The Wonders of Obliviate

Disclaimer: Look at the previous chapter, it still applies, I’m not profiting, I don’t intend to, the characters I write about are not mine, and its all for my own perverse pleasure.

A/N: Glad you guys liked it so far. If you’ve got some suggestions on making the story better (grammatical, vocabulary, character-personality mistakes etc) please tell me (politely)! You can suggest plot ideas if you’d like, but yours had better be AMAZING. (Although I\'m kinda stuck right now, so anything would be wonderful!)

This one’s a bit shorter, hope you enjoy it.

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The next night, Draco kept his word and was waiting for Hermione at her favorite table in the library. His books were already out, neatly organized into piles, his class notes labeled and written in a delicate scrawl the looked feminine enough Hermione did a double-take. He merely looked up, gave her a brief look that very clearly informed her Draco wouldn’t tolerate her tardiness again, then continued to stare furiously at his potions notes.

‘As if giving his neat notes a death stare would make the subject more comprehensible,’ Hermione thought amused.

The night was spent in silence. Neither head student said a word to the other. Hermione was shocked at how comfortable she felt around Malfoy. The silence wasn’t awkward, and it was pleasant to have someone she was able to study with, truly study with. It wasn’t that Hermione didn’t love Ron and Harry, it was just …well, she was a lot more productive when she was only doing her own homework, not theirs as well.

When Draco finally gathered her things and wished her a good night, she felt disappointed.

He had been a decent companion, and she could always use a good diligent study partner. At least that’s what she told her self when she called after Draco’s delicious retreating backside, “You’ll be back tomorrow, right?”

He turned, unsmiling, and nodded, before walking out. If it had been anybody else, perhaps Hermione would have been peeved. But… he hadn’t been smirking, sneering or glaring at her. And when those three trademark-Malfoy expressions weren’t plastered all over his face, he almost looked pleasant. Almost.

Hermione sighed, and realized that being so thoroughly distracted was guarantee that she wouldn’t be able to finish Monday’s homework before Friday.

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It had been a month since Draco had first appeared in the Library. And though she didn’t want to admit--Hermione missed the days was not at the table with her. She couldn’t help but understand why he avoided the Library on Tuesdays and Wednesdays. Those were the days when Harry and Ron joined her.

After seven years together, she had finally managed to convince the two she would only ‘help’ with their homework twice a week, other nights she would be happy to give them ‘hints’ before dinner. Their kind of help entailed thoroughly editing and revising essays reviewing exams, hints were really what Hermione preferred, but she felt responsible for their dependence on her, six years of dependency where she didn’t insist as firmly as she should have that they do their own work. Regardless, after dinner she would go to the library to complete her own studies, and she didn’t want to be disturbed by them.

It had been the Tuesday after he first came to her. Draco had been enraged to find that Harry and Ron were already at the table waiting as he had arrived with Hermione. Hermione had been fidgeting all evening as she and Draco left from the Great Hall together, wondering how to warn him that tonight might not be the best night….

Draco had been sweet, and picked up on her nervousness, asking if she was alright, mentioning if she ever needed someone to talk to. ‘Yes,’ she admitted embarrassed. ‘He had actually acted sweet towards me.’

But the minute they walked in the hall together, and spotted Ron and Harry waiting eagerly, Draco had given her back her books and notes, and glared at her momentarily before storming out of the Library.

“That’s right Malfoy, run!” Ron called gaily as he watched the platinum haired boy leave hurriedly; and despite Hermione’s exasperated glare, called out, “Hey, Mione!”

The fact that Draco had been carrying her goods had been lost on Ron, but not on Harry. He looked at her suspiciously, but she held his gaze defiantly, daring him to comment on Draco’s odd behavior.

To be honest, she was suspicious herself, but she hadn’t been able to find any ulterior motives when Draco had waited to walk her to the library, and offered to carry her books.

But Harry hadn’t said a thing, and she had been all business from then on, focusing on assisting Harry and Ron. She hadn’t even thought again of Draco’s odd behavior until she stepped inside their common room, exhausted only to have her books forced from her hands as she was shoved roughly up against a wall.

“When?” Draco had questioned intensely, his lips so close to her ear she trembled as his breathy word caressed her. The haze of the lightening fast action, Draco’s body pressed against her, his lips so close… it had taken her a moment to realize he had spoken.

“Tuesday and Wednesday,” she remembered whispering in response.

“Will we be alone every other night?” Draco purred. Since when did Draco Malfoy wanted to be alone with her?

“I-” Hermione had barely been breathing. As she fumbled for the right words, Draco’s lips finally descended in the most tantalizing manner, brushing her ear in such a way it made her tremble and shake with feelings she didn’t know she had. She remembered the tickling feeling in her breasts, nipples specifically. She had wriggled slightly, hoping for friction desperate to rub them, tease them. Suddenly the same sensation was felt… down there. Hermione pressed her legs together harder, hoping Draco wouldn’t notice how uneasy he was making her feel.

“Yes?” He had whispered, breathing gentle against her encouraging her reaction. When she trembled again, the shaking movement seemed to knock some sort of sense into her.

“Malfoy, really now. Is this any way to treat the Head Girl?” Hermione distinctly demanded while she was pushing him away. She couldn’t help but cringe at the flirtatious tone that her voice had taken. Her tone hardly sounded angry or violated as she’d intended to.

Draco merely grinned wolfishly, eyes flashing in amusement. “Yes,” he answered once again succinctly.

It had surprised Hermione even more when instead of teasing or becoming obnoxious yet again, Draco had turned the conversation. With ease, Draco manipulated the conversation to an equally intense debate about the current topics in their history of Muggles class. (Hermione was forced to admit to herself at a later date—during a mind numbing inner-debate—that Draco had proven to have well thought out insights into some of the Muggles’ most embarrassing parts of history. And had even though his family was the purest of the pure, had compared some of the Wizarding World’s most recent follies to events in Muggle history.)

After this, they went on to debate rights of servants, a conversation that had stemmed from discussing the old trade routes from Africa, which resulted in a heated argument about Hermione’s activities with S.P.E.W. And while she knew instinctively that Draco would be in favor of house elves, she had thought he would not be as prepared as he was to shoot down every one of her arguments. He had obviously given the topic thought as well, and left Hermione astounded and speechless when he announced that he didn’t support her views, but understood why she felt the need to crusade for ‘creatures appearing less fortunate.’ And even more surprising was the admission that since his father had been imprisoned in Azkaban, the house elves had been treated much better at the Manor. In truth it had been only his father’s cruel demands that had left the house elves in such a pathetic state, Draco had insisted.

Reluctantly Hermione found herself wishing that she could believe him. But it was moments like this, when she questioned her sanity in thinking Draco had reformed from his evil-bastard tendencies. It was Tuesday, and Ron and Harry had just finished explaining what they needed help with, when Draco had walked unaffectedly to her side, placed a hand on her shoulder in a comforting manner. When she looked up at him in surprise she could read the contempt for her friends in his eyes. She tilted her head, silently begging him to behave, for her.

He made no sign to show that he had understood her pleading, instead to her horror, pulling out the chair next to hers and reclining in it gracefully, his eyes never leaving her face. Hermione flushed.

Ron was red with rage, sputtering incoherent comments. Harry was silent in contrast, his face a deadly white that rivaled Draco’s natural tones. At last he said coldly, “In-breeding has obviously left you with out a sense of direction.”

“Yes, probably,” Draco replied nonchalantly, “But then, men have never been known for their exemplary skills in locating things, have they? No wonder it has taken the Dark Lord so long to come kill your sorry arse. At least I, however, have manners. I’ll have you know Potter, that despite the fact you are constantly assuring anyone who will listen that I am the devil incarnate; I am several months older than you, not years. Thus it would have been impossible for to be the devil incarnate that did kill your parents. By the way, it has been seventeen years. Move on already!”

Decisively ignoring the near glowing red of Weaselby’s face and the manner in which Potty was shaking lividly, Draco leaned over to examine Hermione’s scrolls. “You have a mistake here, Granger,” he said with hooded eyes. “Check side effects of mixing powdered Flaggerwort leaves with African spider venom in a cauldron of boiling dragon’s milk, page one hundred and seventy-two of the potions book.”

Mortified, Hermione glanced at her friends, Harry was standing now, white knuckles pressing forcefully onto the table. Ron for once, looked as though he might do the right thing and hold Harry back instead of diving forward to take the first shot.

“I think I need to finish this assignment alone, in my room,” Hermione stated mustering all the calmness she could. “Ron, Harry, come with me, I’ll walk with you back to the common room.”

“And what about me?” Malfoy asked, hurt.

“You can go shove your slimy head in the to the nearest lou,” she spat. For the first time in her life, Hermione crammed her scrolls in to her book bag in a disorderly fashion with out worry whether corner or edge was bent. She flicked her wand to collect the boys’ things, and then grabbed Ron and Harry each by an arm, and dragged them from the library.

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Draco had been waiting for Hermione to return to the Head common room, knowing that his fire cat would be ready and waiting to hash it out with him the second she stepped through the portrait hole. He was rather surprised he beat her back. Though he supposed, having to completely illiterate trolls for friends did tend to slow things down, as his experiences with Crabb and Goyle proved that well enough.

While he waited, Draco tried to entertain himself with the thought of the rather large hernia Weasel probably developed at the sight of Draco’s arm around Hermione. Imagine it, him, Draco Malfoy touching a mudblood? He would scoff at the idea if he hadn’t instigated the whole mess himself.

It was a result of this temporary insanity that didn’t appear to be all that temporary. He knew from experience with his father that occasionally negative attention was better than no attention at all.

He had certainly reached extremes of this throughout his stay at Hogwarts. His favorite memory still remained the deliciously hard slap Hermione had delivered in third year. Draco was fourteen at the time, and after running off with his goons, wanked like nobody’s business at the idea of Hermione touching him. The fantasies created by the slap was only the beginning. By fifth year, he had joined the squad created by that horrid-frog faced woman as a means to draw more of Hermione’s attention to himself. He quite enjoyed the idea of torturing Weasel and Potty while earning fiery and passionate glares from Hermione. Even if her looks were given in a moment of extreme hate, they were saved for later fits of hormonal imbalance.

After all, this whole escapade was a fit of hormonal imbalance, there was no possible way Draco Malfoy would chase the skirt of a mudblood after all. At least not openly. In sixth year, his fantasies had become unbearable. He woke up almost every night in his seed, even Grabbe and Goyle were beginning to wonder. He hooked up with Pansy as a matter of convenience, and their business meant the room of requirement was often… occupied.

This he could live with. Pansy was irritable, selfish, and rather a pain in the arse to deal with. But she was a decent fuck, and kept him from chafing too frequently. Unfortunately, there were times when Draco desperately needed to live out his fantasies, the ones that included Hermione. And so he began to use the room of requirement on his own.

The room of requirement was not able to produce a live human, or a Hermione replica for his disposal. But when he was that eager to live as much of his fantasy as possible, even that strange box-thing that created pictures inside itself was acceptable. During these trying times, Draco would enter the Room of Requirement and found a very comfortable soft dragon-hide chair waiting, a tube of some sort of lubricant, a towel, and his fantasy playing on the front of the box.

It would repeat itself continuously until he had left.

Draco relied on this box-thing for nearly half of sixth year, until in Potions the class brewed a polyjuice potion. And then his brilliant plan was conceived. From then on, he had lovingly administered his fantasies to the eager (and oblivious) Pansy. The room had reliably provided him with the perfect location as he needed. Large bed, no mirrors.

Unintentionally his fantasies began to swim before his eyes again. When the portrait finally swung open permitting the head girl to enter he easily anticipated the transition from his smoldering fantasy-Hermione to the frizzy-haired-girl-foaming-at-the-mouth that he’d fallen for. He was hoping to get smacked again, a small price to pay for contact, he thought smugly to himself.

But he was disappointed. Hermione merely stood in the door way, not speaking not even glaring at him. From his vantage point on the couch, she looked absentmindedly unhappy. Until he opened his big mouth.

“Welcome back, sweetheart.”

Hermione went so quickly from white to red, Draco mused she must have Weasel beat in odd appearances, her complexion was nearly purple from rage.

Still, she did not speak; her furious glare never losing contact with his eyes she walked to the table and set down her goods, folded her arms across her chest, and let her weight rest mostly on her deliciously shaped right leg. Her face became a more natural shade, and yet she remained silent.

It was unnerving. The similarity to that nest hen Weasel called a mother was disturbing, completely unattractive. He had to do something. The erection he had from the idea of Hermione smacking him as passionately as she had in third year was subsiding.

“What do you want me to do, Hermione?” Draco drawled tiredly. He was tired of a conversation that had yet to begin. Asking him to be nice to her friends was too much for him, but he could read from her posture and her expression that she would quickly let him know of her expectations regardless of how he felt.

“You could at least be civil!” She hissed vehemently.

“When have I not been civil?” Upon seeing her enraged gesticulations Draco ceded that there were in fact many times when he had not been civil. “But I was nice as day tonight.”

“You deliberately provoked Harry!”

“He was making light of my family’s good name.”

Hermione looked at him, silent. “Alright, my family’s infamous name.” She gave a small terse nod and opened her mouth to speak.

“Look, Hermione, I adore you. Really I do,” Draco cut in decidedly ignoring her innocent little flush, and let her wonder what he meant by the admission. “But honestly, can you tell me now, that your friends would be equally civil to me?”

She was silent, her eyes on her hands, and she was clearly thinking furiously of a satisfactory answer for him. “Well--”

“You can’t, you’d like to say yes, but you know it’s a lie,” she flushed again, but for different reasons. He was right, and they both know it.

“Look Granger,” he said gruffly, trying to appeal to her blossoming affection for him. “I’ll try to stop provoking Potter and Weasley and your other heroic bound Gryffindor groupies, but you can’t expect me to not to defend myself when they send the knives my direction.”

“They wouldn’t,” she insisted half-heartedly. She wasn’t sure, there was no lost love between Gryffindors and Slytherin. While she hoped her friends would be above such a, a Slytherin move, she couldn’t make Draco any guarantees.

“We’ll see,” he answered. He didn’t want to outright say she was a fool, but his girl was undoubtedly one of the most naïve. Draco let himself stop pacing in front of her long enough to brush his lips against her forehead as he left her for his own room. “Goodnight, Hermione.”

He smiled to himself, imagining Granger in the room, flushing thoroughly at the thought of his lips touching her. He wondered briefly if she thought about his lips on hers, on her breasts, and wet and waiting folds. Voldermort be damned, he was randy again.