And he never stopped, he never stopped struggling with himself as his wand moved lower, as it’s tip touched every bruise he could dare to see, as his hand pulled gently at the covers, as she lay there, breathing heavily beneath the magic. Her chest rising and falling. His concentration faltering- once as his hand brushed against her thigh, again as he lifted the tangled curls away from her face.

And she was there, shivering. Just letting him. Just letting the magic wash over her in the deliriously calming way that he had become so familiar with over the years. It deadened the senses. Lowered the heat of rushing blood. And he knew how she must be feeling, completely under, consumed, immersed in the pensiveness of the healing charm. Dragged under the spell.

Draco knew that was why- why she was letting him touch her like that. And he wouldn’t try to pretend that it wasn’t the reason his breath had shortened, hands had started to shake, cock had begun to harden inside his tightening trousers. He knew. He was taking advantage of it. And no matter how perverted, desperate, wicked, he couldn’t stop. Running his fingers over every bit of skin his wand had touched. Trailing them up her leg to mark the healing scratches inside her thighs. He wanted to bend down. Lick the last traces of dried blood from her body with the wetness of his tongue. Granger. Always absolutely too fucking much and yet never enough. How was he ever supposed to mend these mistakes.

When Draco heard his final words trail off and lose themselves in the air around them, he lifted his wand so reluctantly from her skin, and forced himself to step back. And then forced himself to take another step back. Again and again until his body reached the wall, and his head leant back against it, breath short and sharp and hungry. He stared at her trembling body, and let his wand drop to the floor.

How easy and how close. To take her once again. Why didn’t he just let himself.

Hermione blinked. He knew that it only ever took a few seconds to feel the tug of reality pull firmly on the heartstrings as the delirium of the charms faded. She looked down at her body, and then slowly pulled the covers back over it as she attempted to sit up, wincing.

“You’ll still hurt.”

She turned her head towards him, eyes wide. “What did you…” Her voice was weak.

“I healed you.”

Hermione stared at him for a moment, before looking back down again. She was blushing.

“It takes a while to subdue the pain. But the bruises fade quickly.”

He was aroused. Of course he was aroused. And she could no doubt tell. Not that he could muster enough energy to care. It shouldn’t surprise her. Not after everything. Not after he’d touched those very depths of shame mere moments from her eyes. And only hours ago.

“Malfoy-”

“You need to stay in bed today. Perhaps tomorrow as well. You’ll have to pretend you’re ill.”

“But-”

“Too many questions otherwise.” And then Draco was stabbed with a sudden realisation. A sharp reminder that this was Granger. This was Gryffindor. “Unless-” He paused. “Unless you’re thinking of telling someone about this.”

And why shouldn’t she? Pansy and Millicent deserved everything they got. Expulsion would be the mildest of punishments as far as Draco was concerned. Although- and he knew this because he knew Pansy- she would find a way to get back at them. And it would most probably involve telling Dumbledore about-

Draco cut off his own thoughts right there. It was the darkest place he could imagine at that moment, the harshest memory, and he couldn’t bring himself to touch it. Remember it. That loss of control. That something that wasn’t him, was his father, and yet was completely Draco after all.

Hermione shook her head. “I don’t know,” she mumbled, fiddling with the sheets. She was still wearing her dress. Torn, stained and shrivelled. Although Draco couldn’t help but think that it was still beautiful. That it was all still beautiful. And so dirty, like that. “I haven’t thought about it.”

Draco didn’t reply. There was a small silence.

She looked up at him. He heard her hesitate. “Thank you- for…” She lost the sentence. Diverted her gaze to the bathroom door. “Um…”

That was most certainly a sound he had barely ever heard escape her lips. Any other time, any normal, rational, before-any-of-this-ever-happened time he would have smirked. Because Hermione Granger never fumbled over her words.

And didn’t that just go to show. Ruination.

All it did was twist his stomach.

“I’ll leave you,” he muttered, his arousal calming down with the ever-growing realisation of bitter realities, “You need to rest.”

She was still staring at the door.

“I’ll clear it up,” he murmured, almost catching the thoughts of broken bloodied glass flashing across her eyes.

And then she shook her head. “No. I’ll clear it up.”

Draco frowned. “I said I’d do it, Granger.”

Her head snapped towards him. Suddenly her face had darkened. “And I said I will, alright?”

His eyes narrowed with slight confusion. Slight why the hell are you arguing me frustration. “I already told you. You need to rest. The charms are useless unless you allow time for the body to regenerate, Granger. I know what I’m talking about.”

“I don’t care.”

She was angry suddenly. He knew he shouldn’t be surprised. They were bound to deal with it somehow. At some point. And this seemed to be her initial choice of-

“Sorry.” Hermione shifted uncomfortably, biting her lip. “I suppose it doesn’t matter.”

Draco was still frowning. “No,” he agreed, “It doesn’t.”

And then there was a small silence that followed, in which Draco could no longer ignore the gradual return of thoughts to his mind. Cold, hot, brash. And he felt a discomfort, a biting sort of unease that he would have thought he was too empty to feel. But felt all the same. Standing in that room with the one girl he wanted to claim all over again, and yet forget she ever existed in the first place.

Thinking about it. She had every right to be angry. Undeniably. More than angry. At Pansy, at Millicent, at Draco. Because he wasn’t her problem, was he? And yet look. Look at what had happened. Look at what she’d given to him. He couldn’t help but feel- help but know- that she never would have done that, let him inside her like that, if it weren’t for the corruption. All that sickly sweet corruption that was all his fault.

Yes. He had wanted to break her. But no. Now it just made everything worse. Now he had vomited his sordid brains all over her filthy fucking skin and all it had done- all it had achieved- was a reflection. He could escape it all even less now. Now that he’d dragged her down with him. All he saw when he looked into her eyes was a mess that he’d created. And he knew she knew that. She knew it was all his fault. All of it.

I wish you would fucking scream at me for it, Granger. You should. I don’t know why I ever stopped you.

“On second thoughts-” coax her into it then “-maybe you should clean it up yourself.”

“What?” Hermione frowned a little.

“I have better things to do.”

She opened her mouth. Closed it. And then, “Fine.”

What?

No. It’s not fine. What the hell is wrong with you? Take the bait, Granger. I’m giving you a chance to hurl at me. It’s clearly what you want to do. And I don’t blame you. It’s come a lot sooner in the day then I thought it would, but it’s come, nevertheless. I’ll take it.

“And I’d probably be sick.”

“What?”

“If I went back in there. You know. Remembering what happened between us.”

She stared at him.

And he waited. Anticipated.

“If you say so.”

Draco’s shock was almost a little too evident. And the frustration. What the fuck was she doing? He was playing up to it. Playing up to the Malfoy. Why wasn’t she letting him?

“I do. Because the sooner we forget about this first class fuck up the better.”

And then. She did something which made it a whole lot worse. Hermione let out a sigh.

“Just get out, Malfoy.”

But. Argh. No. Not without a fight. Why he just- he didn’t even- Draco’s mind was jarring.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” He hadn’t meant to ask it out loud like that. He hadn’t meant to speak at all, but now it was too late. And now it just made this whole thing even more pathetic.

“I won’t let you do this now,” she replied, voice steady. She bunched the covers tighter inside her fists.

“Do what, Granger?” he growled. So utterly confused with everything now. Her reactions. His own stupidity.

“Upset me again.”

And something about the truth of those words hurt. “Why not? It’s all I’m good at, after all.”

“Leave it, Malfoy. You should get some rest as well.”

“Stop speaking to me like that for fuck’s sake,” he answered, raising his voice.

“Speaking to you like what?”

He couldn’t work out if she was alarmed or not. He couldn’t work out if that expression of hers was saying why-are-you-doing-this or just-as-I-expected. And it frustrated him.

“Like-” Draco paused. “Like you don’t care.”

“About what?”

And then the words came gushing so suddenly. “Oh I don’t know! Maybe about me pushing your broken body down onto the bathroom floor and fucking it for the first time even though we both knew- even though I knew- that it wasn’t what you really wanted! Don’t you care about that, Granger? About me stealing it away from you like that? About me taking advantage?”

“Just go, Malfoy.”

“But you must care. You must care that I brought you to this point in the first fucking place, and now I’ve taken it just that one step further by pushing my cock into that virgin mudblood cunt of yours! And the funniest part- if I had got there in time- if I hadn’t have been so fucking useless and got there before Parkinson did- you’d still have it, because none of it would have happened! You wouldn’t have been broken enough to just let me take it from you like that, Granger. And I know you care about that. I know. So stop fucking with my head and tell me. Let’s get the blame over and done with.”

About those words- he wasn’t even trying to coax her into the shouting anymore. All he had done was spill everything his mind had been too numb to consciously acknowledge until now.

His mind was finally forcing the thoughts upon him. Only he’d just realised it all out loud. How fucking spectacular the timing of it. How unredeemable. How so unimaginably too soon it all was- and it surprised him. Because surely he would have at least left it a few more hours before screaming it all at her. Surely.

Hermione was staring at him. And he was apparently staring back.

“I think…” she trailed off.

Too much incompletion. Everywhere.

She opened her mouth again. “I think you should leave.”

He continued to stare back at her.

“Malfoy,” she said again, “Please.”

How dare she. How dare she be so understanding as to ignore the attack of his words. Or maybe she was just tired. Too tired to deal with him at the moment. Even better- maybe she just wanted him out of her sight because she actually wanted to forget. Just like Draco had said. She really did.

And was that true?

Somewhere in the back of his head, Draco wondered how it was possible to drag himself through so many different insecurities in the space of minutes. And yet still be alive to wonder it.

“I really think-”

“I’m going, Granger.” His voice was low. Quiet.

She nodded. He turned towards the door.

“And Malfoy?”

Draco looked back slightly, still frowning, still lost somewhere between anger and despair and memory.

“I care.”

He looked back towards the door. Of course she cared. Of course she cared that she just lost her virginity to the one bastard that hates her kind down to the fucking bone. The one person that would have smirked at her broken body mere months ago-

“But I knew what I was doing.”

Draco’s head snapped towards her. Completely this time. He stared. Knew what- she was- knew…

Her voice was unnervingly calm. “You didn’t steal anything from me. Not last night, at least. So I’m sorry, Malfoy.”

“You’re sorry?”

“I’m sorry if that’s how you saw it.”

“What?” And suddenly his confusion returned.

“If that’s what you had wanted to do. Take it from me and relish my regret.”

“Granger-”

“That’s all,” she said, shaking her head, “I just wanted you to know that before…”

“Before what?” What the bloody hell was she talking about?

“Before you shut that door behind you.”

Why? Why was she saying all of this?

“I don’t understand, Granger.”

“Get some sleep.”

“Not until-”

“Get out, Malfoy. I mean it.” Her eyes looked cold. Looked wrong. “Just get out.”

“Fine,” he growled, teeth gritted in frustration. “But you’re wrong if you think that was what wanted it to be.” He pulled the door open. “Are you listening to me, Granger?”

She was looking out of the window.

“I said you’re wrong.”

Hermione didn’t reply.

Then fuck this. And fuck her.

Draco slammed the door behind him.



*




Harry had woken up, stared at the ceiling for five minutes or so, pulled on a jumper and headed straight for the dormitory door. The sun had barely risen, and the air outside his covers was distinctly cooling against his bare feet. He was tired. Too tired to notice that Ron had been awake long before he had. He only noticed his best friend mirroring his movement when he reached the last step into the common room. It was warmer in there. The fire was cracking it’s familiarly soothing lick of flames, and the heat washed over Harry’s face in calming waves of comfort as he settled himself down in front of it’s warm glow.

Ron sat down in the armchair to the side of him.

“Did you have fun last night then?” murmured Harry, acknowledging him with a brief turn of his head before he stared back at the fireplace.

He heard Ron hesitate. “I’m sorry, mate. I really am.”

“Don’t be.”

“I just didn’t want you leaving her alone the entire night, you know?”

“I wasn’t planning on it.”

“I know that,” answered Ron, “And I know that Hermione is more important than a stupid ball. It’s just she’s my sister, Harry. You know how it is.”

He nodded. “I know, Ron,” he replied, “Honestly.”

“I probably shouldn’t have shouted it at you though.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“I was already a bit frustrated. What with Hermione just leaving us like that.”

“Look, Ron. I’m glad you said it to me. Seriously,” insisted Harry, glancing towards him, “I guess I was probably grateful in the end. Once we went back.”

Ron grinned slightly. “Ginny said she enjoyed herself.”

“Yeah, it was good,” he replied, laughing a little at his expression.

And then they both turned back to the fire. Harry pulled the sleeves down on his jumper a little.

It was odd, or maybe a little expected, that Harry felt guilty for it. Felt guilty for letting Ron take him back to the hall to enjoy what was left of the evening. He should have stayed looking for Hermione. But it was strange. Because something about the way Malfoy had spoken to him had, for the first time since Harry can remember, hinted traces of truth in his words.

This both angered and relieved Harry. If Hermione was, indeed, only feeling unwell, then that was good. That was safe.

But she should have told him. She should have let at least one of them know what was wrong.

Only she must have done. And it must have been Malfoy. Whether or not he was the one who approached her about it first, he seemed to be the only one that knew. And that frustrated Harry. Because Malfoy wasn’t her best friend. Malfoy wasn’t anything. He existed only to make their lives a misery, and so why in Merlin’s name he was the only one that was able to enlighten Harry along his search was most unnerving. Wrong. Almost illogical. And so Harry, for once, felt every right to feel suspicious.

“I hit him, you know.”

“Who?”

“Malfoy. Just before you came.”

“Oh really?”

“Yeah.”

“Nice one.”

It wasn’t that Harry hadn’t felt the right to suspect Malfoy all term- or, more accurately, for the entire length he had known of his existence- but there had always been some sort of, albeit a little lost and far too weak to manifest, twinge of rationality within him that told him maybe he was just that one step too far into the realms of an obsession. An obsession with proving to everyone around him that he was right. Malfoy was evil down to the core. And he was so far from touching redemption that the very concept of it was completely forsaken.

Besides, a Malfoy isn’t capable of remorse.

Or perhaps Draco was. Because Harry wasn’t an idiot. The bastard was cold and callous and fucked in the head, but their were times when Harry would see it. Almost see the regret. Eyes distant and pale and staring into nothing. And then those few, extremely rare and remarkable times when he’d walk past Harry and seem so out of it that he couldn’t even register the cue for an insult. And those times, as strange as it may have seemed, sent cool shivers down Harry’s spine that chilled him to the bone. Because the boy was sinister. Obscure evil too harrowing for him to think about, sometimes. And the fact that part of him might regret it all? That made it worse.

And why?

There was a difference. There was a big, fat, gaping difference between regretting something, and then making the steps to change it. Because Draco truly believing in the evil- that was bad enough. But the possibility that there was a part of him that might just begin to acknowledge the immorality of his beliefs? Yes. That was worse. That was worse because it meant he wasn’t just foolish enough for it to pass him by. Malfoy knew the malevolence that bordered his faith. And yet he continued. He continued to live it, regardless.

And that was how Harry knew. One day soon, one day eventually, he would prove everyone around him wrong. There was nothing left in Malfoy but a mechanic need to follow in his father’s footsteps. Finish what he had started. Nothing good. Just a hungry need for that corruptive sense of power.

“We should go and see her today,” mumbled Ron.

“Yeah.”

And that was it. Completely. Hermione. The one girl he loved, needed, cherished beyond words.

Harry would give his life for a lot of people. It wasn’t heroics. The heroics of battle. The heroics of battle was just another phrase dripping with cliché. It was just another steel mirage of allegorical wonderment to tempt thoughts of triumph, honour, admiration. Allow the others to think, yes. Yes there is a plan. There is a safety net. There is a battle being fought, and the hero is ours. He’s ours and he’s for the good side. Terrifyingly special and heart-warmingly tragic.

No. It had nothing to do with being a hero. It was love. Love and something else. A value for life. Just the need to protect. Save. He didn’t quite understand, couldn’t quite single it out. But it was there, nevertheless. The inability to ever watch another die. Not without knowing he had done his absolute to save them. His absolute.

And so saying that he would give his life for people like Hermione and Ron, that almost wasn’t enough. Because there was a difference in it. It was vague in his mind, it was often untouched, but it was there all the same. Because Harry would give his life for theirs not only to save them, but with the beating knowledge that if he didn’t- if they died- then he wouldn’t be able to go on. It wouldn’t just be the failure to protect. It would be the death of a part of him. It would be a destruction that rotted him far deeper than the death of any other.

That was why it made sense. That was why Harry’s grating rage and countless overreactions had a place in this reality. Hermione was sleeping mere moments from one of the most dangerous people in the entire school. And so she was in danger. Complete and utter danger. Perhaps not death, perhaps not even physical harm, but he would get to her. Malfoy would find a way to hurt her somehow.

So ask him why again. Because there are reasons. There are glaring, disturbingly plausible reasons why Harry knew something was going on between Malfoy and Hermione.

“Something is going on between them.”

Ron looked towards him. They had been silent for a very long time. The sun was shining brighter now. They could see the crisp morning light through the frosted window, the pale sun glowing in the brilliance of the blue sky.

“You’re right.”

Harry was almost surprised. He had at least expected a sigh. Some sort of hint that Ron was well and truly exhausted with the topic. He would be pleased were it not for the fact that it scared him a little. Ron’s simple agreement made it even more of a reality.

“We have to do something about it,” said Harry.

“We’ve been trying to, haven’t we?”

“But we have no idea what’s wrong,” he replied, “If we could just find out, then maybe we’d be able to sort it out once and for all.”

“How?” asked Ron, “Merlin knows I’ve tried to ask her enough. And- well- your all fists and raised voice approach clearly isn’t working either.”

“I went to find her after he took her outside.”

“What?”

“You know. After Malfoy wanted to speak with Hermione last night. During the ball.”

“Oh. Yeah.”

“It looked like I’d definitely interrupted something.”

Ron shrugged. “I don’t know if that’s enough to go on, Harry.”

“She looked upset. Almost scared.”

“But you always say that, mate. You said that last time when you ended up having a punch up with him down in the dungeons.”

“And? I wasn’t lying.”

“I’m sure you weren’t,” answered Ron, “But I’m just trying to make you see. We’re going around in circles, aren’t we? It’s bloody useless.”

“I would hardly call it useless.”

“I would.”

“So what do you suggest?” frowned Harry, “We just forget about it?”

“Obviously not.”

“Then what?”

“I don’t know, alright?” sighed Ron, “All I’m saying is we don’t really have anything to go on at the moment.”

Harry’s frown deepened. “Only we do,” he replied, jaw clenching slightly. “That stuff that Pansy said.”

He noticed Ron tense in the corner of his eye. “Yeah,” he mumbled, “But I’m pretty certain if Malfoy- you know-” Ron shifted in his chair. “-tried anything- she’d tell us, wouldn’t she?”

Just those words. Those words were enough to make his blood simmer. “Unless Malfoy was threatening her,” he growled, “It doesn’t seem that unlikely.”

“But Hermione wouldn’t stand for that,” said Ron, “I mean- she wouldn’t, right?”

Harry sensed the uncertainty in Ron’s voice.

“I don’t know,” murmured Harry. “But- well. There’s sort of one more thing.” And then he paused. He just wanted to get this out before he left it too late to ever be able to say it. It was trivial anyway. Just a stupid lie. But he wanted Ron to hear it all the same. For all the good it would do. “Just- erm- rubbish, really. You know. That Pansy said.”

Ron’s eyebrow raised. “What?”

“It was a load of bullshit, but-” He hesitated slightly. “Just some crap about Hermione liking him back.”

“Liking who back?”

“Who do you think, Ron?”

“What?”

Harry stared at him and waited. But Ron was still looking thoroughly confused.

Harry sighed a little with frustration. “She said something about the way Malfoy and Hermione look at each other. I don’t know. I mean it’s obviously-”

“Ridiculous.”

“Yeah.”

“Fucking mental.”

“I just thought I’d tell you anyway. Pansy’s got some funny ideas in her head.”

“Well it’s ridiculous.”

“…Yeah.”

“But it seriously is.”

“I know that,” frowned Harry, somewhat irritated, “It’s not like I see any reason to believe it myself. It’s pretty far fetched.”

“That’s one way to put it.” Ron’s face had scrunched slightly. “I wouldn’t be surprised if she started some stupid rumour about it.”

“No,” replied Harry, “I doubt she would. I mean it must be a pretty hard knock to her ego. You know. Malfoy liking a- well- Hermione.”

“But he probably doesn’t, Harry,” said Ron, “I mean he might think she’s fit or whatever. Quite a few of the guys do. So what if Pansy caught him looking for just a moment too long? It’s just a male thing, isn’t it? I mean it’s our whole biology. It doesn’t have to mean anything.”

Ron sounded as if he was intent on convincing himself.

Harry shook his head. “What about that other thing?”

“What other thing?”

“Merlin, Ron,” replied Harry, rolling his eyes, “Don’t make me say it.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“Well that’s got to be another lie.”

“You reckon?”

“It has to be.”

Harry’s teeth ground together. He wanted it to be a lie, he well and truly did. But it just didn’t make any sense that Pansy would make something up like that. No one would pretend that their so-called boyfriend had said someone else’s name in bed.

“I don’t know, Ron.”

Ron was looking extremely uncomfortable. His eyebrows had furrowed deeply, and his incessant shifting of position was starting to irritate Harry. In fact, the whole situation was starting to irritate Harry. He wasn’t entirely certain what he wanted to hear from Ron, but he was halfway sure that it was something along the lines of “Yes Harry, you’re right. Let’s go and drag Malfoy out of the common room and kick him a number of times in the face”. At least that would be something productive.

“We should keep an eye out,” mumbled Ron, bringing his legs up into the armchair and shuffling his body a few times.

“For what?”

“What do you think?” he asked, “Malfoy of course. You know. Any funny business.”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to do though,” frowned Harry, “And you just tell me I’m overreacting.”

“Look mate,” Ron frowned back at him, “I was only looking out for Hermione-”

“And I wasn’t?”

“You didn’t see her that night in the library. She was so upset, Harry. I didn’t know what to say.”

“Well isn’t it obvious why?”

“Because I’m an idiot?”

“Why she was crying, Ron.”

“I don’t know. She said it was prefect duties but-”

“It can’t be.”

“That’s what I said.”

“Which means it’s him.”

“Possibly.”

“No, Ron- not possibly. It has to be him!” Harry was becoming frustrated. “I don’t understand you. All the shifty one-on-one conversations they’ve been having? All the tension and all the silences? Hermione hasn’t been the same since she moved into the same quarters as that bastard and you know it. I’m sick and tired of being the only one that gives a damn!”

“You think I don’t give a damn?” snapped Ron, moving his legs back onto the floor in protest. “Of course I do! And I want to hit him just as much as you do Harry, but someone has to stay sane during all of this, and it clearly isn’t going to be you, is it?”

“And what’s that supposed to mean?”

“You know what you’re like about Malfoy, Harry. You know exactly what you’re like. So don’t act like you don’t know.”

“You hate him too, Ron,” he growled, “Or have you forgotten?”

“I know I do- I can’t fucking stand the prick- but I can see that if I let him get to me as much as he’s getting to you, then the three of us have absolutely sod all chance of sorting this out. I’m trying, Harry, I really am. So don’t act as if I’ve been doing nothing about this. I’ve probably got a lot further than you have.”

“With what?”

“With Hermione. Whilst you’ve been off all obsessed with Malfoy, I’ve been trying to find out what’s wrong by talking to her.”

Harry looked down. He took a deep breath and rubbed his forehead with his sleeve. “Maybe you’re right,” he breathed, “But it’s not like I’d be able to do that. There’s no way in hell she’ll talk to me about it.”

“Hermione will see that the way you’ve been acting isn’t completely unreasonable.”

“How can I make her see that?”

“I don’t know,” shrugged Ron, “I mean, I think she already knows. Don’t you? I mean we both know that if you really had no reason to be acting like this, then there’s no way she’d be talking to you. To either of us in fact.”

“So you reckon she- sort of understands?”

“Maybe.”

“Which means that something must be going on.”

“Well yeah. But we already knew that.”

Harry rubbed his forehead again, breathing out a long and heavy breath of air. He stared at the fire. “I don’t think I can stand much more of this, Ron,” he sighed. “Just knowing that something is wrong. But not knowing what.”

Ron nodded. “I suppose- I suppose you’re right about it,” he murmured, “We absolutely have to do something. She isn’t getting any better. And now- she’s so run down, she’s getting ill.”

“Maybe I should speak to Dumbledore,” suggested Harry, “Point out the strain that being Head Girl it’s having on her. It would get her away from Malfoy at least.”

“She’d kill you, Harry,” answered Ron, “Definitely out-right kill you, mate.”

“Yeah,” he breathed, “Yeah I mean, I guess I can’t really do that.”

“They’ll be an opportunity. There has to be.”

“Maybe. I just hope-” Harry cut himself off, shaking his head.

“You hope what?”

“I hope that the reason she hasn’t been that angry with me and my- well- apparent overreactions- is because she feels guilty.” Harry swallowed.

“Guilty?” repeated Ron, confusion in his voice. “Why would she feel guilty?”

“I don’t know,” he mumbled, “Maybe because she…did something…or feels something.”

“For Malfoy?”

He shrugged.

“Harry we’ve been through this-”

“I know, I know. I just can’t help thinking it.”

Ron shook his head. “Well you’re insane if you think she’d do anything. This is Hermione.”

“I know.”

He knew. He knew that this was Hermione, and that must have been why his heart was aching so much. Because this was Hermione. And he was so almost about to lose her, it terrified him to the very core.

Hermione could handle a lot of things. She was the one that kept a level-head. Sometimes she broke down, sometimes she cried, but she would always pick herself back up. She would always be there with her smart words and quick thinking. Always close behind him. But now she felt so faraway from Harry and Ron. She felt so distant. It wasn’t the kind of distance you could just feel, it was right there, between them. You could see it, so glaringly obvious it was painful. And so Harry knew, as hopeless as it all was, something absolutely and completely had to be done about it.

Hermione needed to be saved.



*



It had been something to do with the control. The reasons why she had said those things to Draco. She hadn’t completely understood them herself, but they seemed necessary. They seemed right and agreeable and perfectly justified. Because she couldn’t help it, no matter how much she tried. The memory of that time Draco had touched her, pushed her down onto the desk in the common room, and then pulled away at the very last heated, saturated moment- she couldn’t forget that feeling. And what she thought it was. Just a game. Just a triumph. Just that hideously pungent second where Draco knew he could have had her. Could have taken her if he had wanted to.

But she knew last night had been different. She knew it by the way it had sounded, felt. The way his cries had reverberated right through her body and shaken it inside out. She would never forget those tears. Angry and desperate and completely broken. It had filled her with so much, and yet drained her to nothing. Empty and overwhelmed and utterly driven- Merlin- so driven to feel him against her. Do something. Anything so the both of them could have forgotten, just in that small space of forbidden time, forgotten and lost themselves in each other. It was the only way. The only way she wouldn’t have sat there and died inside with him.

She knew all this. But she didn’t understand. She couldn’t work out what had happened to the control. She didn’t know why she let him fuck her body so raw and bloody and bruised. Because surely- surely if she had had the control, it would never have happened. She wouldn’t have nodded to him. Wouldn’t have called out his name.

But it couldn’t have been Draco. He had none. If she didn’t have it then neither did he. He wasn’t conscious enough for there to be any games, triumph, means to an end. She knew that and perhaps that was why she let it happen. That was why she kissed him. Because she kissed him first, after all. Just felt that devastating compulsion to press her lips against his, feel the warmth of his heated skin, hardened muscle and flesh and bone beneath her fingertips.

Hermione didn’t like thinking it. She didn’t like thinking that neither of them had been in control. Because it scared her. It scared her so tremendously she almost shook from the feeling of it. It had been what she was dreading. It had been the reason, though one of many- so many- that she had wanted out. Out of the mess and need and pulses pressed up against one another racing in unison. Because she had been afraid of that one moment, that breath that lasted an eternity, where every inhibition left her, every rationality, and the obsession just consumed her entirely. Dangerous, rampant, and so inexplicably wretched.

It was so important to Hermione that she didn’t appear as helpless as she felt. So she had lied. Or pretended. Or somewhere halfway between the two, although they very much meant the same thing.

I knew what I was doing.

Although she didn’t, did she? And even if she still wanted it, even if she would have done it again and again and every time the situation plays in that stupid distorted head of hers, she couldn’t lie to herself.

And isn’t that just it? You can lie to everyone but yourself.

Hermione pulled her body upright and leant her back against her pillow. Her head was ringing out, and she had the distinct feeling she was going to be sick. But it was the very last thing she wanted. She couldn’t face the thought of throwing up. It reminded her too much of him. Him and his own mess.

She took several deep breaths, attempted to steady her anxiously frantic heartbeat and slow the rushing of blood beneath her throbbing skin. She barely felt the effects of the charms Draco had worked on her. The bruises had certainly faded, but she could still feel their malicious thudding against her bones. She did feel extremely light-headed- slightly not there. That was perhaps the only after effect she could sense. If it was anything to do with the magic at all and not simply everything else around her.

Hermione’s thoughts touched briefly once again upon Draco’s earlier words. Words about wanting to forget. They hadn’t made sense. Not after the last parts about caring. About why she wasn’t showing it. About how he knew it was his fault. How he was too late.

She hadn’t risen to it. She hadn’t shouted filth back at him because she couldn’t find it within herself. She was angry, scared, swimming in the memories of broken glass and first names but she couldn’t bring herself to answer back. She felt the exhaustion just as soon as she voiced her frustration with wanting to clean up the bathroom. Regain some sort of control. She felt it as soon as she realised there was no control to regain. There was no control. The situation was completely lacking in any. And his words just proved it.

And there was something else. Something in that back of her head that told her he didn’t really mean it. That it was just for a reaction, one that she wouldn’t give.

Yes. It had worked. Because she had felt the return of some sort of vague power. But it had disappeared as soon as he left, slammed the door and stormed downstairs. Left her suddenly alone to begin the long and everlasting punishment of her thoughts.

It was perhaps midday by now. She presumed that many of the seventh-years had missed breakfast, and that surely Dumbledore would not have any concerns over her absence. She wondered if Draco had made an appearance. But she had heard him a few times in his bedroom in the last hour. He wasn’t asleep. She knew that much.

Hermione slowly swivelled her legs off the bed, landing both her feet on the soft floor beneath. She waited a further minute or so, breathed in and out and wished with all she had that her head would stop beating the way it was. Draco was right. There was no way she could face anyone today. Not even Harry and Ron, regardless of how angry they may be with her today.

She pushed herself up, grabbing onto the post of her bed to steady herself. When she felt secure enough on her feet, she began to make her way over to the bathroom. Perhaps some cold water on her face would revive some of her deadened senses. The hazy feeling in her head was far from uncomfortable.

Hermione pushed open the door, and froze.

It was still there. The splintered glass that lay there, carpeting the floor, reflecting all the tiny beams of sunlight onto the walls and ceiling. Across her paled skin. There was so much more than she had remembered. She glanced over to the corner beside the sink. Closed her eyes for a second and remembered. Just remembered, before she opened them and stared once again at the floor.

Why hadn’t he cleaned it up yet? She would do it herself if she had her wand. A point she remembered a couple of hours ago whilst lying on her bed in pain. It annoyed her that he had left it, she couldn’t quite put her finger on why, but something do with a lack of control again. Someone just needed to take control. Clear up the mess.

She made her way around the broken glass and stood in front of Draco’s bedroom door. She decided that she wanted her wand back. She decided that she needed to magic it all away. Take a bath, get changed- she glanced down at her torn dress momentarily, not quite believing that she was still wearing it after all these hours.

She felt filthy. And Merlin only knew why she hadn’t thought about cleaning herself before this point.

Hermione knocked lightly on his door. Because there was always some sort of caution. There was always a fraction of her fake poise that wasn’t quite real enough to stop her from shaking. Standing outside his door and just-

It opened far quicker than she anticipated. And Draco stood before her, eyes wide. He almost looked surprised.

“Granger…”

“Why haven’t you cleaned this up yet?” She took a step back from him, having been far too close than she ever intended once he’d opened the door.

Draco looked at the floor behind her. “I was getting round to it.”

“Would you mind getting round to it sooner?”

“I said I’d do it. And I will.” She noticed that he managed to slip in the delightful Malfoy manner.

Hermione fought the urge to bite her lip. She desperately needed to do those things. Clean up. Change. And even if she had to spend the next day or so alone and recovering, it didn’t mean she couldn’t begin to sort things. Right here and now.

“I want my wand, Malfoy.”

“It’s in McGongall’s office.” She saw him glance down at one of the faded bruises on her shoulder.

“Then could you please go and get it for me?” she frowned.

Draco looked back up into her eyes. He stared at her. She stared back. Hermione waited a few seconds, but received no response.

“Malfoy?” she asked, “I can’t go and get it myself. I run the risk of-”

“I know, Granger,” he murmured, still staring. “Fine.”

She nodded slightly, voice quiet. “Good- well- thank you.”

“What if I see Potter and Weasley?”

“Tell them I’m still not feeling well.”

“They’ll want to see you.”

“Well they can’t,” she answered, looking down with the sudden stab of guilt that shot across her body, “I still look- I still can’t face them. Not today, at least. You’ll have to explain that I’m not opening my door to anyone.” She paused for a second. “Please.”

Draco’s frown faded a little. “They won’t be happy.”

“I know that.”

“Good. So don’t blame me if the twats score themselves a few punches in the face.”

Hermione shot him a look of disdain. “Don’t you dare, Malfoy.”

“You really think that hearing they can’t see you from me will go down quietly?”

“Just stay out of their way and you won’t have to worry about it.”

Hermione turned around and started to walk back across the bathroom.

“Wait, Granger,” she heard him mumble from behind her.

She paused her steps and turned back slightly.

He looked at her, and then looked down uncomfortably, opening his mouth a fraction before closing it again.

“What?” she asked.

“Just- er-” Draco seemed to shake himself a little. “Take a bath or something.”

Argh.

Hermione’s eyes narrowed. She didn’t want to rise to it. No. She really didn’t, but it was so difficult.

“You’re a bastard, Malfoy.” She turned back and increased her pace across the littered floor.

She heard him pause slightly before answering her. “Yeah,” he murmured, “I am.”

Hermione almost heard something along the lines of “And I bet you regret-” follow before she swung her bedroom door shut on his grinding voice, and stumbled back over to her bed.

It was so important. So important that she started to sort things out.



*




Just go after her. Burst into her bedroom and tell her that she got it wrong. That’s not what you meant, for Merlin’s sake. The stupid bitch.

Draco growled loudly.

Or maybe it was for the best, he was thinking, as his feet moved almost unconsciously across the bathroom floor and his fist swung up to bang loudly on her bedroom door before he’d barely managed to acknowledge the movement in the first place.

“Granger, open the damn door.”

“What do you-”

“Just open it.”

He heard a sigh. Yes- he actually heard her sigh through the bloody door. “It’s open.”

Draco’s hand immediately went to turn the handle. He pushed it open and stepped inside.

“What?” she asked again, a little bewildered.

“Is this how it’s going to be from now on?”

He took a split second to admit to himself that this was all very sudden, and Draco was, himself, severely taken aback by yet another need to shout words in her face. Discuss things. Face up to the subject. It was something he was becoming increasingly familiar with. Perhaps it was just the deterioration of brain-cells, or perhaps it was his paranoia. Either way, it was extremely un-Malfoy like of him.

“What are you talking about?”

No. Fuck that. Fuck the stupid fucking confusion splashed across her stupid mudblood face. She can’t act like she doesn’t know.

Draco shut the door.

Hermione was sitting on the edge of the bed. He took a moment to notice how amusingly awful it was that they were both still in the same clothes. Almost tragically shameful. She was in too much physical pain to move around much, so what was his excuse?

“I just want to sort this. Right now before it drags on.”

“And I just want my wand, Malfoy.”

“You’ll get it when you talk to me, Granger.”

It didn’t matter how far he had fallen, Draco still relished the rushes of power that hit him whenever he threw conditions or threats in her stubborn little face. He half-liked the look of anger and despair in her eyes. It reminded him of the past. It reminded him of the bastard that he was still pretty fucking good at being. It was a tiny element of control that was so imprinted on his brain, it would be difficult to lose, despite everything.

“Talk to you about what?”

“If you don’t stop acting like you have no sodding idea what this could be about, then you can forget about getting back your wand today.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Fine,” she scowled, “You know Professor McGongall will probably bring it up at some point if no one collects it for me. I’m Head Girl and I’m ill, after all. The Head Girl should have her wand.”

“And the Head Boy will probably be the one she gives it to since she’s hardly likely to come up here, is she?”

Hermione opened her mouth. No words came out. Draco almost felt smug. It was a strangely distant feeling.

“And what, Malfoy?” she murmured, finding herself again, “What could possibly be so important that it has to be said right now? Can’t you see there are things I need to do?”

“Like what?”

“Like take a bath for instance,” she spat, anger burning her cheeks.

“You misunderstood me, Granger.”

“Oh really?”

“I meant because it would soothe the pain. Not because you look incredibly filthy. It’s not like you can help that.”

Hermione seemed unsure of how to react to that comment. His token mixture of care rubbed down by insult. But then her attention was distracted as he took a step towards her.

“Get it over with then,” she mumbled, “What do you want to say?”

“I want the truth, Granger,” he murmured in reply, voice low and softly threatening, “I want to know what the hell you meant before. About me relishing your regret.”

She stared at him with unblinking eyes. “And we have to do this now?”

“What did you think would happen? I would let it go?”

“We usually tend to leave things at least twelve hours before the next episode of drama, Malfoy. So I suppose I was expecting a break.”

“A break?”

“I’m sore. I’m tired. We’re both tired. Can’t we talk about this tomorrow?”

“No.”

“Or better still, not at all.”

“Seeing as I said no to the first suggestion, I think we can both assume-”

“But it’s not just your decision.”

“Do you want your wand, Granger?”

“Don’t be a bastard, Malfoy.”

“Too late.”

“Clearly.”

It had felt like a decade since they’d done this. Even though it was shrouded with importance and things that essentially had to be said- the petty fighting, ultimately useless words and endless eye-rolling on Granger’s part had almost been something he’d missed. Almost. Were it not for the fact that it would be incredibly fucked in the head of him to miss anything about her whatsoever.

No. Draco couldn’t actually admit to himself that he’d missed her eye-rolling. He couldn’t bring himself to say the words fond of.

Which was almost comical, his thoughts added, considering what he let himself do to her last night. He’d bloody well- with Granger- and- there was no turning back. So why the fuck he had issues with the warm feeling that rolling her shitting eyes brought about was anyone’s guess.

And highly inappropriate considering the situation.

“-and you haven’t done it yet. It’s not like it would take long. How am I supposed to take that bath when there’s broken glass all over the bloody floor, Malfoy?”

She was talking about the damn bathroom again. Quite clearly. She made a good point, but it was highly irrelevant considering the topic of conversation that Draco was wishing to dwell upon in this present moment.

“Can’t you forget about the bathroom for one fucking second, Granger?”

Her frown grew deeper, if that were at all possible. “It’s a mess.”

“I know.”

“And I just want the mess sorted.”

They stared at each other. She was breathing heavily. He may have noticed that he was too, where it not for the fact that he had become unsuitably mesmerised by the rise and fall of her chest. Every time. Why does it happen every time she so much as breathes a little harder.

“Malfoy?”

“What?”

Hermione still looked confused. It was justified, since now- this was confusing. Now he had suddenly lost the words that had felt so powerful and clear in his mouth that it had been like trying to swallow down fire- and Draco just stood there, looking back at her.

This was supposed to be a confrontation. Not- whatever this was. Useless. Her spitting words about bathrooms and wands and things that just didn’t matter right now.

Draco inwardly shook himself. Psychologically grabbed a hold of his heart and forced it into a more regular pattern just so that he could get out the words. Any words.

“I just need to know. What it was that you meant.”

Hermione shook her head. “We always do this. I always say that I don’t want to talk about it, and it doesn’t matter how sure I am- you always end up getting your way. And that’s just it, isn’t it, Malfoy? You always end up getting your bloody way.”

“What the hell are you talking about, Granger?” She flailed off onto the wrong track so often it was beginning to blur his vision. “You mean I don’t try to run away from things?”

She made a sound that almost sounded like a snort. A ‘yeah like hell you never try to run away from things’ snort. It annoyed him.

“I don’t want to talk about this now,” she said, voice firm, “Can’t you see? Merlin. I’m still in my bloody dress, Malfoy. I haven’t done anything about it since I got into it last night. Everything is the same. My hair, my face, that room.” She jabbed a shaking finger in the direction of the bathroom. “And so are you. You haven’t even washed the blood off your knuckles.”

“And? There’s still blood on your chin, Granger.” But he immediately felt irritably bad for saying it.

“That’s not the point I’m making,” she frowned, “I’m just trying to make you see that we need to sort it out. Just- clean up. Please, Merlin, I just want to clean things up.”

“Why?” asked Draco, eyebrows twitching, “Because you’re so fucking eager to forget?”

“It’s not like that.” Although she looked down as soon as she said it, so Draco wasn’t sure if that meant she regretted it, or felt guilty. Or something else. In fact it was probably a hundred things.

He felt almost- needy. He felt desperate. Like the girls he used for one-night stands that would trail on back to him the morning after he’d left their damn bed- as if that wasn’t a big enough hint- asking, what? And, hadn’t it meant anything, Draco? Draco, baby? Do you regret it. Can I see you again. I thought this was love.

No.

Draco didn’t think this was love. Love was a fucking barrel of laughs compared to this. But he felt pathetic all the same. Which was no change whatsoever, of course. Just like Granger was pointing out. Everything was the same as last night. Apart from the blinding difference that he wasn’t hell-bent on ending his own life.

He was still ignoring why that was. Still ignoring the glaringly obvious thing that saved him from it. Or not ignoring the thing in itself- just choosing to overlook that the…thing in itself was the thing that saved him.

Or something stupid like that.

Can he say fucked up, once a-fucking-gain?

Draco shouldn’t kid himself. He wasn’t saved. He wasn’t saved from anything. Everything that happened last night still happened- everything. And it was sure as hell more than likely that the consequences were buzzing around the all-to-near future, just ready swish up and slit him in the throat.

Just like he deserved. For what he had done.

Merlin- no. Not now. Not ever. I just don’t want to think about- not ever. Please just grant me that one thing. As if you would ever sodding listen to me for once in your divine existence.

“Fine.” Draco scowled. Perhaps his bottom lip was even very slightly sticking out a bit further than the top one. How horribly sick that made him feel, as he quickly broadening his slouching shoulders and raised his chin. Wow. I bet that makes the dignity just come flooding back, right?

Fuck that. Again.

“What do you mean fine?”

“What do you want me say? God forbid I have my way, Granger.”

“And what’s the supposed to mean?”

“It means you’re talking bullshit. Which isn’t the biggest of surprises seeing as getting you to understand a single word I say is like trying to shove my head up a horse’s arse.”

Hermione wrinkled her nose in disgust. As if she wasn’t sitting there still in blood-stained, torn apart garments, most likely in the same wet underwear that he pushed aside the night before.

Draco wet his lips.

“Are you going to get my wand for me, Malfoy?” She almost asked the question with caution.

And it annoyed him. Because it seemed to well and truly mean that they weren’t going to talk about it. Not now at least. But he would find another time.

He and Granger always found another time.

“Do I have a choice?”

She eyed him carefully. “Well the obvious answer being yes,” and then she paused slightly, “But I’d be grateful.”

He rolled his eyes. “Whatever, Granger.” He turned and walked towards the door. “This is clearly taking us nowhere one hundred fucking miles an hour, anyway.”

“Thank you.”

“I don’t want your thanks.”

“Oh for-”

Draco closed the door on her words. Not that he didn’t hear the “goodness sake” behind the wall, he just liked her to think that he didn’t. Or couldn’t give a shit. Or both.

Merlin. He felt things for the girl. Big, shitting, sordid things for the stupid mudblood geek. He’d been so open about it. He’d been so fucking slice-himself-open about it. And he knew that she knew. Whatever it was he was feeling, or felt, or will feel for Merlin only knows how long now.

And she was closed. Stitched and sealed so absolutely compared to his rotting guts strewn out on the ground beneath them both. And he hated that. He fucking hated that so much.

But it was concentrating on that- concentrating on the inequality, unspoken words, wretched hate and lust and brutal fucking between them that was covering up the rest. Which was ironic. Could he call it ironic? The one thing that had caused his breaking point was the one thing that was covering it up again. Distracting him.

And seriously? Draco’s whole life was fucking ironic. Just a bunch of sour-faced irony shit out before him to stand there and laugh and point at him. Yes. He had found a knew word to compliment the desperate and pathetic and immoral. Just another to add to list.


*


Barely anyone had attended lunch. In fact, barely anyone was even up yet, and it was already midday. Ron eagerly wished he was one of those people. Tucked away in bed, still dreaming into the afternoon. At least then it would have given him a few more precious hours before the ever increasing harshness of reality kicked in.

They hadn’t moved from the sofa. Apart from to venture quickly downstairs to collect their wands that is. They returned to the very same spot (after peeling off a few first-years) mere moments later. All without little more than five or so words said between them.

He looked across at Harry. He was chewing on a piece of chocolate.

“How about now?”

“No.”

Ron rolled his eyes. For some reason, Harry was refusing to let the right time to visit Hermione actually be the right time. So far, at least.

“Why not?”

Harry shrugged. “I’m thinking.”

“You’re not still thinking about-”

“Aren’t you, Ron?”

It turned out that when Harry had suggested the possible reasons behind why Hermione could be feeling guilty, it happened to be not only the first time he’d mentioned these thoughts to Ron, but indeed thought them to himself in the first place. Which was his reasons for now slouching into a severe mode of brooding. Which- Ron took no problem with admitting- he had delved into just as deeply. It was one of the things he did best, after all.

But Ron was brooding for a different reason. Ron was brooding because Harry was being bloody ridiculous, and if he knew anything about Hermione- he would know the very idea that she had done anything with that bastard Malfoy was a complete and utter joke. Every time he looked over at him, he could see the images flashing in front of his eyes. He had to ask the question why in Merlin’s name Harry was doing it to himself. Being so fucking stupid.

Ron knew that he was obsessed with Malfoy, but there were lines that needed to be drawn. Big lines.

“-a line, Harry.”

“Excuse me?”

“There’s a line. And those thoughts of yours are crossing it. Big time.”

“But it’s not like I necessarily mean she may have wanted to do anything. I mean- what if Malfoy had- you know- well, you know- and she just feels guilty that she hasn’t told us?”

“What the-” Ron shook his head adamantly. “You’re seriously making me want to knock your brain about a bit, mate. You’re fucking out of it.”

“And you’re fucking stupid if you haven’t noticed anything.”

“What?” he scowled, a little taken aback, “I’m not the one making wild accusations like I’ve never even met Hermione before in my life!”

In that moment, the common room door opened. Their heads turned.

“Ginny?”

“Hello.” Her voice sounded unusually quiet.

“When did you- have you been down to lunch?” asked Ron.

She nodded.

“I didn’t see you walk past.”

“Well I did. You just weren’t paying any attention.”

Ron noticed Ginny was looking at Harry. His head was turned back to the fire.

“Harry, mate?”

“What?” he snapped.

Ron frowned. “Oh, nothing,” he snapped back, “Just my sister’s here, that’s all.” He glared at Harry.

“Ron!” he heard Ginny protest, shooting him a small look of embarrassment.

But whether Harry liked it or not, taking his sister to the ball meant responsibilities that extended beyond the one night. It was more than blindingly obvious that Ginny liked Harry. If he was going to let ridiculous notions about Hermione and some bastard mess things up-

“Hi, Ginny.”

She smiled slightly. A sort of pissed off smile. “Hi.” But there was also something else. Something quite strangely anxious about it as she walked up towards them. And she was holding something, he noticed, as she came to stand beside the armchair, looking between the two boys cautiously.

“What are you- what the hell are they?” asked Ron.

He saw Harry turn to look at the objects in question.

Ginny appeared slightly lost for words. It annoyed Ron a little. Because for some reason he felt the anxiety too. For some reason the things hanging from Ginny’s right hand looked uncomfortably-

“Hermione’s shoes.”

-familiar.

“What the-” Ron snatched them out of Ginny’s hand before she could pull them away.

She opened her mouth to speak.

“Bloody hell,” Ron cut in, “What happened to them?”

He held them up. One heel hanging was off, scuffs and dirt and tiny abrasions on the shiny fabric covering the top. They looked about ten years old. Ten years old and worn on every single day of those years.

Ron felt his heart beat a little faster as a realisation started to dawn on both of the boys.

Ginny grabbed them back. “Don’t, alright?” she mumbled, “Hermione told me about the grief you’ve both been giving her and, just- don’t. Don’t go reading into it. She probably tripped and fell and-”

“Into a ditch?” Harry interrupted. Rising from his seat and reaching towards them.

Ginny held her hand away, and began to walk backwards as Ron followed him into a standing position.

“You two!” she exclaimed, “That’s so typical. Overreacting all within three seconds of-”

“Don’t pretend it doesn’t look dodgy, Ginny!” said Ron, frowning at her in frustration.

Because fuck. It looked dodgy. It looked more than. And with all the poisoned things Harry had been filling his mind with- with all the strangeness of Hermione upping and leaving last night without a word- everything was fitting. The shoes. The absence. The dangers he had been denying. Something had happened.

Ron felt incredibly nauseous.

“Where did you find them?” barked Harry. A few fifth-years looked round at him.

“In the girl’s bathroom,” she replied, “Which isn’t the most unlikely place she would have taken them off and forgotten about them. Shoes like these hurt like hell, you know.”

Ron couldn’t escape the fact that Ginny’s tone was the least believable he had ever heard it. And she was ever so good at telling white lies. This white lie however- whether it be just to them, or to herself as well- wasn’t fitting the bill. It was clear she was just trying to calm them down.

“She walked off without her shoes on, did she?” asked Ron, “Walked off and just- didn’t happen to notice she wasn’t wearing any, right? Don’t talk bollocks, Ginny.”

“Oh for goodness sake,” she replied, rolling her eyes, “At least calm down. Yes, alright? Yes they look bad. They look like she fell or something-”

“About three flights of stairs,” frowned Harry, breathing heavier than before.

“Don’t go up there with all your wild ideas, alright?” she pleaded, “I only showed you because I thought you might be a little more level-headed about this. She’s ill remember?”

“And I wonder why that is,” answered Harry. “Give them to me, Ginny.”

“No.”

“Give them to me.”

“No!”

The common room had fallen almost completely silent.

Ron walked over to her and grabbed at the shoes. She held onto them tightly. “Please, Ron,” she murmured, aware of the staring faces around them, “Please don’t make a big deal out of this. Not straight away. Wait until she’s better and then ask her about it, okay?”

“She could be hurt, Ginny,” he frowned, “Now for Merlin’s sake, give me the fucking shoes.”

“She isn’t necessarily-”

“Let go,” he growled.

Ginny stared at him. A long, hard, aggravated look of frustration and exhaustion and complete and utter concern. Yes. She looked concerned. Just as concerned as they were. But she was trying to protect Hermione. It was obvious.

Only suddenly Ron didn’t care. Suddenly Ron didn’t care about ‘the best way to approach the situation’. He felt it. All of what Harry was feeling, just in one sudden rush of seeing those shoes- completely unable to stop the things that Harry was plugging on about from flooding his reluctant reality.

What if he was right. What if they were too late.

He knew something had happened. But he never expected- never prepared himself for evidence so devastatingly obvious as that. The shoes were ruined. Hermione’s shoes were ruined. And not in a way that stumbling on the bottom of her dress would have achieved.

Ron tried to take a deep breath. Tried to remember that he still had to keep that small bit of doubt within himself. For everyone’s sake. He couldn’t open himself wide to all the imaginative possibilities that Harry had tortured himself over. And he believed things were bad. But he also believed there would be an explanation.

There had to be an explanation. He just needed it. Now.

And then Ron realised that Harry has crossed the floor in front of them both and was walking briskly to the door.

“Harry-” began Ginny.

“We’ll be careful,” said Ron, grabbing her hand, “We’ll be like- calm or whatever, alright? Just let us see her.”

“Then I’m coming.”

“No. Let us see her alone, Ginny.”

“I’m her friend too, you prat!” she growled.

“This is just a- just a thing for us three, okay?”

She yanked her hand away from him and frowned. “Fine,” she mumbled, “Whatever, Ron. It’s your funeral. I can’t say I want to rush up there and confront the poor girl before she’s even had a chance to recover. I’m not that much of a dick.”

Ron shook his head and walked away from her.

“Seriously, Ron!”

Seriously what? This whole thing was serious. That was what was so fucking awful all of a sudden.

Ron quickened his pace to catch up with Harry.


*



To be perfectly honest, in theory- when you laid out the what-should-have-been basic principles- Draco really shouldn’t be bothering. Instead, he really should have told her where to stuff it, because, yeah- if he didn’t get his way, then she didn’t get hers either.

And yet here he was. Walking down the stairs away from her stupid bedroom, ready to carry out her stupid request to get her stupid wand and let her start to “clean things up”. Which was stupid, he hastens to add.

And why was it so stupid? Because it doesn’t work like that. Doesn’t she realise? It won’t all go away with a quick change of clothes and repairing of a mirror. All that does it renew the reflections.

Quite honestly? For once in his life, Draco had enjoyed not having to stare at his face whenever he walked into the bathroom. And that was a truth he never thought he’d hear himself think. But why the fuck would he want to repair the damn thing? He punched it in for a reason, after all. Okay- so the reason was different whilst he was actually doing it- the whole thing is a blur in fact- but now it was done? No. No he didn’t want to repair it. And perhaps that was why he hadn’t yet. There didn’t seem any point, to Draco. It didn’t seem to make any sense. Was that odd?

Draco patted the wand inside the robes he had shoved on over his clothes. It was instinctive. As it was for all students who had been there longer than three years. And if ever there was a time that Draco felt threatened, it was now. Not that he expected anything. Just that- that was the way it was. He couldn’t help but feel it.

And why was it again he was getting the mudblood her shitting wand? All she had done this morning was drive him into an infuriating state of desperate confusion and anger. Had she forgotten about what she saw? He didn’t like that she was ignoring it. Almost felt like she was doing it out of pity.

It wasn’t like he was that far gone. Not yet, at least. He knew what she had seen. All those tears. Draco shivered slightly, felt his heart twist. She wasn’t mentioning it because she didn’t know how to. And she probably never will. He didn’t like it. He didn’t know why but he just didn’t.

He’d rather get it all out in the open. Get it all out. Yes, I’m a fucked up, screwed up, still living inside my father’s head moron who has severe emotional issues. So severe my mind chooses to repress them with all that it’s got for most of my waking hours. Just acknowledge it, Granger. Because I know your over-sized brain is thinking it.

Draco stepped out of the portrait hole and into the corridor. He turn to the left and headed straight for the staircase. The quicker he got this over with, the quicker he could forget that he had done it in the first place.

Only someone was all of a sudden standing on the top step before him. Proverbial death stares shooting his way as he came to acknowledge his presence with a forced sneer. An extreme dislike. Because what the fuck did he want now.

As if Draco didn’t already know.

“What is it now, Potter?”

And quite quickly- so quickly that he couldn’t hide the fact that his breath was beaten completely out his lungs- Draco was smacked against the wall with an alarming force, Harry clenching a fistful of his robes as he pushed him up against the stone behind as hard as he could.

“What the fuck, Potter!” exclaimed Draco, catching his breath and mustering all the strength he had to push him the hell back. Which he did, and Harry stumbled, violently, only to be caught by- and this was just bloody fantastic- Weasley.

“What the hell do you want?” scowled Malfoy, grabbing his wand from his robes and gripping it by his side to match the presence of theirs.

Draco almost found himself laughing inwardly at Granger’s earlier words.

Just stay out of their way and you won’t have to worry about it.

Yes. Highly amusing, were it not for the fact that Draco was extremely unhappy about being shoved into the wall like that.

“We want to see Hermione,” growled Ron, as Harry straightened himself next to him.

“Or we could just ask you,” spat Harry, “I’m sure you having a fucking spot on idea what the hell is going on, Malfoy, right?” he added, lunging once again to push him backwards. Hard.

Draco tripped into the wall again as Harry’s hands met his chest.

“Don’t fucking touch me, Potter!” he growled, steadying himself immediately and taking a few steps forward.

“Wait until we talk to Hermione, Harry,” mumbled Ron, pulling him back whilst shooting a glare at Draco.

“Shut up, Ron!” exclaimed Harry, “Why the hell do you keep-”

“Fight with him afterwards, mate!” he replied, “Just talk to her first- just-”

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Draco cut in, rolling his eyes, “Mr and Mrs sodding save-the-day. Tell me, does he steal all the covers as well, Weasley?”

“Shut the hell up, Malfoy,” he seethed in reply, “I’m more than certain you have something to do with this, so you can be sure I’ll be first in line to punch the fucking-”

“That’s great,” nodded Draco, his top lip curling, “But would you mind telling me what’s got your knickers in such a twist?”

Although he felt that it was a fairly pointless question. Why invite the accusations? Each time they become more accurate. Each time he’s more tempted to just tell them yes. Yes it’s all fucking true and what the hell are you going to do about it?

Winding up Potter led to such easy punishment, after all.

Ron help up a pair of shoes in front of him.

Draco’s memory kicked into play once again. Her shoes. Kicked into the corner of the girl’s cubicle. Broken, bashed, dirty reminders that she got her ribs kicked in by the slag Draco was too thick to worry about.

He gritted his teeth.

Needed to shoot out a remark. A snide, mocking remark just to keep his composure.

“You been using the girl’s bathroom again, Weasley?”

And what the fuck was that? What the fucking fuck was that? Because Draco suddenly realised, with the sharpest stab of stupidity he had received in a long time, that he had just-

“How the hell would you know they were found in the girl’s bathroom?” asked Harry, almost sounding genuinely taken aback. His tone shocked, questioning.

There was a silence. Shit. No. There shouldn’t be a silence. But words- he didn’t have any at that point.

Draco opened his mouth.

“What the hell did you do to her, Malfoy?” frowned Ron, tone deep and more menacing that he had ever heard it before.

Draco straightened his posture. “I didn’t do anything. She just mentioned that she’d left them there.” Yes. That was better. That put him back in the game.

“You’re a liar, Malfoy!” yelled Harry.

Or apparently not. But it didn’t surprise him.

“You reckon?” replied Draco, “You don’t think that you’re just sulking because she didn’t tell you she was feeling unwell last night?”

“I think you seem to be missing the point,” growled Harry, “Which isn’t very surprising, I suppose. Not for a thick twat like you.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Look at them, Malfoy,” he breathed, taking the shoes from Ron’s hand and holding them out before him. He dropped them to the ground. “Now what the hell did you do to her?”

“Nothing.”

“Don’t lie to us. Don’t you dare fucking lie to-”

“What more can I say?” frowned Draco, angry, desperate, stupid not to have expected this as soon as he stepped out of the damned portrait hole. He gripped his wand tighter. “Stop dragging me into all the stupid fucking insecurities you have with Granger. And stop looking for other people to blame. If you’ve got issues, deal with them, Potter. Don’t drag me into your filthy trio politics. I couldn’t give a shit, alright?”

Draco would always be awfully good at lying. When he wasn’t completely stripped by the truth.

“I told you, didn’t I?” he retorted, anger marking his features with that ever familiar threat that stained his skin, “I told you we’d find out eventually. Well here’s the proof, Malfoy. As fucking solid as shitting bone, you idiot. You can’t talk your way out of this one. You can’t fuck about for this long and expect us not to notice! Hermione is our best friend. And you thought we wouldn’t figure it out?”

“And what exactly is it you’ve figured out?” Although Draco couldn’t help but notice within himself that he was becoming slightly frantic. Slightly frantic because there was just a little too much going on in his head in that moment to keep his composure from faltering. Keeping his tongue from steering the truth past his teeth was hard enough.

Ron cut across Harry. “I told you. I told you if you did anything to ruin her night then you’d pay. Well it seems like you did just that.”

“Oh close your fucking mouth, Weasley,” sneered Draco, “You’re talking bullshit, and you know it. Like I would ever hurt the bitch. Not physically, anyway. I have standards.”

“I very much doubt that.”

“I don’t-” Draco swallowed slightly. “-hit girls, you prick.”

“Is that right?” hissed Ron.

No.

No it fucking wasn’t. But right now that was the last thing he needed to remember. Although it was perhaps a little too late.

“You see there are a few things I wouldn’t put past you, Malfoy,” growled Harry, grinding the words out maliciously through his teeth, “She hasn’t been the same since she started living within a ten metre radius of you. In fact it’s almost destroying her. You must have that affect on quite a few people, Malfoy. Fucking with people’s heads. Fucking things up. Only you’ve got to take it that one step too far eventually, right?” And then he began to raise his voice. “You can’t get bored now, can you? I mean Hermione is stubborn. We all know that. Maybe she just kept saying no! Is that it? Maybe she just said no one too many times for your liking and so you-”

“Shut up!” he exclaimed, palms sweating as he readjusted his grip on his wand, “You have no fucking idea what you’re-”

“Parkinson seemed to have a pretty good idea though, didn’t she?” Harry barked back, “And did you think I’d just overlook the fact that you didn’t even bother to try and deny it, Malfoy? You were even too stupid to do that, for fuck’s sake! Perhaps a little too shocked that I knew the truth? So yeah- we put two and two together- and now this-” Harry kicked the shoes in front of him. “You’re sick, Malfoy! You’re fucking-”

“So why haven’t you killed me already, Potter?” his voice grated, “Because we both know you would have done by now. Either you or Weasley. If you sincerely believed it. Which you don’t. At least make up your fucking mind before you start to throw ridiculous notions like that in my face!”

“If you didn’t do anything,” growled Ron, “Then what the hell happened, Malfoy?”

“You’ll have to ask Granger, won’t you? Because I know absolutely shit all about-”

Harry’s fist collided into his jaw mid-sentence. Draco’s neck cracked to the right, his hand shooting up to his mouth- sharp, harsh, throbbing pain shooting through his bones. Draco brought his head back up as quickly as possible, only to be decked once again by a second magnificent blow from Potter’s fist that sent him to the ground.

The fucking ground.

“Enough lies,” he heard him growl above him. “Enough fucking about and pretending you’re better than you are. We all know you’ve got everything to do with-”

But Draco was back on his feet before Harry could finish. And this time he was angry. This time it made a lot of sense to hit him the hell back. Harder. Because no one floored Draco Malfoy. Not for any reason. Not even for the truth. And as his fist glided almost elegantly into the centre of Harry’s face, that was one thing he knew. He didn’t care that Potter was going to hurt him, he just cared that he hurt him back.

And so he half-watched as Harry fell back into Ron- who helped him up straight away- but apparently wasn’t quick enough to grab his sweater before he shot back at Draco, loud growling as his fist fell, once again, full thwack onto Draco’s left cheek.

Weasley was shouting. Useless things. He may have been trying to stop it. He may have been egging him on. Who the fuck knew. The blood was rushing too fiercely in Draco’s ears as he shoved an elbow into some ribs with all the force he could gather. “You want to know what the fucking problem is?!” he shouted, knuckles into Potter’s face before he could even so much as answer. Harry put his hands out to keep from smacking the ground below. “You’re the one pushing her away! Maybe she was having a hard time, Potter! And so fucking what? Did you expect me to make it easy for her? But then you weren’t exactly there to listen, were-” Another blow to Draco’s face, further up this time, around his eyes. And yes- Weasley was- he really was trying to push himself between them. Draco shoved him hard enough to allow a gap for a second elbow- this time raised up and knocking Potter’s neck back full force from underneath his chin.

Harry stumbled back slightly, spluttered, coughed. “No- that’s not the problem, Malfoy!” he growled, white bursts of salvia shooting from his mouth in fury, “You are! You’ll never get her! And you think hurting her will make it easier? You think you can beat her into loving you, Malfoy? You need to get a fucking grip! You need to-” Draco grabbed his shoulders to pull him down, hurling his knee out-straight into his stomach and causing him to keel over spectacularly. And then he felt his own body fall heavily to ground as Weasley grabbed his legs, losing his balance and smacking his chin against the stone floor. He tasted blood in his mouth. Kicked his legs as fiercely as he could and heard the crack of teeth as a muffled cry spilt out of Ron’s mouth behind him. He struggled to get up, Harry now on his feet and shoving a forceful foot into his stomach that almost made him wretch, curl over, cough at the ground. “Because you’ve always been sick!” he was yelling, “And you’ve always fucking wanted her, Malfoy! But you can’t! You can’t fucking have her!” He grabbed Potter’s leg and yanked it, tugged it as hard as he could and watched as he too lost his balance and fell once again to the ground with the thud- Draco crawling over to his body, teeth gritted, eyes clouded with burning anger- so much anger- because if only you knew the truth- the fucking truth- as he knelt on each of his wrists and began pounding his fist back into his face- one- two full-blown shots and yells of “fuck” and “bastard” and “fuck” all over again before he felt a pair of hands drag him off, throw him to the ground and kick him hard into the stomach once again, the same coughing- spluttering- choking on words as saw Harry struggle up from the corners of his vision, and land an almighty blow on the side of Draco’s face that sent him flat to the ground- and now he was spitting blood- spitting it from the insides of his searing mouth as he tried to reach up and hit something- anything- but his face was pounded once again by whoever was there above him now- and his eyes closed with the pain, closed and he almost felt that he couldn’t open them again as a foot crashed into his stomach before and-

“Harry! No!”

-screams.

And not just from anyone. From her.

The fumbling, the swearing, the heat and spit and rage stopped dead. Draco opened his eyes. Stared up at Hermione. Couldn’t quite understand, believe that she had rushed towards him, crouched down, hand on his head- mouth open in shock.

“Hermione-” he heard Ron mutter, bewilderment in his voice.

“Shut up!” she shouted. “Just shut up, both of you!”

Draco began coughing. His stomach felt torn inside out.

“What the hell are you two doing?!” he heard her cry. Heard protests and anger and objections that she silenced one after the other. “For goodness sake, you idiots! What were you thinking?!”

He knew what it looked like. Two against one. Draco on the ground, bleeding, hurting. But none of that mattered. Couldn’t she see? Couldn’t she see that she’d just made the mistake of her life? Just get the fuck away from him. Get away. Take your hand off his sodding shoulder, fingers away from his bloody face-

“Hermione…why are you…?” He heard Potter trail off, breathlessly.

Because Hermione- she had just showed that she cared. Rushed towards and touched and bled such raw concern in her stupid voice that she- cared. About Draco. And that all of a sudden she cared far too much. It said so much. Too much. It was clear even to him- vision blurred, blood and bones and flesh throbbing magnificently. That it had just made it worse.

Yes. Explain this one. Explain why you’ve rushed over to me, Granger. When I’m not the only one who is bleeding all over the place. They need a fucking explanation.

Potter and Weasley staring at her with horrific confusion spread across their faces.




*