Water

Title: Water
Chapter Fifteen
Genres: Angst
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Sexual References, Angst
Feedback: Please be honest, and I try to get back to you personally on certain issues.
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.


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


Chapter 15.


Hermione knew immediately that she wasn’t the only one lying on the top of her bed covers, the sunlight streaming through the open window. And it was freezing, because that window was open for some reason.

She didn’t know there was another person because she remembered who it was or why they were lying there behind her, she could just tell by the way the mattress dipped lower on that side. That she was slightly higher on her side. That there was breathing.

If she had relaxed her mind and drifted back into that quiet darkness again, she would wake up later thinking it were all a dream. And she’d be relieved.

But instead, she inhaled the air around her, mentally shaking her mind into awareness. Her eyes focussed, her heart threw itself into it’s familiar rhythm, and her fist curled around the covers underneath her with sudden realisation. She held in that breath.

Hermione didn’t ask herself, are you surprised? Are you surprised that he didn’t leave last night? Because she was. N’t. Wasn’t. No she was.

Wait. Was she surprised?

God, does it even matter? What does that question even mean?

And why the hell hadn’t she shot up yet?

Hermione Granger shot up and off her bed in the time it took her to once-over her clothes and smooth them down. One clean press of her hand, right down the front of her T-shirt. She stared blindly in the direction of the boy on her bed, blinking as she fought the head rush that managed to cloud her vision frustratingly well.

Damn it. Blink, Hermione. Blink it out.

The colours came back to her slowly, and she found herself faced with whom she already knew was there. Not that it made her heart thrash any the less upon seeing him.

Strange how quickly you can wake up when you need to. Strange how the adrenaline makes it seem like you’ve been living out your day for hours. Completely awake.

Draco was still asleep. He still had all his clothes on, crumpled and scrunched in some places where he’d been moving around in the night. And he was half under the covers. Which angered Hermione. A lot, for some reason.

Oh that’s fine. Please, Malfoy, stay here. Just use my bed, get under my covers- that’s fine. That’s fine even though I’m sure you saw that I didn’t have any covers. Even though it’s my bed. Even though I may have wanted the covers seeing as the bloody window is open- and that didn’t happen by itself either, did it? Never mind that it’s my room- and did I want the window open?

Oh for the love of-

Why was that even a thought in her head? The covers didn’t matter. The window didn’t matter. He was in her fucking bed and that freaked her out immensely considering she wasn’t at all surprised that he hadn’t left after she’d fallen asleep.

So you weren’t surprised?

After all that- those words. And the way he kissed her. And the way she touched him. He whispered her name. She whimpered. He was making sounds, low and caught up in his throat. They made her touch him more-

-couldn’t even bring herself to say where. And how. Not even to herself, and in her own head.

Just skipped her memory to Draco grabbing her wand and cleaning himself up. Without one word from either of them. And she noticed, even though she hadn’t stopped crying throughout it all, even though she had turned her back on him and just lay there, on her bed, quieter than before- she noticed that he didn’t leave. She kept noticing it until she fell asleep.

And now here she was, noticing it again. Growing angrier by the second at the fact that he hadn’t woken the hell up yet to explain himself.

She looked around for something, anything. Because apparently her voice wasn’t around. She grabbed a pillow off her bed and chucked it onto his face.

She heard a muffled groan.

Found her voice. “Get up, Malfoy.”

“What- what-”

“Get up.”

He was blinking, frowning and un-frowning with concentration on shaking himself into reality. His face dropped instantly. The moment he really woke up. But then he hastily pushed the hair out of his eyes, put on the game face- or whatever. Whatever face it was. “What time is it?” he mumbled, dragging himself off the bed.

“A little time I like to call what the hell are you doing in my bed?!” she shouted. Suddenly, she could shout. That was fast, seeing as she had forgotten how to even speak a second earlier.

And- he really did- he had the fucking audacity to smirk at her.

“A little time you like to call what?”

“You didn’t hear me?” she growled.

“What’s wrong with you?”

“What’s wrong with you?!”

“I’ve only just woken up, love.”

“In my bed!” she fumed, and then, “Don’t call me love!”

“What the hell can I call you then?”

“My name is Hermio-” She stopped herself. “Granger. Granger, you idiot.”

“Hermione-”

“Don’t.”

He shrugged. But then looked at her in a way that was almost painful. For both of them.

“You didn’t ask me to leave last night, Granger.”

“Should I have had to? I mean-” she snapped, “The hint that it’s my room didn’t really sink in?”

“Doesn’t take much effort. Malfoy, get out now, I’m done with you? Wouldn’t have gone amiss.”

“I’m done- what? I mean- I- what?” This was not happening. He was not saying these things. He was not acting so bloody cool and calm and collected as if this kind of thing always happened.

Because this kind of thing never happened.

“Are you going to do this every time?” sighed Draco. He actually sighed it.

That pissed her off.

“Do what every time?”

“Wake up, wake me up, stutter out a load of shit about what are you doing here, get out of my room etcetera.”

“Don’t etcetera me, Malfoy. Just get out.”

“So you are going to do this every time?”

“What every time? There is no every time!”

“This is kind of an every time.”

“Oh really?” What was more awful is that she was turning red. And not just that sort of slight flush Harry dubbed “adorable” just to make her feel better. It was much fiercer than that.

“Yes.” He folded his arms.

“When has this ever happened before?”

“Maybe not this specific thing. But things in general. You know what I’m talking-”

“Nothing will happen again!”

“Okay. But when it does, just vary it a bit. It’s getting old.”

“The- oh- just seriously, get out. Just get out before I think-” She actually thought her head was going to explode.

And what the hell had happened to him? Last night he was shaking, he was desperate, he was a mess. Last night he was Malfoy, the ruined one, the one fucking her up along the way. He had done it again, all over again. Created that perfect situation for them that- was just so perfect for them. The tears and the angry words and all the tiny truths exploding between them both. It was always so devastating, exhilarating. It was always so never going to happen again.

And now he was being obnoxious. Obnoxious. And rude. And bloody Malfoy. After sleeping in her god damn bed, which just took it too far. I mean, didn’t he realise this was what they do? These unspeakable things, scream at each other, and then swear on their tangled lives that they would never do it again?

She couldn’t believe she was admitting that to herself. That this was what they do. How incredibly pathetic that sounded. How very not okay.

Because this isn’t what they do. This is what they did. And it couldn’t happen again. It was a momentary lapse.

That déjà vu hit her hard.

“It wasn’t,” murmured Draco, dragging her back to the fact that he was still standing there on the other side of the bed.

“Did I- did I say something?”

“It wasn’t a mistake. If that’s what you were thinking.”

Hermione was outraged that he dare read her thoughts. “For your information, that was not what I was thinking.”

“So you don’t think it was a mistake?”

“Y-yes I do. I just wasn’t thinking it. At that moment.”

“But you’re thinking it now?”

She frowned. “You’re certainly helping the thought along.”

“Well you’re wrong.”

Hermione growled with frustration. “I happen to think it was, Malfoy, and I couldn’t care less that you don’t agree with- Oh don’t you move- don’t you dare move!”

“The sun is shining in my eyes.” He said it in such a monotonous voice, it almost made her heart skip a beat at the insanity of it all.

“Well then cover them!” She backed up and away from her bed. “Or better still- move towards the bloody door instead!” He was moving around it, towards her. “Just-” And getting alarmingly close. She immediately felt the tiny hairs on the back of her neck shoot up. And immediately thereafter was annoyed about it.

“Why do you sound so surprised that I’m still here?” he asked, stopping at the corner of her bed that was nearest to her. “Are you really that shocked?”

That question again. Was this question really necessary? Did it really change anything?

“Are you?” she asked.

“Am I what?”

“Surprised that I would be?”

“So you are surprised?”

Merlin. They were doing this too much. Dancing around each other’s words like the other could be beaten by it. When really, face-up-to-reality really, it wasn’t getting them anywhere. Apart from Draco five or six feet closer to her.

“Honestly?” she breathed, “I’m not surprised that you had the cheek to stay. But- but I can’t believe you aren’t leaving now.”

“You never asked me to before.”

“No but- I was asleep. You just- well the point is I’m asking now.”

“You’re stalling an awful lot with your sentences this morning, Granger,” he drawled, “You should take a moment to collect yourself.”

“And you should take a moment to-”

“-get the hell out?”

“Shut the hell up. But your one is good too.”

He took a step in her direction, leaving the post of the bed and standing once more in the sunlight from the window. He reached out and closed it. “Got a bit hot last night.”

“It was probably the covers,” thought Hermione. Out loud.

Draco was smirking again. “You could have had some if you wanted some.”

“I didn’t want some! Just- Why are you still here?”

She seriously doubted that he was sane on very many occasions, for very many reasons. And now it was because- it was because he was acting in that way. That alternate-reality kind of way. So almost playful, like this was all a big joke.

Draco was speaking again.

“-down to breakfast. Before you stutter the time away.”

She shot him a fierce look. “What is your problem, Malfoy?” Hermione narrowed her eyes. “Why are you being so- such a bastard?”

“I’m not being a bastard.” She would have thought that he almost looked offended, were it not for the fact that it would be so ridiculous considering he couldn’t possibly deny he was being difficult.

“Yes you are. After everything that happened last night.”

“I haven’t forgotten, if that’s what you’re getting at. I know exactly what happened.”

She blushed, swallowed the slice of shame back into her throat quickly. “So you should be acting accordingly.”

“Accordingly?”

“Yes!”

“How am I supposed to act accordingly?” His tone was mocking. But not in that friendly, teasing sort of way. In that why-is-everyone-but-me-an-idiot sort of way.

“Let’s see,” she replied, “You could start with getting out.”

“But I thought I should act accordingly. That’s not acting accordingly. Acting accordingly could be shouting at you, like we always do. Or acting accordingly could be-”

“Stop saying that word.”

“You said it first.”

“For Merlin’s sake, Malfoy! Are you completely dense? I wish you would just-”

He took two quick steps, and crashed into her body.

They thudded against the wall. His desperate fingers wrapped around her arms, just below her shoulders. Firm. He paused for the briefest of moments- where- something happened. He stared into her eyes, hard, almost as if he was as winded as she was. And then he pressed his lips into hers, eyes still open. They were warm, wet.

And then still. Pressed, stubborn, and still.

His mouth against hers, unmoving. Their breathing stopped.

Draco’s eyes closed slowly, as he loosened his grip on her body. The skin on their lips lingered together as he pulled away from her.

Hermione was stunned. For a second.

For another second.

And then she pushed him, heatedly.

“What the hell was that?!” she exclaimed.

“I was acting accordingly.”

“No you weren’t!”

“Yes I was. I kissed you last night. So I’m kissing you again. Accord-”

“If you say that word one more time!”

“You’ll?”

Her breathing was hard, angry. And she was more frustrated with herself than anyone in that room in that moment. And it didn’t feel like it was just the two of them. It felt like there were one hundred people standing there, surrounding them. Judging them. Pressing her mind with their accusatory eyes.

That. That was what it felt like to kiss Draco Malfoy in the light of morning. When reality was at its fiercest. When things couldn’t be blamed on how oh so tired she was, how desperate beyond belief he looked. It felt like judgment from the second his lips left hers. As soon as the kiss ended.

Not during it. Never during it. That was always a moment that pushed time against the wall with a knife against it’s throat. Threatened it to silence. Forced it out of existence. But only for as long as the heat lasted.

Oh no. Fuck. She’d let him move closer again. And before she could barely take a breath to speak, his knuckles brushed against her cheek, so softly the moment almost broke her skin. Most definitely tore open her heart a little.

“Malfoy…” she breathed, awkwardly. But not at all. She felt as if she should feel awkward. But didn’t. Apprehensive, wary, and completely driven to stay absolutely still for as long as he’d touch her. But not awkward.

He spoke quietly now. He brought his face forwards slightly, and then back. And then again. As if he was struggling, somewhere inside himself, to stay away from her. From them.

“I just want you to admit it,” he whispered, his hand still against her cheek. His thumb rubbing it slightly. Barely. She didn’t know if he even realised. “That we aren’t. This isn’t a mistake.”

Hermione was looking at him. She so desperately wanted to divert her gaze, stop her life essence trying to fuse with that one touch. Just that one touch.

How dare he do this to her with just one touch.

And he was so unbearably close to her. She could feel his breath against her skin.

She blinked. “I- I don’t know. I can’t…”

“Why?” he asked, voice still low, still soft between them. But demanding.

“Because. Don’t you understand? If I admit that… If I agree with you- that’s it. I can’t-”

“Hide away any longer?”

She shook her head slightly. “I don’t want to hide, Malfoy. I want to forget.”

“That’s the same thing.”

“No. Hiding would imply I still want to continue this.”

What disgusting words.

Draco shook his head now. “I don’t believe you.” And then he said it again. “I don’t believe you, Granger. You’re already lying to so many people. I understand that-”

“How could you possibly understand that?”

“-so why don’t you at least tell someone the truth,” he continued, quietly ignoring her protest, “There’s too many lies. We both know that. But at least I know that somewhere in the middle of all this, there’s a tiny ounce of truth. Between us.”

“How?” she replied- his hand still hadn’t left her cheek- “There’s so much I don’t know. So much you don’t know. How is there any truth between us? You can’t even bring yourself to tell me why you were cry-”

“I’m not talking about that,” he cut in, “I’m talking about the feeling. The fucking feeling, Granger. You’re not stupid. I’m not stupid.”

“But I don’t understand.” She took a deep, controlled breath. “You hate me. I- hate you.”

He looked at her. Stared. And it hurt that he didn’t instantly refute it. It was hurting that he didn’t immediately correct her. No, no I don’t hate you, Granger. I never did. I never will. This isn’t some twisted game full of hatred, power and control. It isn’t.

Is that what you think?

Because that’s what I think, Malfoy. Draco. That is what I think sometimes.

Even though I tell myself it isn’t. Even though I lay awake at night and somehow convince myself in that beautiful haze of sleep that you adore me. That you are lying in your bed through those cold walls, thinking about me. Fantasising about me. Touching yourself. Because maybe- somehow- that makes it easier for me to do the same.

And it’s still disgusting. It’s still so awful and wrong. But it makes it easier.

To think that Pansy was right. That it wasn’t just paranoia. That you said my name when you came inside her. That you said it before we even kissed.

That it was always me.

Why aren’t you saying anything, Draco? Why aren’t you telling me I’m wrong?

There was a knock at the door.

They jolted. Draco’s hand shot back to his side, his head snapping round to look at the door.

“Hermione?” came the voice. That voice.




*



She was jabbing her finger in the direction of the bathroom.

“Go!” she whispered, desperately through the air.

And Draco did, honestly, for one second go to move in the direction of the bathroom. Leave her alone. Make it simple.

But actually. No.

“What are you doing?” She practically mouthed the words, eyes frantic.

He shrugged. “I’m here. What’s he going to do about it?” He wasn’t making as much effort to speak quietly. She winced a little. And he felt bad a little.

“Hermione, are you in there?” asked Harry.

Oh just shut the fuck up you absolute dickhead.

“Just- one second, Harry!” she exclaimed, “I’m just- just one second!”

“Oh- I- okay. I’ll wait outside.” She turned to Draco. “How did he get the password?” she asked, her voice a strained whisper.

Draco shrugged again. And then remembered. “Obviously heard me say it when we were carrying you inside.” He spoke a little quieter this time, just because he felt bad. He hated himself so much for feeling bad.

“Malfoy, please go.”

It sounded wrong, because really, she shouldn’t have to be saying please. Please get out of my room so that my best friend doesn’t walk in and put two and two together and make fucking ninety-four.

But he was still angry with her. For thinking it would be okay to bring up the hatred. For thinking it would work to hide behind it. For refusing to admit that she was wrong. Because they weren’t a mistake. They were just fucked up. And there’s nothing wrong with that.

If he stayed there, and Potter saw. Well then it gives her another chance to tell him the truth. That terrible forbidden truth she’s been struggling with these past few weeks.

“Hermione, are- is- what’s going on?” asked Harry. He sounded confused. He sounded as if he would come through the door at any moment.

“I’m- just-” And then she sighed. Shot Draco a look that sent shivers down his spine. He imagined pushing her back up against the wall with that look. “Malfoy is here.”

He was so surprised, he almost choked amidst swallowing. Because- I mean- he would have left. He wouldn’t have actually stayed. He wouldn’t have done that to her. He was just-

-being a bastard.

“What?” came Harry’s voice, utterly pissed off, but in some strange fashion, a little held back. As if he was trying not to care. Perhaps he hoped that he hadn’t heard correctly.

“He’s just come through, Harry,” explained Hermione to the door. “Come in.” She sounded bright and breezy. But as soon as her sentence broke off, she looked at Draco again. One last look of that- hatred. Before Potter came in.

Although she can’t hate him. He knew that much. And even if she did, it wasn’t as straight-cut as that. It was filled with holes.

The look on Harry’s face was, it has to be said, priceless once his hearing had been confirmed.

Oh Potter. I hate you. Nothing more than you. But you aren’t half cute when you realise we’ve been fucking each other again.

Because I know you know. Even if this time, you’re not technically correct.

“I thought I would-” Harry cleared his throat. “-see if you were alright. You know. Come and walk you down to breakfast or- see if you were going to lessons today or not.” There was a pause between them all. “Are you?”

“Yes. Yes I am,” she nodded.

Draco looked her. The bruises on her skin had faded now. She was still pale, incredibly pale, but questions wouldn’t be asked.

“It’s just-” Harry stopped, glancing at Draco quickly and then back at Hermione, “You’ve got changed into your own clothes. Shouldn’t that be into your uniform if you’re going to lessons?”

Hermione shrugged. “Well you’ve just changed my mind. I was going to rest again today but- now you’re here- I don’t know. I really shouldn’t be missing lessons in the final year.”

Harry smiled slightly. “Something would have to be really wrong for you to do that.”

She smiled back.

And there was a moment. It made Draco sick to his stomach watching it, being there in between it all. Best friends. Potential lovers. Whatever they were. Whatever Potter endlessly hoped they could be.

Because it just made sense. It made sense that she would end up with someone like him. Like Potter. A fucking hero, a love-you-forever. Even if Hermione couldn’t see it just yet, even if she didn’t pick up on the- as far as Draco was concerned- glaringly obvious hints that Potter felt more for her. That’s where she would end up.

If Draco let her go.

Or maybe it was just him. Maybe it was just his paranoia, his confusion. He admitted to himself that he never understood their relationship. The three of them. Potter, Weasley and Granger had always seemed strange to him. How could there be such unconditional love between people? Especially when they had only known each other for just over six years. Personally, Draco couldn’t work it out. And perhaps that’s why he just assumed it was something more. And because he hated Potter. And because he needed someone to blame.

Harry cleared his throat again. He was looking at Draco. Draco realised this when he stopped looking at Hermione.

“Yes, Potter?”

Harry’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly.

“Harry, er- Malfoy and I were just talking about-”

“Prefect stuff?” Harry cut in, eyebrow raised.

It irritated Draco that he thought he knew so much about them. That he thought he had him completely and utterly sussed. But Harry knew fuck all about him. And that was the truth. Or half of it, at least.

“Good guess,” snarled Draco. And then he looked back at Hermione. “Have a good day then.”

He turned to leave.

“Malfoy-” she started. He stopped. “Are you- coming down to breakfast?”

He looked at Potter. “I can’t go anywhere until I’ve done a few healing charms.”

Harry’s eyes didn’t move from his. He wasn’t going to express the slightest bit of shame. And Draco wasn’t at all surprised.

The room was silent as Draco walked in the direction of the bathroom. As he shut the door behind him, he heard Hermione telling Harry to wait downstairs as she got changed. And so he found himself unmoving, waiting there on the other side of the bathroom door. Just waiting.

Merlin only knows what for. But he was thinking things whilst she was undressing on the other side of that wall. He was thinking too many things about her and Potter. And it was awful. Because the thoughts wouldn’t stop. They wouldn’t stop cutting into him.

He loved her. Harry loved Hermione. Whether or not it was in a sexual way, there was love between them. Potter had the one thing that he didn’t have. Anywhere in his life.

And that was a real reason to hate him. The reason that he did.

Draco often wondered if maybe Hermione thought about them together sometimes. Her and Potter. Did she ever picture him fucking her into the bed sheets at night? Did she ever imagine the weight of his body on hers?

Did she ever imagine it was Harry when Draco kissed her?

He felt sick.

Maybe that was the real reason she was holding back. Draco was spoiling things. Maybe what they had wasn’t enough compared to what she knew she and Potter could have one day. And she didn’t want to risk losing that. Nothing to do with friendships and trust. All to do with where she saw herself in ten years time.

Suddenly Draco was back in her room.

“Malfoy!”

“Do you love him?”

Draco was breathing hard. His hands were balled into fists, straight and rigid at his side.

Hermione was clutching her shirt to her chest. It distracted him for a moment. But the anger re-distracted him immediately after that.

“Malfoy I’m getting cha-”

“Do you love him, Granger?” he demanded. The words scraped out of him painfully.

“Do I love who?” she asked, frustrated, straining to keep her voice low enough so that Harry wouldn’t hear.

Rush up fuming and throw him out.

“Potter. Do you love Potter?” Draco’s frown was deep. He didn’t quite understand how he’d managed to walk into her room again. He couldn’t quite pinpoint the moment he decided to do so, but all of that was irrelevant now. He just needed to know the truth.

“What are you talking about?” she asked, frowning back at him. “Just go, Malfoy.”

“Not until you tell me the truth,” he replied. “I swear, Granger. You better tell me the truth or I’ll-”

“Who the hell do you think you are?” she growled, “How dare you walk in here like this and ask about things you know nothing about! Things you don’t even understand! When I ask you to get out, that’s what you should do, Malfoy. You should get out. Or do you want me to call Harry?”

“Oh you’d love that wouldn’t you?” spat Draco, “Bring up lover boy to save the day again. Does it turn you on, Granger? Potter playing the hero? Or is it just the glasses that do it for you?”

Hermione scoffed. “What the hell is wrong with you?” she asked. Her words were angry. She was angry. He could sense it in waves.

“Is that the real reason you won’t admit things between us? Is that the real reason you’re holding back?”

“There are a hundred reasons I’m holding back, Malfoy!” she snapped, shouting through her whisper. “And yes! Of course Harry is one of them!”

“So you do then?” laughed Draco, eyebrows still furrowed. Eyes piercing. “You love the stupid fucker.”

“Yes. But not like that. Not like-” She shook her head quickly, looked up at the ceiling. Her favourite fucking place. And then she turned her back to him to pull on her shirt.

When she turned back around, she was still doing up the buttons.

Draco swallowed.

“You can’t understand my relationship with Harry and Ron,” continued Hermione, “And I don’t pretend you can. I don’t expect you to. But you can’t start making wild accusations about my feelings when you have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“So I’m wrong?”

“Yes. Yes you’re wrong. Now leave me alone.”

But somehow, he couldn’t quite let go of the idea. It seemed too deep rooted. He had pondered over it for too many years now just to forget it in a moment. Something was there. Something had to be there. And he didn’t like how it actually mattered to him.

“Well if you don’t love him- he loves you.”

“I do love him.”

“You- what?” Draco’s faced scrunched up.

“Harry is the best friend I could ever ask for, Malfoy. Of course I love him for it.”

“And Weasley?”

“Yes, Ron too.”

Draco laughed again. “You’re fucking blind, Granger.”

“Excuse me?” she frowned.

“You just can’t see it, can you? You can’t see any of it.”

“And what is it I’m supposed to be seeing, Malfoy?” she snapped.

“How he feels about you. The way he looks at you. The way he watches your mouth when you’re speaking. It makes me sick. And you don’t even notice. It just passes you by.”

“Even if that were true,” she replied, eyes narrowing, “Harry has more right than you to do any of those things. I’m not yours, Malfoy.”

“Oh yeah-” he growled back, “So you’re Potter’s now, are you?”

“No. I don’t belong to anyone,” she snapped, “And you know that. What the hell has gotten into you, Malfoy?”

“I’m sick of being pushed onto the sidelines just because of golden boy.”

“And what? You reckon if I just revealed this stupid little affair we’ve been having it would make things so much easier for you? It’s not like you want your friends to know either. What would Crabbe and Goyle say? What would Zabini say? And let’s not even get started on Pansy.”

“As if she doesn’t already know.”

“Yeah, well,” she answered, looking down. “That just goes to show. There’s only so many healing charms one can do.”

Draco paused. “I won’t let anything happen to you, Granger,” he said. His eyes were suddenly wider. “I mean- not again. I won’t let anyone touch you again. I didn’t mean to let her do that.”

“You didn’t mean to…?” she repeated. And Draco couldn’t help but think she resented him for it. Not that he could blame her.

“You don’t honestly think I knew about their ridiculous plan before it happened, do you?”

She looked back down again. And then she shook her head.

“It’s not even about that. It’s not about who will hurt us. It’s about who we’ll hurt.”

“I don’t care.”

“You really don’t care?” she asked, her tone doubtful, “You wouldn’t stop me if I went downstairs to tell Harry this minute?”

Draco shrugged. But somewhere secretly inside his head he regretfully noted that she had a point. Even if it wasn’t a strong one. Because he would probably stop her. Just not for his sake. Not for Potter, and not for himself.

Because Draco didn’t care about himself. And he certainly didn’t care about the Boy who Lived to be the biggest arse he ever met. He just cared about Hermione.

And what a fucking idiot he was to do so.

“I have to go now,” she said, finally, grabbing her schoolbag off the armchair beside her. She looked at him. “Get cleaned up, Malfoy,” she breathed, something ever so slightly close to concern in her voice.

He stared at her determinedly. “I want you to pay attention to it.”

“To what?” she asked, checking through the contents of her bag.

“To him. And the- things he does.”

She shut it and looked back up at him. “Leave Harry out of this, okay?” she asked, “He’s not the only reason we can’t be- doing what we’re doing.”

“But he’s the only reason that’s stopping you from doing it. Or- the only reason you keep saying you’ll stop doing it.”

“Just- give it a rest, Malfoy,” she murmured.

He watched her walk towards her bedroom door, open it.

“Wait, Granger-”

But she walked through the doorway anyway. Just stopped outside. She turned to look at him, eyebrows raised in an expectant expression.

“Come back,” he mumbled.

“No,” she replied. Short and fast.

“Granger- please.”

“Harry’s waiting for me.”

“Tell him you’ll meet him there.”

“No, Malfoy,” she said, “Just leave it.”

He walked towards the door, grabbed the edge just before she could close it.

“Then I’ll find you later,” he breathed, “Later today. We’re not finished, Hermione.”

She bit her bottom lip slightly, and shook her head. “Are we ever?” she murmured, turning to leave.

Draco watched her descend down the steps and towards her best friend.




*




Hermione found herself glancing at Harry a couple more times than usual. The three of them had chosen to spend the beginning of their evening working in the library. Or rather, she had demanded the three of them choose to spend the beginning of the evening working in the library.

The plan was to busy herself with useful, practical tasks.

Hermione never caught Harry looking at her a moment too long. She never caught him stealing a few subtle glances here in there. There was no watching her mouth while she spoke, apart from one time where she licked her lips. But anyone would look at that. And she only noticed it as anything because she was looking for it in the first place. Looking for the tiniest of hints that could give Draco ground to voice his accusations. Any ground whatsoever.

But she couldn’t find any. And Hermione was intensely pleased about this. As if things weren’t complicated enough for her, the very last thing she would need was to start worrying about any hidden feelings in Harry.

“What?”

Oh god.

Hermione snapped away her stare.

Amidst her analysing the past few hours of observations, Hermione had been staring at Harry’s head, bent down and moving slightly over his book. Any other time, there wouldn’t be anything wrong with it. Any other time, Hermione would just ask him “What?” right back in an innocent manner, because innocent would be all it was.

But she had already stolen her eyes away too quickly for it to be anything meaningless.

“Sorry,” she mumbled, putting her quill down and turning a few pages of the textbook in front of her.

She saw Harry shrug in the corners of her version, and inwardly sighed with relief that he didn’t read any further into it.

And why would he?

She was so angry that Draco had made her pay attention to any of it in the first place. She was so angry that she’d failed to write off his remarks as anything more than paranoia. Very slowly, it was as if he was turning her as mad as he was. And it frightened her a little that-

“I’m sorry- why are you not doing anything about Pansy again?” Ron blurted out very suddenly, setting down his pen in an instant and staring straight up at Hermione as if the whole past hour of work had just been a struggled charade.

“Er- s-sorry?” stuttered Hermione, utterly confused as she broke out of her thoughts.

“Ron,” warned Harry, under his breath, “You promised you wouldn’t bring it up, mate.”

“How can I not?” asked Ron, “You know you’re thinking it too, Harry.”

Hermione shook her head. “Do you have to do this now?”

“Probably not.”

“Then don’t,” she breathed, “Please don’t. I have my reasons.”

“That’s the thing,” continued Ron, his voice a patronising matter-of-factly manner that made her wince with annoyance. “I’ve been going through all the possible reasons in my head, and I’ve come across this problem. There isn’t a single one. Not a single, sane one, at least.”

Hermione rolled her eyes and looked at Harry. As if he could throw her a life line at all.

Harry spoke. “Plan was to make today as relaxed as possible, Ron,” he said, an irritated frown marking his forehead, “Now we’ve half-managed it so far. But if you’re planning on fucking it all up mate, then I think Hermione and I would rather you kept your mouth shut instead.”

Ron shot him a look of equal aggravation. “The bruises might have faded, Harry, but I hope you haven’t forgotten what she did to Hermione.”

“Of course I haven’t,” replied Harry, a concealed growl somewhere inside his throat, “Now would you drop it?”

It was clear to her that Harry had spoken to Ron earlier that day about not bringing up the events of the previous weekend. It made her heart warm a little towards him. But at the same time it was confusing. It was a slight shock.

Harry had gone out of his way to get Hermione to talk about things before. He had gone insane over so much as a lingering look from the wrong person. Ron has been the one to calm him down. Ron had been the one to calm his irrational bursts of anger.

And now it was as clear as day to Hermione that Ron wasn’t planning on doing that any longer. She’d hurt him, somewhere along the line. She’d hurt him because she hadn’t asked for help when she needed it. She hadn’t let him be there for her, even though he so desperately tried to be. And now Ron was able to see where that had got her. She couldn’t blame him for being frustrated.

But Harry was harder to work out. After everything that had happened, after the things he had seen, the things that were revealed- after finding Draco in her bedroom this morning- he still seemed alarmingly grounded. More so than he had been in weeks, in fact.

She knew he felt guilty. She knew that, in true Harry-style, he had found a way to blame himself for what Pansy had done to her. And she wished he could know the truth. She wished it until the ink completely soaked through her paper and onto the next page. Because how could she concentrate on anything with a guilty conscience as large as hers? How could she ever move forward with anything ever again? Because the lies she had told were too glaring to hope they would ever fade into history.

To hope they would ever fade at all.

But even though she wished it, so hard she had to resist blinking to allow the tears to resettle in her eyes, she knew she didn’t have the courage to tell him. Not yet, at least. She couldn’t watch his face crack like that. She couldn’t tear straight through his perception of her so awfully.

She couldn’t lose him. Either of them. Harry and Ron were the only people keeping her together.

But then she couldn’t leave it much longer. She couldn’t pretend that it would be easier if she waited until her and Draco were truly over, found a quiet spot in Hogsmeade and let rip the loud and glorious truth of what she had done, and what she will never, ever do again. Because then they would know how long she kept the lies going. And it would be worse. Or just as bad, at least.

Maybe if she waited for years. When Harry and Ron barely remembered their school days, barely cared. When they had been through far too much together to ever end their friendship over something that happened so long ago. Something so very much lost in the past.

Because that’s what it would be by then. Lost. Completely lost.

Hermione swallowed. There was that frustration that kept clawing at the edge of her brain. That frustration of lying. She didn’t think she could carry it on for much longer.

Having said that, she didn’t think she could ever lie like this in the first place. But it so happened to turn out that she could. And had.

That was why it hurt so much. She barely knew who she was anymore. She didn’t trust herself around Draco. She couldn’t be herself around Harry and Ron.

And when she was on her own, all she did was feel sick. With herself.

Maybe the smallest beginning to redemption would be to tell them both. Right now.

But she found she couldn’t even swallow. There was nothing to swallow. Her mouth was completely dry. And when she decided that this exact moment wouldn’t be the best time to spit out truths, she pathetically convinced herself that it was genuinely because they all needed to get on with their work.

Because everyone needs distractions from reality.



*



Hermione had gone back to her room to drop off her schoolbag before dinner. As soon as she opened the bedroom door, she immediately heard the coughing on the other side of the wall. It was fierce. Her bag dropped to the ground.

She was at the bathroom door, trying the handle. “Unlock it, Malfoy,” she said, knocking her fist against the wood. Her breath was shaking.

He was being sick again.

Hermione rested her forehead on the door. The feeling in her own stomach as she heard him retch into the toilet was unbearable.

What was happening to them.

“I locked it for a reason,” rasped Draco from inside.

He’d used too much magic. Too much magic on his skin and his bones. It was never as simple as just making it all go away. It was never as simple as just the bruises fading into nothingness. There were repercussions. There were memories.

“Please open the door,” she murmured against it. Because she wanted to be in there. And her voice sounded like she was crying, even though she wasn’t. Her cheeks were dry. “Please open it,” she said again.

There was something about this last time with Harry and Ron. She felt overwhelmed with responsibility. She didn’t want to understand why he hadn’t fought back hard enough. She didn’t want to admit to herself that he was too exhausted, that he didn’t care enough to stop them from hurting him. And she didn’t dare linger upon the possibility that he let it all happen because he knew he deserved it.

Because even if a small part of Hermione still thought that he did, there was so much more to it now. A hotter part of her heart that wanted to be there beside him, his body curled over the toilet.

She wouldn’t touch him. She wouldn’t rub his back and whisper calming lullabies. But she needed to be there. In there. Just so he knows that she was there.

But the door didn’t unlock. And so Hermione found herself sliding down it, head pounding, resting against the wood as the air echoed with Draco’s choking.

“I’m still here,” she breathed against the door. She said she was still there. “Just in case you need me.”

Just so he would know that.



*




“If anyone should go, it’s you, Ron.”

“Why me?”

“No doubt you pissed her off earlier. Perhaps you can apologise.”

“I didn’t piss her off.”

“You pissed me off.”

“Oh no,” replied Ron flatly, shovelling a mouthful of mashed potato into his mouth. “Anyway, I thought you said the plan was to give her some space.”

“Yeah,” he shrugged. “We’ll just leave it then. I’m sure there’s a reason she didn’t come back down.”

“Yeah, I’m sure there’s a reason,” repeated Ron, scoffing slightly before gulping down the contents of his goblet.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” sighed Harry, pushing the food around his plate.

“Well what I can’t get,” began Ron, “Is why you’ve picked now of all times to sit back and allow her to get on with things. Because now you’ve actually been presented with some solid evidence that she’s in trouble, and you’re doing- what? Nothing. Especially compared to how you’ve been reacting these past few weeks. And that was over things like Malfoy staring at her for too long. Now she’s been beat-”

“Keep you voice down, will you?” frowned Harry, “And for your information, Ron, I’m not doing nothing. It’s just we promised Hermione-”

“It’s just because you want to get back into her good books.”

“What are you talking about? I just don’t want to keep pushing her away.”

“But can’t you see that even if she doesn’t realise it at first, we’ll be helping her. We can sort this out. I know Parkinson isn’t exactly a bloke but I’m sure there are ways of dealing with it. Going to McGonagall for instance.”

“But Hermione’s healed. Pansy will just deny it. And besides, she doesn’t want us to involve the teachers. You know that.”

“She doesn’t want us to do anything, does she?” growled Ron, chucking his fork down onto his plate, “Why is it that I’m the only one who has a problem with that?”

“Correct me if I’m wrong,” replied Harry, irritation across his face, “But aren’t you the one that’s been drilling the calm and cautious approach into my head these past weeks? Now I’m doing it. I’m staying calm.”

“Yeah,” nodded Ron, “How ironic, right?”

“Come on, Ron-”

“You finally decide to stay calm when Hermione actually needs you to do something about it all.”

Harry growled quietly and gripped his knife a little tighter. “I know she needs me. And you. But we have to do what she wants for the time being. I’m not saying it’s forever. I’m not saying I’ll be able to keep it all in for very long, but she’s gone through a hell of a lot this weekend, and we need to stay grounded for a few days to let her recover.”

“Do you have any idea what a hypocrite you’re being?”

“Let it go, Ron. Seriously, mate. Just let it go.”

There was a small pause as Ron picked up his fork again. “Yeah,” he mumbled, raising his eyebrows at the table, “Right.”

Harry felt bad. And he did feel like a hypocrite. He was aware that his actions must seem confusing, but what Ron didn’t realise is that he was still angry. Harry was still absolutely irate. There wasn’t a moment that passed him by where he stopped wanting to physically force the truth out of Draco. Because he knew that truth was still there, somewhere inside one of them, and he knew it still needed to be heard. And there wasn’t a single time he walked past McGonagall and Dumbledore without seriously considering telling them about Pansy. Because the length of time he had spent entertaining the idea of revenge upon the little bitch was starting to make his head sore.

There wasn’t a moment- not a second- that he stopped hating.

But something had happened inside his head when he saw Hermione fall to the ground the day before. An outrageously intense need to protect her that involved seeing past his uncontrollable anger. Involved seeing past his undeniable hatred. He would still sort it, just as he said. He would still discover what was happening in Hermione’s life, but he didn’t want to lose her along the way. He didn’t want to push her away with questions. Harry believed that if he gave her enough space, she would come to him.

That was the plan, at least. The plan for this week. And if she didn’t say anything? If nothing came of it?

Then at least Harry would be able to assure himself that he tried Ron’s methods. Even if they weren’t actually Ron’s methods any longer. He tried to be there for her quietly.

Harry knew that really he should do it for as long as it takes. Really he should stay level-headed and out of her way for as long as that was how she wanted it. But a heated part of him was convinced that he didn’t have the time to do that. That it was already too late. That things were already getting worse.

“You coming, Ron?” asked Harry, now straddling the bench beside him.

“No. I just- just want to sit here a while longer,” he muttered, “I’ll be up soon.”

Harry shrugged, “Fine,” and pulled his body out from the bench, brisk walking towards the doors and a determined effort to pretend he hadn’t noticed Draco’s absence along the way.

Someone stepped in front of him before he could leave. “Have you seen him?”

Harry looked at Blaise. “Who?” he frowned, thoroughly unhappy about being spoken to by the little sod.

“Our Head Boy,” he drawled back, “Haven’t seen him since Saturday night.”

“And you think I have?”

“You’re best friends with his Head Girl, Potter. I was thinking you might know.”

Harry fought the severe urge to correct the term “his Head girl”.

“Haven’t seen him, Zabini,” sighed Harry, “But when we do meet up for our usual cosy chats, I’ll tell him you said hi.” He pushed past him and took the few remaining steps out of the hall.

“You see that’s where I think you’re lying,” snarled Blaise, his voice following Harry smoothly into the corridor.

Harry stopped, took a deep breath, and turned back around.

“Assuming you saw Hermione yesterday, that is,” Blaise continued.

“What-” Harry narrowed his eyes. “What are you talking about?”

“How is she, by the way?”

Harry’s teeth gritted together very, very hard. “What do you mean how is she?” he growled, his face twitching slightly.

Blaise shrugged. “Just heard she had a bit of a bad fall or something,” he smirked.

And that smirk was really a very bad idea. “Fuck off, Zabini.” Harry’s brow had lowered considerably.

“What’s with the hostility?” asked Blaise, mock confusion in his voice, “It’s not like I was the one that pushed her or anything.” The corners of his mouth remained upturned. “Pansy says sorry about that, by the way.”

Before Harry could stop himself, Blaise was up against the wall, Harry’s forearm against his throat. Zabini might not have been the one to hurt Hermione, but he sure as fuck was providing Harry with a good enough excuse to associate him with the bitch who had.

Blaise laughed. “You do realise anyone could walk past now, right?” he breathed.

“Do I look like I care?” spat Harry, pressing into him, “You better hope that I don’t find out you had anything to do with what happened to Hermione, Zabini. Or you’re a dead man.”

Blaise started to frown under the pressure of Harry’s arm. He pushed against him. “Get off me, you bastard.”

“I fucking mean it,” he breathed, staring Blaise straight in the eyes.

Blaise pushed against him again. This time, Harry stepped back.

“I’m not the one you should be holding up against walls, you idiot,” sneered Blaise, smoothing down his tie with irritation. “It’s not like Pansy was the only fucking one in on it.”

“I know about Bulstrode.”

“That’s good for you. But not exactly who I meant.”

What?

No. Harry wouldn’t let him do this. He wouldn’t let him work him up like this. It was so important that he didn’t listen to a word Zabini had to say. Not right now.

Harry turned to leave.

“Does that silence mean you already know?” Blaise called after him. He could hear the same smirk return to his voice.

“That you’re talking shit?” replied Harry, still walking away. “Yeah. It means I already know.”

He heard Blaise laugh behind him. “Well don’t say I didn’t offer you the information, Potter.”

Harry turned the corner and quickened his pace. Whatever the hell he thought Zabini meant by that, it was quite possibly crucial for his own sanity that he didn’t dwell on it at this moment.

He found himself turning away from the direction of the common room, and walking briskly down the corridor leading towards the quidditch grounds. He didn’t want to face anyone. He only wanted to swallow down the sick feeling of rage that was churning around in his stomach- the one that told him someone else was responsible for hurting Hermione- and breathe in some fresh air. Desperately.

Because Merlin. Harry wished he didn’t have to think so hard. He wished he wouldn’t analyse anything and everything that involved people like Zabini. People like Pansy. And Malfoy. But he couldn’t help but believe, as if it were innately rooted somewhere within his head, that all they amounted to were evil. Or in the very least, far enough away from anything good to ever be treated without caution. Hermione’s battered body was proof of that.

And if only. If only he had been there to stop it.

There it was again. The acknowledgment of his failure to protect her. Nothing seemed worse than that. Nothing other than the not knowing part- the frustration that came with not understanding just exactly what was going on. People like Blaise Zabini couldn’t know more than him, surely?

Harry almost laughed at himself.

Would he really be that surprised if it turned out he was the one to know the least out of everyone? No. Right there and then in that the-world-is-against-me sort of way, Harry really wouldn’t be surprised in the slightest.

But none of that really mattered. Not until he knew Hermione was safe. Not until he knew he saved her from it all. And if he could find a way to do that without having to know the reality of the situation, then he’d do it. In heartbeat. He always felt the truth was overrated, anyway. Not knowing was often better.

Although the prospect that Hermione knew something that Harry really shouldn’t only ade it worse.

Before Harry could open the door to step out onto the grounds, a voice stopped him.

“I think we need to talk.”

When Harry turned around, his frown was deeper than ever.



*



He stopped vomiting a while ago now, and it had been ten minutes since he’d cleaned himself up.

Draco didn’t know if Hermione was still on the other side of that door, but for some reason, he didn’t dare ask. At the same time, he didn’t want to leave the room. Because if she was really was still there, that would mean she’d get up and leave too, and go back to whoever, as if Draco didn’t need her anymore.

So he simply sat in silence for a while longer. His bruised muscles felt better, but the ache of his raw stomach had yet to subside. His head was whirling slightly, and Draco wondered how unlucky he was for the colours in the stain glass window to make him feel slightly queasy whenever he glanced up at them. Because he remembered liking that window when he first came here. A lot. It reminded him of the one in his Grandmother’s house. Not that he had liked his Grandmother’s house. Or his Grandmother for that matter. But whatever.

“Malfoy…are you…?”

His heart jumped. Hermione was still there.

He had to pause a little before he answered- he had crawled over to the door during the silence that had lasted, just to see if he could maybe hear her breathing on the other side- but he shuffled away now so that the closeness of his voice wouldn’t startle her.

“I’m okay,” he murmured, somewhere near to the sink.

“Can I…?”

“If you want to.” He flicked his wand at the door. It opened instantly, and Hermione, still in some sort of sitting position, fell inside.

“Oh- Granger- sorry-”

She immediately steadied herself and looked at him with a stern expression. “You could have given me some warning,” she frowned.

“How was I to know you were leaning against the door?” he asked, sounding slightly defensive.

She opened her mouth to answer. But didn’t. Instead she seemed to give Draco a quick once-over with her eyes. “You washed.”

“Well done.”

“And why were you- was it because of the magic? The healing magic?”

Draco shrugged. “I suppose.”

Hermione took a deep breath of relief, as if seeing him had given her some sort of satisfaction.

Satisfaction in knowing what though, Granger? In knowing that I’m alright? Because you should be careful about that. I just might get the wrong idea with all this concern.

Besides, I’m not alright. I’m really not alright.

“Were you there the whole time?” asked Draco, pulling himself to his feet, because he suddenly felt a little ridiculous realising the both of them were just sitting on the bathroom floor like that. Although he must admit, he was surprised he cared.

Hermione looked down at the stone tiles beneath her. “Well, I was- er- in my room. You know. Clearing up a bit.”

“Just got a bit tired and decided to sit by the door though, right?”

She snapped up her gaze towards him. “Very funny.”

Draco held out his hand to her. She looked at it hesitantly.

Take it. Please. Just take it.

Although he almost regretted it when she did. The touch shot straight down his arm and clenched his weary muscles almost painfully. Because even when he offered his hand to her, she was never actually expected to take it. This was them, after all. The last time he was polite enough to open a door for her she almost had tears in her eyes she was so frustrated.

Not that this wasn’t different. Because it was, of course. He wasn’t trying to piss her off this time.

The contact must have shocked Hermione as well, because she pulled away from him as soon as she got to her feet, avoiding his eyes when she brought her hand to her chest and held it in her other one.

“Did I make you miss dinner?” he asked, filling the strange silence and they both just seemed to stand there.

“You didn’t make me do anything,” replied Hermione, still looking at the ground.

Draco wondered why her eyes couldn’t just focus on him for a while. What did the floor and ceiling have that he didn’t? Or at least- something like that.

“I have some- um- cake that my mother sent me,” he mumbled, gesturing to his bedroom door behind him.

That did make Hermione look up at him. Only she just seemed extremely shocked.

“What?” he asked.

She shook her head and shrugged. “Nothing.”

“Well you can have it if you want it.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Suit yourself.”

Was he really that bad that if he offered her something it was worthy of a wide-eyed expression? Wow. And Draco had thought that, maybe for tonight, he could forget just what a horrible person he was.

She would probably expect it to be a ploy to get her into his bedroom. Into his bed. Not that he could blame her for the thought entering her head. And then she said something else.

“Look, I’ll have some if you have some.” She said it as if he’d spent the last five minutes trying to convince her.

Did he just speak his thoughts out loud?

“What?” blinked Draco.

“Some cake. If you eat some. You can’t have eaten much today. It’s important you replace a little of the nutrients you’ve lost.”

Draco felt caught between an eye-roll, a comment about sounding like his mother, and a slight quickening of his heartbeat. So he just stared at her blankly.

“Well?” she asked.

“But I’m not hungry,” he answered, sounding equally as blank, “Neither are you.”

“Let’s just eat it, Malfoy,” she sighed, walking past him and towards his door, “I’m sure it won’t hurt.” And then she stopped and turned back to him. “But I’ll take my piece into my own bedroom if you don’t mind. I’d rather eat it in there.”

Draco couldn’t help but frown at that. And then shrug again. As if she would ever believe that he couldn’t give a shit.

“Thank you, by the way,” murmured Hermione, opening the door and walking into his room.

Draco swallowed slightly. “Sure,” he muttered uneasily, following after her.



*




“You have no idea how important it is that you get the fuck away from me, Parkinson.”

“You’re angry,” she murmured, “I get that. But can you just get past it a moment so that I can explain? Something that you’ll probably want to know, actually.”

The skin around Pansy’s eye was darkened. Harry hoped beyond belief that whatever it was had hurt like hell.

“There’s nothing I want to hear from you,” he growled, turning his back to her and quickening his path out the door. When he reached the bottom of the steps and began descending down the path towards the quidditch field, he was all too aware that he was being followed.

The wind had picked up as the skies grew darker. Harry would have most probably turned back if it weren’t for the fact that Pansy was behind him.

“For fuck’s sake. Stop going so fast, Potter!” she called, sounding incredibly agitated in the process.

Of all the heartless bitches out there, Pansy would win hands down every time. The very idea that she thought it was acceptable to talk to him, to follow him like this, when she knew he knew exactly what she had done to Hermione- it was unthinkable. He had seen it. He had seen every mark on Hermione’s beautiful skin. Marked all over with malicious nails, merciless punches- and for what reason? Because whatever the reason- whatever the reason- it could never be justified. It could never be anything more than pure evil. Down to the last breath of contempt.

And evil doesn’t look good on anyone, Parkinson. No matter how you use it.

She had to pay. Somewhere along the line, someone had to make her pay.

Harry flung himself around to face her. She had to stop herself abruptly so as not to bump into him.

“Walk away, Parkinson,” he seethed, utter abhorrence soaking his words through gritted teeth.

“Not until you’ve heard what I have to say,” she insisted, pursing her lips tightly together in defiance.

“And is that a chance you gave Hermione?” spat Harry, “Did you let her have her say before you beat her into the ground, you stuck-up little-”

“Careful, Potter. Or I won’t be telling you anything.”

Harry was desperate beyond anything in that moment to break something in her body. Anything. Make her feel a fraction of the pain she caused Hermione.

And even though he knew he wouldn’t lay a finger on her, it didn’t stop the thoughts. It didn’t stop the fury burning through his eyes and into the dirt of her vicious little mind.

What did she think this would achieve? How did she think Harry would react? What could she possibly say that would matter to him after everything she had done?

He knew Pansy was an absolute bitch. But he never knew until this moment just how stupid she was. Because she had to be to ever believe he would listen to her.

“It wasn’t my idea.”

“What?”

“It wasn’t.”

Harry turned back around. He didn’t need to hear this. He didn’t need to hear her try and shift the blame around. And he was surprised that she cared enough to do so. But if she thought it changed anything-

“Why don’t you care?” she asked, her voice had risen above the wind. She had stopped moving now. Standing halfway down the path. Harry had moved near the bottom of it. “It’s important!” she continued to shout after him, “Doesn’t it matter to you who told me to do it?”

No. He couldn’t let anything push him over that edge. He needed to stay calm. He needed to stay strong. For Hermione and Ron. For all three of them. He didn’t like the way the anger was tearing them apart.

But he stopped all the same. His back still to her.

“I wasn’t supposed to tell you,” he heard her continue behind him. She wasn’t moving any closer, and her voice was getting increasingly louder as the winds bellowed around the castle walls. “But then- then he hit me and I just- I snapped, you know? I feel bad for what he made me do but-”

“Don’t, Parkinson,” barked Harry, snapping his body around to face her, “Don’t you fucking dare give me this shit about feeling bad! You’re rotten to your fucking core. Absolutely rotten, Parkinson.” He needed to destroy her in the same way she had destroyed Hermione. “And you know what? I’m not surprised Malfoy’s been saying other girls’ names in bed! You’re disgusting! Even for someone like him! I’m ashamed to be even speaking to you!”

And then Pansy sniffed, softly. It wasn’t an obvious, over-exaggerated moment. But it was there, even though Harry barely acknowledged it. “Don’t you think we deserve each other?” she laughed bitterly, “Draco and I. Don’t you think we’re the perfect match?” He could hear the forming of tears in her voice.

“I couldn’t care less,” he scoffed, “Believe me, the moment Hermione says the word, you’ll pay, Parkinson. Both you and Bulstrode. And it won’t be with fists, it won’t be with anything that can somehow pin this back on Hermione. Because as soon as I can- I’ll be getting you so far off these grounds you won’t be able to find your way back again.”

“Fine!” she exclaimed, dragging her hand across her face to wipe her nose, “Fuck you, Potter! You can do whatever the hell you want! Because I’ve lost everything! I’ve lost fucking everything! And your stupid mudblood bitch is the reason!”

“Don’t you ever call her that again!” shouted Harry, “You don’t go anywhere near her, not within twenty feet, Parkinson, do you understand?!”

“And what about Draco?” she screamed, “I suppose he can still do whatever he wants with her! I suppose you won’t be trying to stop that, will you? Because she won’t let you! But neither of you have any idea what he’s capable of!”

“Oh believe me, I know-”

“Then you would know that it was his fucking idea to beat the shit out of your precious little Granger in the first place!”

Harry’s breath hitched.

“He was the one that came up to me!” she shouted, her foot stamping to the ground, her hair a tangled mess around her wet face. “Told me he regretted everything he did with her, said he needed to do something to restore the balance! Have you ever heard him say that, Potter? Restore the fucking balance? Because he says it a lot, believe me! But I couldn’t make it obvious it was his idea- oh no! He told me to make out I was just angry with her- jealous or something- because he had his fucking Head Boy position at stake, right?! And then he said after that- after that things would stop between them. He’d treat her like he used to treat her- like she was disgusting- completely disgusting. And he would get off knowing that she got smacked around for all the trouble she’d caused him!”

Harry started to shake.

“And so he suggested me and Millicent have a little word with her! Tell her what’s what, tell her what a stinking little mudblood she really is because she needed to know! And do you know why he asked me to do it?!” Pansy laughed insanely. “Because he said he couldn’t fucking hit a girl!” She laughed some more. “Can you believe that? Draco Malfoy couldn’t hit a girl!” She wiped her face again, her hair flying desperately around in the wind. “Well that changed pretty fucking fast!” She pointed a finger at the bruise on her face. “I bet you thought Granger did this to me,” she snarled, “But no. It was that bastard Malfoy. ‘Cos guess what? He changed his fucking mind, Potter! He decided that he didn’t want your stupid Granger beaten up after all! But it was too late by that point. And that’s why he went to find her!” Tears were streaming down her face. “How do you think he knew where to go? How do you think he knew to look for her in the first place? And he’s obviously healed her! You know the real Draco, Potter. Why the fuck would he ever waste time healing her if he wasn’t feeling terribly guilty about something?!”

Harry stared at her. His mind numb. There was too much. Too much and he didn’t know what to make of it. He didn’t know what to believe.

“I’m not saying he hasn’t changed,” cried Pansy, “The old Draco would have gone through with it without feeling that pathetic regret afterwards, but he made us do it all the same. And- and I’m not saying he doesn’t have feelings for her, as sick as that makes me, because then he wouldn’t have regretted it in the first place, then he wouldn’t have gone to the trouble to help her. He obviously didn’t realise just how strongly he felt for the stupid bitch.” She shook her head wildly and clasped her hands to her head, “You know he told me- he told me if I did this, we’d get back together! Can you believe that?! And then I come and find him- I tell him I’ve done it and- and he hits me. He just- he just hits me.”

Pansy sunk to her knees.

Harry wasn’t looking at her any longer. His eyes were darting around blindly. Thoughts, accusations, preconceptions racing around his head.

He didn’t understand. He had thought Draco was responsible before he found out it was Pansy, and even then he was reluctant to believe it wasn’t him- so why was he having such a hard time swallowing her revelations? Why was he having such a hard time believing that they were true?

Because they had to be. As far as Harry knew, nothing about Draco had changed. He was still the son of a Death Eater, dead or not, and he still was the one person Harry was more than sure couldn’t be redeemed. He was too far gone. He was almost ill.

And maybe that was it. Maybe this happened, and he truly did regret it. His mind completely fucked. His feelings for Hermione confusing things. But he was still Draco, after all. He was still the same boy that made his blood run to ice.

Pansy was sobbing on the ground. “A-are you going to tell her?” she asked, looking up at Harry.

Harry stared at her, speechless.

“P-Potter?” she stammered, “Are you- are you going to tell Granger?”

Harry stared at her, but he didn’t see her. He didn’t see anything. He simply turned around, felt his feet carry him further down the path, heard Pansy’s distant sobs behind him, and expressionlessly continued on his way to the quidditch field.

One thought now burning in his head above the rest.




*




The cake felt too soft in Draco’s hands. It was unexpected, and his fingers almost sunk right into it. It wasn’t big, and he broke it in half as best he could.

He held out the larger piece to Hermione. “Mother sends it every other week,” he shrugged, “I don’t even know why, really.”

He watched her bring it to her lips, his heart skipping a beat as he glimpsed her tongue in her mouth, staring as she took a small bite.

Her eyes fluttered shut momentarily.

When they opened again, she had swallowed it. “It’s nice,” she muttered, followed by a quick “Thanks again,” before she made her way back in the direction of the door.

“Whoa- er- Granger-” mumbled Draco, thoughtlessly throwing words into the air just to stop her from leaving, “You don’t have to- actually leave. If you don’t want to.”

Hermione looked at the door, and then back at where Draco was sitting on his bed. “I probably should,” she replied, “You know. I- I think we could both use an early night.”

Draco sighed. Because it was difficult for him. It was difficult for him to keep pretending like Hermione did. It seemed so stupid. It seemed so incredibly pointless when they were the only two people in the room. And yes, sometimes it made things easier. Sometimes it made sense to pretend that there was nothing there, that neither of them wanted to stay in the same room as each other. But other times, it just didn’t. Other times it was too late to paint the mirage over everything. And he felt tonight was one of those times. He felt- despite having no reason to do so- that they needed to stay together for a while longer.

Even if it were just to sit there together, finishing their cake.

Anything would count in that moment.

“You know-” began Draco, before she could reach for the door handle, “I’m just going to get rid of my piece if you’re not going to sit here and make me eat it. You’re the one that wants me to, remember? You’re the one that cares.”

Hermione raised an eyebrow at him. “I don’t care enough to fall for your little games, Malfoy,” she replied.

“What little games?” he asked, faking innocence, “I’m merely being honest.”

“In a very Malfoy-like way, right?” she smirked.

But she stopped when he smirked back. Maybe there was something about smiling at each other that still wasn’t quite right.

“You can sit on the other side of the room if you don’t trust me,” murmured Draco.

“If I thought I had to do that,” frowned Hermione, “Then I wouldn’t even be in here.”

There was a moment between them both that followed. A moment where, really, they both knew that she quite honestly would be safer on the other side of the room. And yet she was still here. Still clutching her cake in one hand. Still in his bedroom.

And what did he mean by ‘safe’ anyway? He wouldn’t hurt her. He wouldn’t force her to do anything she didn’t want to. He wouldn’t even make a move. And it would be a complete struggle but- he’d rather have her there.

Draco would rather have Hermione standing ten feet away than not being there at all.

It was just the proximity. There was this thing about the proximity. Whenever he got close to her, he felt dangerously alive. He felt compelled to do something, say anything. It was almost as if he didn’t know how else to act. He couldn’t see- couldn’t understand- how they could be there together, and not be together.

It didn’t seem to make sense. And if it made any at all, it was the worst kind of sense.

Him and Granger.

The best worst sense he’d ever had.

“I think we’ll be in trouble with Professor Dumbledore again,” murmured Hermione. She was staring at her piece of cake, picking at it anxiously. “I mean- surely.”

She was staying. For now, at least.

“Potter told him you’ve been ill though,” shrugged Draco, “And you told him I was unwell today, right?”

She nodded. “I told McGonagall. But I don’t think it’s enough. I don’t think it’s going to be okay.”

Draco looked down. He knew. Of course he knew. She was right. Where were they at the end of the Ball? Where were they at breakfast the next morning? And at dinner tonight?

Together. The answer distracted him for a second.

They had been together.

Hermione brought him back. “I think we can expect a meeting with him sometime this week.”

Draco looked down at the cake in his hands. He really wasn’t very hungry. At all. How could he have an appetite at a time like this?

And then he heard Hermione sniff. Looked up.

She was rubbing her eyes with the sleeve of her jumper. Leaning back against the door.

“Granger?”

She shook her head.

Without understanding, without completely knowing, Draco dropped the cake on his bed and got to his feet instantly. He paused for a second. And then began to move slowly towards her.

“Don’t, Malfoy,” she mumbled.

She was crying.

“Granger…” he murmured again, stopping a few feet away from her. “What’s- what’s wrong?”

What’s wrong. What could possibly be wrong. Apart from everything.

“We’re going to get them taken away…” she murmured behind her hands.

Her cake was on the arm of the chair beside her. Because who cared about the fucking cake.

Draco took another step. He had to- he just- he had to.

“Get what taken away?” he asked, a little unnerved by the softness of his own voice.

“Our positions,” she replied, sniffing again, “Head Girl and Head Boy. They’ll take them away from us.”

Draco looked down briefly. What could he say to her? What could he say to make it all okay? He didn’t know how to do this. He didn’t understand how to make things better again.

He didn’t know how to be Potter.

“They won’t.” It was the best he had. “They can’t.”

Her hands wouldn’t move from her face.

And the worse part- her muffled tears seemed to be slowly killing him.

I’m sorry, Granger. I’m so sorry. I know this is all my fault. I know I should never have done the things that I did to you. To both of us. To everyone.

I should never have involved you in my mess of a life. I should never have taken you down with me.

I’m so sorry, Hermione.

“How do you know that?” she sniffed. His heart cracked a little. “How do you know they won’t do that? It’s Dumbledore. He doesn’t miss a thing. And when was the last time you actually had a conversation with one of the prefects? We’ve abandoned it, Malfoy. We’ve abandoned it all, and we have no one to blame but ourselves.”

Draco shook his head. “No, Granger,” he replied. Voice quiet but determined. Because she didn’t deserve those tears. He took another step towards her. And then he was there. He was within that proximity.

He felt it.

Slowly he reached up, and curled his fingers lightly around both of her wrists.

Hermione let him pull them gently away from her damp face.

“You shouldn’t,” he breathed, sliding his fingers up to hold her hands. He brought them to his lips.

Closed his eyes.

“You shouldn’t blame yourself, Hermione.”

He heard her gasp slightly. He didn’t know whether it was his lips, or her name.

“Malfoy…” she mumbled.

He opened his eyes. She looked so defeated. So completely exhausted.

“…tell me why you were crying. That night in the bathroom. Tell me why.”

Draco’s heart froze. Tell her why you were crying. That night. That night with Pansy.

“Does it matter?” he muttered, keeping her hands in his, but bringing them down slightly and away from his mouth.

“It must do,” she replied, sniffing again and taking a breath to halt her tears, “It- it has to.”

Draco shook his head. “I’m not the kind of person you want to get to know, Granger.” He looked down between them. “Not like that.”

“I wish you would tell me,” she murmured, “I wish- I wish that you would just tell me something. To make it easier. To make it better for yourself.”

Why did she care? Fuck. He wished so much that she wouldn’t care.

It hurt.

“I can’t, Granger…” he breathed, unable to return her gaze, “I can’t tell you.”

“But why?” He heard the tears returning to her voice. “Why not, Malfoy? You’re the one that said there should be truth. Truth between us. I can’t- I can’t handle this. I don’t know where I am anymore.”

He held her hands tighter, looked into her eyes. “Don’t, Granger,” he replied, almost half-whispering, “Don’t cry.” I don’t like it when you cry.

“I can’t help it.”

“I know.”

“I wish you would just tell me.”

“I can’t.”

He was too ashamed. To even think it. Even then, even standing there in front of her with the question between them, he couldn’t answer it in his head. He couldn’t admit that he had- done what he had done to Pansy.

He couldn’t admit that he had become his father.

He couldn’t admit it. Draco couldn’t find the words.

And he didn’t want to see her face. He didn’t want to see her expression when she found out he hit girls. When she saw what a malicious fucker he really was. How he had failed to ever become anything better than his father. He didn’t need to see any of it.

Not from the last person on earth that could make him feel.

He brought her fingers back up to his lips. Kissed them.

“Please don’t cry, Hermione.”

And then he pulled her hands very gently- carefully- so that her body fell against his chest.

“I don’t want to lose anything else,” she murmured against his neck.

Draco swallowed. “I won’t let you,” he breathed. And wished, more than he ever had, that he could be the right person to mean that.

Because he did mean it. But he fucked up everything. That was how it went. That was how it always went.

And he was the reason she’d lost so much in the first place. How could he ever promise her anything whilst that was true?

Draco felt something. Something wet against his pulse.

Hermione’s lips against the skin of his neck.

His entire body jolted.

“Hermione…” he mumbled.

She looked up at him. Eyes glassy and wide. “Don’t you want me to?” she whispered, the tears unsettled in her eyes. She sounded hurt. Although it was obvious she was trying not to let him know that.

Oh Merlin, Granger. Why would I not want you to.

How could anyone stay away from you.

Draco tried to say things. Anything. “I just- I don’t…”

His cock was getting hard already. His heartbeat was beginning to race. She didn’t understand the things she did to him. The effect she had. It scared him. And it would scare her too if she knew- if she really knew.

“I don’t care,” she murmured, “Not tonight.” And her lips moved up to his. Caught them. Licked up and along towards the corner of his mouth.

Draco made a low, growling sound caught in his throat. Her eyes flicked up to his as she looked into them. Her kisses were apprehensive, slightly afraid, and it only made it even more difficult to stop her. Made him even harder. Made his hand move to the back of her head and curl into her hair, pulling her further into the kiss, opening her lips with his, and it’s harder than he thought it should be. It’s faster than he thought it should be. She’s suddenly desperate for him-

And that was it. That was the moment Draco began to lose himself.

The sounds coming from her mouth. The fierce, beating rhythm of her heart vibrating against his skin.

Her fingers are pressing against his muscles, pushing against his chest. They find the buttons. And when he breaks away from the kiss his shirt is open. Her nails are dragging down his skin. And he realises it’s because his fingers have already begun to travel up the side of her thigh. Her head rocks back against the door, and he doesn’t remember deciding to bury his mouth into her neck, scrape his teeth against her skin, but he does. And he is. And the sounds she makes, and the rubbing together of fabric against his cock, rock hard, they almost make him choke on the heated air when he finally breathes it in. His other hand, up to the top of her blouse and fumbling down the buttons. She helps him. Her breath is shaking, her fingers hesitant, but she helps him. And it’s all so loud, this breathing. It’s all so hard.

“Granger, are you sure-”

“Yes.”

And her blouse it at her feet. Her breasts are heaving. Draco can’t breathe. He brings down his head, reaches around her back with one arm. He feels her body stiffen slightly, looks up and her, and she nods, one quick duck of her head. The bra sliding off her shoulders, his head back down against her breast. Pale skin, smooth and gorgeous and absolute bliss. She moans. It’s the most beautiful sound he’s ever heard. His lips brush against her nipple, his breath hitching at the realisation of it all. At them being together. Knowing what it felt like to taste her like this.

She says something. He doesn’t hear it. His fingers have found her knickers and he’s shaking, his whole body is trembling, holding off, breathing erratic as he says, “Granger- just- I need to-”

“Do it,” she breathes, her lip caught between her teeth, “Please…” Tears running down the side of her face. She’s pulling at his shirt, dragging it down his shoulders. He takes away his hand, she groans with frustration, and the shirt is off, his hand back, her head rocking once again, and this time his fingers move to the top of her knickers. They tug on them. Pull them down her legs. And when she finally lifts her shaking feet to step out of the wet cotton, Draco can’t understand how he can possibly wait any longer. Draco can’t understand how he can possibly ever exist without her.

Her hands press against his chest again, finger the hard muscle underneath. His head is down as he concentrates on stopping his trembling fingers from misplacing, desperately pulling at the zip on his trousers, desperately aching for her. With so much fucking need for her that he can feel tears begin to sting his eyes.

This is how fast that need erupts, Hermione. This is how fast you can destroy my composure. Please. Don’t ask me to stop. Don’t ever ask me to stop.

His cock is free suddenly, and a gasp of anticipation escapes her lips. He knows she’s scared. She must be scared. But he can’t go any slower. He can’t, even if he wanted to. Draco bunches her skirt in his hands and pushes it up roughly towards her hips, reaches down and touches himself, adjusts himself, asks if she’s okay-

-and then he’s inside her, an arm hooked under her thigh as he lifts her leg off the ground. And it’s everything he remembered it to be. The warmth, the wetness. Tight and fresh and burning around him. She lets out a strangled cry, curls her leg tighter around him, and he holds her against the wall, whispers things in her ear as she clutches at his shoulders. Whispers-

“Hermione” and “I need you” and “So fucking tight”.

His thrusting grows rougher, he holds onto her tighter- doesn’t want her to shake so much but he can’t help it. He can’t help it. But the sounds escaping her mouth tell him she doesn’t care. She doesn’t care tonight.

He groans.

Again, over and again he pushes up into her, their bodies rubbing against each other, the damp of their skin sticking. The door shaking. Breath entangled.

Worlds crashing together.

Draco cries out as he thrusts into her one last time, his eyes snapping shut, and her name somewhere amidst his shattering thoughts. His body shakes against hers, shakes with dangerous elation that hardens his muscles, grits his teeth.

Hermione. Her name caught in his throat.

She doesn’t say anything. But he feels her head drop onto his shoulder. Feels her hot breath struggle against his skin.

They slide down the door.

And it’s over.

It’s over.

Draco opened his eyes, and looked at Hermione. Her skin was flushed, her eyes red, her chest still heaving.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled. She hadn’t come. Again. And he hadn’t expected her to. Not yet. But he didn’t mean to end it all so quickly. He didn’t mean to give in so helplessly to the heat of her body.

It was the things she did to him. He didn’t know how to stop them.

“Don’t be,” she breathed, arms still around his shoulders, skin still bare, “Just- don’t be sorry. Not tonight.”

Not tonight.




*




Somewhere outside of the castle, sitting on the edge of the quidditch fields, Harry started to believe.

He would tell Hermione in the morning.




*