Water

Water
Chapter Three
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Sexual References, Strong language

A HUGE thank you to my wonderful betas, Jen (http://jenl3227.livejournal.com) and Dina (http://dianoram.livejournal.com), for correcting this chapter.

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

Chapter 3.

Snape had discovered two fifth-years, two sixth-years and three third-years wandering the corridors last night. The prefect patrols were clearly ineffective.

“I don’t know what you tell them to do, Mr. Malfoy, but it certainly isn’t their job.” Draco didn’t like being scorned by his own Head of house. He and Snape had an understanding, he liked to think.

He spat at the side of the corridor as he approached the portrait hole. “Stupid Mudblood,” he mumbled to himself. “Have to talk to the little bitch.” He punched the surrounding wall as the portrait snidely informed him that “little bitch” was not the correct password. He muttered the response and the portrait swung open. He auditioned several opening lines before settling on one with the most variations of the word ‘fuck’.

“—and so in short he wants us to go on a fucking patrol.”

Hermione shrugged, “When?” She had yet to look up from her book. It annoyed him.

“Look at me when I’m speaking to you.” But her eyes remained on the text. He expected it, he realised, never quite knowing how stubborn she was before these past couple of months. “Fine, Granger,” he continued. “I’ll inform Snape of your failure to cooperate. Who knows? He might just believe me because he wants to see you punished.”

Snape did, thought Hermione, he had it in for all Gryffindors.

“Well?” growled Draco.

Hermione looked up at him slowly. “You can be quite the little bitch when you want to be. Pansy passed on a few tips?”

Draco smirked. “She doesn’t tend to say much I can understand whilst I’m boning her into the floorboards actually.”

“You don’t tend to understand much anyway, Malfoy,” retorted Hermione.

He scoffed. “We both know that if I put in just that little bit more effort, Granger,” he smirked, “you’d start to fall behind with the marks.”

“You might be good in class,” she retorted, “but you’re as thick as a dog when it comes to common sense.”

He ignored her. “Ten till one in the morning,” he said, wiping the slight smile from her face. “Tonight,” he added.

“You are joking?” she laughed. “Normal patrols end just after eleven.”

“He found these twats after midnight,” replied Draco. “Did I mention four of them were from your poncey little House?”

“Yes.”

“Too thick to understand the rules, clearly.”

“Just because they aren’t trained in the art of deception. Slytherins are constantly breaking the
rules.”

“Absolutely,” he agreed. “And getting away with it.”

She rolled her eyes. “So what, I patrol the first two floors and you patrol the top two?”

He shook his head. “Snape says together.”

“Together?”

“Unfortunately. I don’t particularly want to be smelling you for the next few hours,” he began, his face screwed into a disgusted expression. “But Snape says it’s too late to patrol alone,” he continued. “Personally I couldn’t give a toss about what happened to you, but I’d rather stay out of the red with him for the next few weeks at least. If you have a problem with that then you can just—”

“Fine.”

“Just stay as far away as possible.”

“What, no holding hands?” she snapped, sarcastically.

“In your dreams, Mudblood.”


*


Hermione wondered to herself how unsafe it was to have so many dark corridors in the castle. She wasn’t keen on darkness. She felt there was something consuming about it, something restricting and beating about the black all around her. Since they had begun the patrol, she was only able to see what her wand would allow – and Draco’s of course, because she couldn’t forget that he was there too.

The top two floors seemed to stretch out forever like the castle was top heavy. It was eleven and Hermione noted that normally their patrol would be coming to a close. Normally, she thought, she would be wandering around on her own – though part of her acknowledged the fact that so far it hadn’t been much different. After Draco briefly told her these late night checks were to be carried out randomly once every two months, the conversation locked away into a silence that at least allowed each of them to pretend they were alone.

Pretending was difficult however when they found a stray Gryffindor in one of the few candlelit corridors on the second floor. Hermione sighed, because it had to be a Gryffindor whilst she was out patrolling with the Prince of Slytherin.

“Gryffindor,” he drawled. “What did I tell you, Granger?”

She ignored him. “What’s your name?” she asked the boy.

“Michael Scaventon.”

“Year?”

“Fifth.”

“And what are you doing out past curfew, Michael?” Hermione asked, waiting for the inevitable and bitter interruptions from Draco through his blatant smirk.

The boy shrugged. He was thinking for a moment. “I guess I forgot to pick up my laundry this evening so I’m on my way there now.”

Hermione noticed the mocking in his tone. “You guess?” she repeated, her eyes narrowing.

He nodded curtly. “I like to get things done.”

Draco laughed out loud. “What a load of bullshit.”

Hermione shot him a cold look and turned back to Michael. “No, Michael,” she said. “What were you really doing?”

“Going to...the laundry...room,” he replied slowly, emphasising every word.

She raised an eyebrow. “The rules clearly state that fifth-years aren’t allowed outside house quarters after nine thirty,” she told him.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Granger,” sighed Draco. “Give the little shit three detentions and tell him to fuck off.”

“Three detentions?” she turned to him, her tone remaining calm. “And I suppose Slytherins will only get one? Or maybe, if they’re lucky enough to be a girl, if they promise to have a quick shag with you, the whole thing will be completely forgotten?” Hermione said it all instinctively, forgetting they had company. She rolled her eyes at her lapse in Head-Girl-esque behaviour and turned back to the boy. “I’ll be giving your name to Professor McGonagall and you can be sure you’ll be sitting a detention within the next week. I’ll be mentioning your attitude as well.”

“And with so many Gryffindors on that bad list of hers,” grinned Draco over her shoulder, “I’m pretty certain I’ll opt to supervise that detention. We can have a bit of fun.” He said it all while looking at Hermione. “Can’t we, Michael?” he added.

Michael shrugged. “Whatever.”

Draco snapped his eyes dangerously towards him and tilted his head to the side. “I think what you mean is, yes sir.”

Michael stared back at him, his silent refusal to answer obvious. Oh no, thought Hermione, asking herself why every Gryffindor had to be so bloody stubborn.

“Report to Professor McGonagall in the morning,” she said, breaking the uneasy silence and writing down his name. “And that’s ten points from Gryffindor.”

“I’d say more like fifty.”

“Ten, Malfoy, as well as the detentions.”

“So what?” asked Michael. “Are you two going to get my washing for me then?”

Hermione sighed. If the boy was trying to be funny, he was failing miserably. “Just go,” she ordered, half pointing in the direction of his dormitories. But Draco stepped into his path, his eyes bearing down on the fifth-year.

“What?” Michael dared. “You don’t offer that service?”

“Listen you little bastard,” he growled. “Do not disrespect the Head prefects or you can be sure you’ll get a lot more than a fucking detention next time round.” His eyes bore right into him. “How about you write that one out for me two hundred times?”

Michael looked back at him in silence. Hermione knew they’d found an idiot.

“And how about,” continued Draco, “you get that done for me by eight o’ clock tomorrow morning. You like to get things done after all, don’t you, Scaventon?” He moved closer to the boy, the gap between the two of them narrowing enough for Draco to tower high above him.

There was a short silence in which a frown began to deepen on Michael’s forehead. His mouth started to open and Hermione dreaded the words that were starting to come out.

“How about you go fuck y—”

“Malfoy!” she exclaimed, rushing up to him and pulling on his shoulder as he slammed Michael into the wall, his fist pulling firmly on his tie as he watched the tips of his shoes scrape desperately at the ground. “What are you doing?!” Hermione shouted at him.

“Fuck off!” he spat at her, turning into Michael so their foreheads almost touched. Draco pressed his wand harder into his neck and he made a small choking sound. “You better watch that mouth of yours, Scaventon. You’ve got a lot to be sorry for now you’ve opened it.”

“Stop it, will you?!” shouted Hermione. “Let him go!” She struggled again to pull him off but he ignored her.

“Let me hear your apology,” snarled Draco, breathing into Michael who was shaking as he nodded a response. Draco loosened his grip enough to let the words slip out.

“S-sorry,” he stuttered.

“And to her,” he growled. “Nice and clearly.”

“Malfoy please,” said Hermione helplessly, tears rising in her eyes. “Stop it…”

“Sorry,” coughed Michael, his eyes flickering over her before Draco stepped away from him and he dropped to the ground. Hermione rushed over.

“Bloody hell, Malfoy!” she barked, trying to help up Michael. “What the hell was that?!” Michael was rubbing his neck. “Are you okay?” she asked him. “Michael? Do you need--”

“No,” he interrupted hoarsely, taking a few awkward steps away from them. He caught Draco’s stare. “Honestly I’m fine, I’ll just…” He gestured in the direction of his common room.

“What a fantastic idea,” agreed Draco, watching as the boy hurried clumsily off down the corridor.

Hermione watched him in disbelief. “Michael, are you sure?” she called after him. He didn’t reply as he disappeared around the nearest corner.

She let out a breath of astonishment and turned around to face the Head Boy. He was clicking his knuckles.

“Let’s go on,” he muttered, beginning to walk past her. She pushed her hand against his chest and he flinched. “Don’t touch me!”

“Fuck you!” she exclaimed, shaking her head in amazement. “I mean seriously, what in Merlin’s name—”

“You’ll make me sick,” he told her. “I don’t want your Mudblood hands all over me.”

Mudblood. Hermione hated that she was getting used to that word. When she had warned Draco about saying it – what felt like years ago now – he thought she would never have to put up with it again. But she was wrong, as she had been about many things so far.

“That’s not what I meant!” she said, pushing him again before he could dodge out of the way.

“I’m warning you, Granger,” he snarled.

“Or what?” she laughed. “You’ll half strangle me like you did that fifth-year? You do realise he’ll go straight to McGonagall and I can guarantee that’s both of us out on our arses, you idiot!” She shook her head again. “What the hell were you playing at?”

He raised his eyebrows. “That little shit won’t be running off to tell anyone,” he answered. “You can be sure of that.”

“How?” she asked. “And I mean can you even blame him if he does?” Hermione started to walk towards him again. “Why did you do that?”

“You heard the dick, he was giving a bit too much back to us.”

“So he was full of it.” She raised her hands. “Give him your three beloved detentions, don’t ram him up against the bloody wall!” She stood before him now, her chest heaving with exhaustion.

“Look, fuck you alright?” said Draco. “I was doing you a favour.”

Hermione laughed out loud. “A favour?”

“Teaching him respect,” he replied. “Because he clearly didn’t have any for either of us.”

“I can handle the backchat fine.”

“Oh yeah,” he frowned. “Your comebacks knocked him dead.”

“Better than bruising his jugular, you idiot.”

“Teaching people lessons is part of the punishment, bitch.”

“You know it wouldn’t have been like that if he wasn’t a Gryffindor!”

“No one speaks like that to me and gets away with it.”

“Don’t bother, Malfoy.”

“Sure if it were a Slytherin it probably wouldn’t have happened like that because he wouldn’t be
stupid enough to give those smart arse remarks.” Draco laughed. “He wouldn’t have been thick enough to be caught in the first place.”

“Oh, yes,” sighed Hermione sarcastically, “because Slytherins are quite clearly the best.”

“You said it.”

“And what am I supposed to tell McGonagall?”

“Nothing,” he told her. “And it better be nothing or you’ll live to regret it.”

“What, you hurt women too, do you?”

Something about that comment made Draco wince. “Fuck you,” he barked. “I’ve never hurt a girl in my life.”

Hermione shrugged. “What a vote of confidence that last little performance was.”

“Unless you’re referring to a hard and brutal fuck, Granger, you’re wrong. And anyway, I can get to you in so many other different ways, it will be like Christmas for me to choose.”

She looked at him in disgust and shook her head. “You’re a bastard, Malfoy.” She turned away from him and began to walk off.


*


Hermione was pacing towards the other end of the corridor. He didn’t like that she had turned her back on him. He wasn’t finished with her yet.

“Where are you going?” Draco called after her.

“Away from you,” she replied.

“What about patrol?” he asked. “It’s not like Little Miss Granger to disobey her little orders.”

“Fuck you,” her voice echoed, as she disappeared around the corner.

Draco let out a sharp growl. Turning around, he clenched his jaw and tightened his fists, punching the wall with the same scraped knuckles as earlier. That little bugger may have pissed him off but never as much as she did. And he never realised it would get to him so much. He never realised.

He felt sick suddenly. He wanted to throw up because she even so much as suggested that he might hurt her. And even if she didn’t believe it, she said it all the same, and he wanted to never hear those words from a girl. It reminded him so much of dark things. Dark things even for him.

It reminded him of home.

Draco swallowed the thoughts in his dry throat, bitter and biting. His mind reverted back to Granger.

She was consuming his every thought now. He was thinking about how he hated her. More and more everyday, but especially now. And he began to think, began to plan a release since he would only feel some sort of relief when he knew she’d paid for making him feel like this.

Because not even Potter got him this wound up so easily. Not even the Boy-Who-Bloody-Lived and his pathetic peasant friend could do this to him.

He knew he was getting to her, and that he had succeeded in that since the beginning of term. But he really needed, like a desperate energy, to hear it. To hear her tell him. He’d broken her. He needed to know that he’d broken her.


*


She was sitting in one of the bay windows looking outside. He wondered what she could see in the darkness after one in the morning. He knew she heard him come in since she pulled down on her skirt as it rode up her thighs – the ones he forbid himself to ever glance at for longer than a second – without looking in his direction. It was better than the usual no response that he despised so much.

“I didn’t find anyone else,” began Draco, after he’d moved towards the fire. It was simmering down and not as warm as usual. The whole room seemed slightly colder. “Not even another filthy Gryffindor,” he continued. “I suppose half the bloody castle heard you wailing at me and got the message.”

She didn’t turn her head to him. She didn’t make a sound.

“You didn’t come straight back here, did you?” he asked. She ignored him again. “No, I suppose you wouldn’t. Continued on your patrol like a good little girl, I’ll bet.”

She moved then, but it was only to wipe away the reforming condensation on the window before her.

Draco frowned. He could see her faint reflection and knew that meant that she would be able to see him too if she wanted. She wouldn’t be looking though. No. All those Gryffindors were the same, so damned proud and righteous it made him shudder with impatience.

“That bastard had it coming,” he muttered, trying to coax a reaction from her. “You can be damned sure I don’t regret a single bit of it. No one speaks to me like that.”

Maybe she sighed, he wasn’t too sure, but the condensation seemed to reform quicker this time.

“Admit it,” he said, watching her hand wipe it away again. “Admit that you loved seeing that smug fucker pressed into the wall.” His tone lowered. “Admit that you liked seeing me do that. That you wanted to do it yourself.”

Her fingers twitched.

That’s right, he thought, let me work you up. Let me watch it happen.

He dared going further, leaning forward, staring at her reflection, watching the flicker of her eyelashes.

His voice fell to an almost half-whisper. “Admit that it turned you on, Granger.”

Instantly her back straightened and she swung her legs off the seat.

Draco smiled to himself as she stood before the window, her eyes cutting right through his skull.

“Hit a nerve, did I?” he asked, pleased that it took exactly what he thought it would to get her eyes on his.

“You enjoyed hurting that boy, did you?” she asked him, her lip quivering. “You loved every bit of it?”

“I would do it again.”

Inside himself Draco was a little intrigued, though mostly uninterested, in how that lip of hers was the only thing conveying her anger. Her tone was calm, her voice was annoyingly collected, those distracting eyes of hers were deep and dark as ever but they weren’t looking as if they could spit fire like earlier, no matter how far they seemed to reach into his head.

“Then why were you going around punching walls afterwards?” she asked him, nodding towards his bleeding hand. “I mean, it obviously can’t be anything to do with me getting you wound up, Malfoy. I’m scarcely a blip on your radar, right? So if it’s not me or Michael, then what is it?”

He stared at her. His smirk remained but he didn’t speak. He breathed harder instead.

“Your stupid act doesn’t fool me, Malfoy,” she continued. “You’re not as straight cut ‘bad’ as you like to think you are. You’re just as weak as you think I am.” Draco stood up suddenly and she jumped, stepping back from the window and away from him. She grabbed her bag from the nearby table stand and gripped the wand inside it. “The only difference being that I’m not as weak as you think I am,” she added.

Draco laughed. “What are you going to pull out of there, Granger?” he asked. “Potter?”

Hermione took out her wand and threw her bag to the floor. Draco’s eyes darted to her hand and he hoped the momentary tremor in his posture went unnoticed.

“Doesn’t it bother you?” she continued, her knuckles white. “Harry has so much you don’t.”

“Can’t say I ever look at the Weasel with that longing sort of feeling actually.”

“He’s a real hero. He knows more about the hardships in life than anyone and he’s still standing tall without some big fat chip on his shoulder. And he has real friends because of it. People that love him would do anything for him. People respect him and not because they are afraid of what will happen if they don’t.” Hermione’s eyes travelled down Draco’s body. “And he doesn’t get complete slags falling at his feet the entire time either,” she scoffed.

Draco grinned. “I can guarantee you he doesn’t count that one as a blessing.”

“I meant he gets the decent girls,” she said. “Don’t you ever wonder what that would be like, Malfoy? Getting a decent girl?”

“I can get anyone I want,” he retorted, his smile fading. “And you know it, Granger.”

She rolled her eyes. “And what really, really must get to you, Malfoy, is that Harry has morals, he has feelings, he has a heart,” she continued. “That’s why he’s going to grow up and live an admirable life for himself instead of cowering in the shadow of his father like you.”



*


Hermione saw Draco’s expression turn to stone.

“You start to bring my father into this and we’ll have a problem.” He stepped towards Hermione and her arm jerked instinctively forward, pointing her wand straight at him.

Draco reached inside his pocket.

“Don’t you dare,” she warned him. “I’ll hex you, I swear, Malfoy. Don’t think I’m bluffing.”

He laughed at her and removed an empty hand. “I don’t have my wand anyway,” he said, gesturing towards his bag dumped in front of the common room door. “Took it off when I came in. Didn’t realise I’d be having a face off with Little Miss Gryffindor.”

Her arm remained straight and poised. “So how about you admit it?” she said. “Admit that you’re weak.”

“How about you admit it first.”

“I’m not weak.”

“I’m talking about earlier tonight with that Scaventon bastard. Admit that it turned you on.”

“Fuck you.”

“Oh, I bet you wanted to.”

“What the hell is wrong with you?” spat Hermione, the calmness drifting away, her face reddening by the second.

Draco stepped towards her. “Why do you think the question is bothering you so much?”

“Because it’s the most disgusting thing to come out of your mouth all year.”

“Is that right?”

“Yes.”

Draco was close enough for the tip of her wand to touch his shirt. Hermione didn’t like that
he’d been able to get there without her using it.

“Then answer me,” he said. “Did you like it?”

“Like it? Of course I didn’t like it!”

“You didn’t?”

“No.”

“You’re lying.”

“Any closer and I really mean it, you bastard.”

She was shaking. For Merlin’s sake, she thought, stop shaking. He had turned her, turned her composed exterior inside out as per fucking usual.

“I saw the way you were breathing.” Draco lowered his tone again. “Like you are now.”

“I’m angry,” she said. “Get that into your thick, twisted head.”

He stared at her without blinking, his eyes slicing through hers like broken glass.

Hermione sucked up the air through her nostrils and let it fill her lungs, straightening her spine and levelling her feet. There were so many things she wanted to say to him. So many.

“Take a big fat look at yourself, Malfoy,” she spat. “Don’t you know how to do anything other than irritate the shit out of people?” And once she started— “Don’t you know how to interact without shagging girls or getting those meatheads Crabbe and Goyle to beat people to the ground? You can’t even understand that all of it shows just how vulnerable you are.” – she couldn’t stop. “You can’t stand to hear the truth, can’t stand the fact that maybe someone isn’t as scared of you as the rest. Like that Gryffindor, like Harry and Ron, like me.” She really couldn’t see how she could ever stop. “How long has it been, Malfoy? Over six years? How exactly have you managed to stand by and watch everyone else grow up without catching on that maybe, just maybe, you should be doing the same? It’s pathetic! The self-proclaimed leader of Slytherin, quite possibly the most disgustingly devious House in the school, and you have absolutely nothing to teach them other than how to destroy even more of whatever good is left in those dense skulls of theirs! You think Mudbloods are sick, Malfoy? You think we’re diseased? 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.

She was up against the wall, winded, Draco’s face centimetres from hers as he gripped her shoulders and pinned her firmly – hard – into the wall.

Stunned, angry, unable to quench the fire within her, Hermione caught her breath quickly.

“Go ahead,” she hissed. “Hit me.”

Draco was breathing hard, his face screwed into a frown as his teeth ground together in front of her. She could hear it, feel the fury. He was enraged.

“Hit me,” she said again. His jaw was moving, grating, grinding in his cheek. And so close to her. “Isn’t that what your father would want you to do?” she asked, the proximity deafening.

His pallid eyes were dancing with her reflection. She could see it, no matter how she tried to hide it, she looked terrified.


*


“Isn’t that what he’d tell you?” Hermione continued, beginning to stutter. “Hurt me. Hurt the Mudblood bitch. We’re weak.”

He was mere moments from her skin, and he wanted to hurt her, he needed to so fucking much as she stood throbbing against the wall, her words sharp and dead and hot.

“Go on.” She repeated it one last time. Sharp, dead, hot. “Hit me, Malfoy.”

So he did the only thing he could to stop himself.

The only thing.

He kissed her.

His lips crashed onto hers and her head banged back against the wall. He heard her muffled screams as her lips shut tightly and struggled away from him, pulling her mouth free.

“No!” she resisted as he grabbed her chin and forced her back to look at him. “Fuck off, Malfoy!” she whimpered, struggling again.

He tightened his grip.

Again, deliberate and firm, he pressed his lips into hers. This time her body stilled, her eyes, those dark fucking eyes, seething at him. After a moment, Draco pulled back.

They stared at each other for a long second, longer than it should have been, breathing and screaming inside and full of something, everything, nothing they could understand.

“I hate you, Malfoy,” Hermione whispered, a voice as raw as ripping silk, hoarse, hot, close to tears. “I hate you so much.”

And Draco brought his lips to hers one last time, and this time, spectacularly, her mouth opened for him. She felt the wet heat of his hard tongue and gave a short sharp moan as one of his hands grabbed her hair and tugged her head back, leaning into her further.

Draco was angry. He was kissing her to punish her, to punish himself, and it was punishing – it was desperate, frantic, wild. It was his teeth biting down on her bottom lip, hard, hungry. He took it in his mouth and sucked all the blood to its surface, sharp and sweet, releasing it moments later to taste the other, feel it throb, threaten, beg for more. And he couldn’t stop, sucking at her tongue, pressing his mouth against hers – deeper and deeper.

He could sense it. Hermione was losing her way. She was dissolving, fizzing, terrified to open her eyes, her hand holding a fistful of his shirt, pulling him into her. She was melting into the wall as his mouth devoured hers.

He bit her again, harder, hungry still, ashamed and so deliriously irate as he burned through her lip. She made a small sound lost in the dark of his mouth. Both his hands held her face now, rough, brutal, and she couldn’t move, wouldn’t move, and he thought he tasted the faint tang of blood on his tongue, so he licked, lapped, lusted at it and tasted more.

This can’t be just a kiss, his mind raced, pounded, shattered into a million pieces all screaming her name, her fucking name – Granger – and they both needed air, needed air so much because he realised he couldn’t breathe, but he was so angry. He wanted to suffocate her, wanted her to break-to-break-now-please— And suddenly she was pushing.

She was pushing against him firmly, hard against his chest – she can’t breathe – harder, then with her elbows. She was writhing, wriggling away, moaning things over his tongue that scraped against hers frenziedly. He couldn’t quite understand when it all went from bad to worse and he was forcing a fucking Mudblood against him.

His hands left her face, pinning her back to the wall, chewing back onto her lip and pushing his mouth down so hard on hers, wishing more than anything she would split for him. Because he wanted her to split – to break— Anything but stop him. And he swore she had kissed him back but now?

Now he couldn’t understand but he held her there, couldn’t leave her lips, couldn’t still his tongue. He had to show her who was the one with the control, the authority, wanting her to want him, crave him forever, pressing his hardened cock against her thigh and moaning into her mouth at the contact, almost bucking at the idea of what was inside of her, slick, warm, tight, dirty.

She was moaning louder now, trying to close her mouth, trying to tighten her lips together – but his tongue, he wouldn’t stop, he was so furious and he hated her so much that he couldn’t stop. And her struggling became harder – when did she stop kissing him back? – and he was finding it harder to hold her, but he was strong, stronger than her and stronger still and he was glad to know there was nothing she could do. She’s too weak. But don’t stop kissing her, don’t stop your tongue, don’t let her scream, don’t stop the taste, don’t open your eyes, don’t acknowledge, don’t accept, it’s a fucking filthy mess and you’re devouring a Mudblood, it’s Granger, it’s fucking Granger – her name again – her name her name her fucking name and then—

Draco tore his mouth away from her and collapsed onto the floor. “Fuck!” he spluttered, clutching his suddenly softening crotch as he rolled around at her feet. “What the hell are you playing at?!”

“What the hell are you playing at?!” Hermione screamed.

“You fucking kneed me in the—”

“What do you expect?!” she screamed again, rushing past his body and away towards the opposite wall. “You fucking bastard, Malfoy!”

Draco’s eyes were shut tightly, the pain, the pain was always unforgettable. “Bitch,” he said, his teeth gritted.

“Don’t you dare come near me,” she shouted as he began to drag himself up on his knees. Draco noticed she had grabbed her wand again, it was pointed directly at him as he shakily stood to his feet. “I swear if you so much as take one step!”

He was hunched over, still grimacing, his teeth still grinding. “In case you hadn’t noticed, you kissed me back, you jumped up little whore,” he spat.

“I was trying to make you stop!” she exclaimed, her arm straightening further in anger.

“You were pulling me into you!”

“Until I started pushing you away!”

His laugh faltered into a wince. “You’ve fucking crippled me,” he growled. “Put your bloody wand down.”

“I couldn’t breathe!”

“Put your wand down, Granger.”

Her eyes were wide. “Don’t move!”

“Shut up, you idiot,” he scoffed. “I can’t even stand up properly.”

“You deserved it.”

“What’s wrong with you? You wanted it!”

“I didn’t want that!”

“You kissed me back.”

“Stop saying that!”

“Fucking accept it!”

“You hurt me,” she said, struggling to control the frantic rise and fall of her chest. “What happened to not hurting girls, Malfoy?”

His eyes narrowed. “Shut up.”

“I thought you didn’t do that.”

“I said shut up!”

“What would you have done?”

“Oh, don’t be so dramatic,” he answered. “You loved it.”

She shook her head. “You’ll never get that close to me again, Malfoy,” she replied, her voice breaking slightly.

He looked up. He didn’t know if he could see right but there might have been tears in her eyes.

“Do you understand?” she asked.

He doesn’t hurt girls. He doesn’t.

“Malfoy?”

“What?”

“Never again.”


*


Never. Ever.

“I never want to again.” Draco was frowning deeply.

She stared at him. “I meant it,” she said firmly, her wand still pointed at him as she moved the few metres to the staircase.

He stared back at her as she took the first step up to her bedroom. “I didn’t hurt you,” he said. “Just so we make that clear as fucking crystal, Granger. You kissed me back and I don’t care how many times I have to say it.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“What do you think it’s supposed to mean?” he said, his posture broader now. “I wouldn’t want anyone finding out about this sick fuck-up anymore than you do. But if you don’t cooperate I’m pretty certain Potter won’t stay entirely clueless for the rest of the year.”

Hermione’s heart seemed to stop beating. “No,” she said, her eyes wide. “You wouldn’t say anything.”

“Why not?”

“He’d kill you.”

“Or die trying.”

“No, Malfoy, this stays between us.” The tears rose again in her eyes.

“Well isn’t that interesting.”

“What?” she frowned, failing in any attempt to calm the heated rush of blood beneath her skin.

“Why would you be so keen to keep it between us if you didn’t even do anything, Granger?” he smirked. “If you’re so sure I forced you, then what’s to stop you running to Potter?”

“Shut up.”

“You wanted it.”

Hermione shook her head in disbelief. How had it come to this? At what point did it all unravel so much? He would hold this against her forever. She would be trapped. She would be his and he knew that. She knew he knew that, the bastard.

“And what if I did tell Harry?” she asked, her voice quivering.

“You wouldn’t,” he replied, his eyes narrowing. “Don’t kid yourself.”

“Wouldn’t I?” she retorted. “I’m not stupid, Malfoy. I know you think you’ll have this over me forever. I’m not going to let that happen.”

“And what would you tell the boy, Granger?” smirked Draco. “That we kissed so hard it was practically fucking?”

Her heart jumped. “No,” she answered. “That you wouldn’t let me go. That you forced me still. That’s what happened after all, wasn’t it?”

“You’d be lying.”

“Really?”

“You know you can’t lie to your beloved Potter,” laughed Draco. “You’d have to tell him you kissed me back and would it really be worth it? Would he ever talk to you again?”

Her eyes stung, it was too hard – she couldn’t hold it back – and a tear fell onto her cheek.

Draco’s smile deadened. “You can cry all you want,” he growled.

She shook her head at him again and turned back, ran, fled up the stairs, stifling the tears that fell and fell.

“It changes nothing!” she heard him shout.

She slammed the door on his voice, sobbing, heaving, crumbling and sliding down the side of the door until her head was buried in her knees. Ashamed. Muffled moans and tears suppressed into her arms. Why? It was all a blur. And the worst part?

And the worst part.

She'd kissed him back.


*