Water

Water
Chapter Four
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 4.

“Has Hermione mentioned anything to you about the Winter Ball yet?”

“Harry, I’m right here.”

“I know. I’m just checking with Ron before I ask you.”

“Ask me what?”

Harry looked down briefly at his watch and exhaled in the most nonchalant manner he could manage. “Oh, you know,” he began, “just that, traditionally Head Boy and Head Girl have to go together.”

Hermione stared at him.

“You know,” he continued. “As each other’s dates?”

Silence.

“I was just checking if you knew,” shrugged Harry.

“I know, thank you,” replied Hermione, looking away and back into a book she was studying.

Harry waited. “That’s it?” he asked.

“What?” she sighed, rolling her eyes and closing the book.

“Well, I assume that’s why you’ve been so-” ever-cautious to pick the right word “touchy this week.”

An eyebrow raised.

“Well, distant, then?”

Hermione’s stare was fixed.

Harry nudged Ron. “Seriously needing help here.”

Ron shook his head behind his comic. “Nah, mate. You’ve ignored all the warning looks I just passed your way since the moment you opened your mouth. In fact you ignored the advice I gave you not to say anything in the first—”

“Alright, Ron,” laughed Harry, embarrassed and uneasy that Hermione wouldn’t look too fondly upon the fact that he’d clearly discussed it before behind her back. “I get the point.”

Hermione placed her book on the side of the sofa, stood up and smoothed her skirt down. She stepped up to Harry and raised her head to level their gaze as much as possible. “Okay,” she said, “Maybe that is why I’ve been so touchy this week.”

Harry looked surprised by her admission. Alright, she thought, it’s not that unusual, surely?

“Maybe I am dreading it,” she continued. “In fact, it’s only a week and a half away and I’ve barely finished organising the bloody thing, let alone begun to address the fact that I’ll be chaperoned by the world’s most renowned arsehole. But I’ll be okay. I’ll be okay like I’ll always be okay.” She shrugged. “Alright?”

But inside herself, Hermione had began to feel a slow rising, possibly quite numbing as it so turned out to be, feeling of realisation and acknowledgement. In fact, no, it was more of a high-pitched fatal scream that made her want to run from the room retching.

The truth? Fine, Harry, she thought, if you want the bloody truth I’d clean forgotten about the stupid date rule – who made that rule? – and I was, in fact, about to casually mention that you or Ron needed to take me since I haven’t been able to find the time to get anyone else. And why? Because every time I turn a sodding corner in this place I see Malfoy, and I wonder how long it will take until he starts dropping hints that I kissed that spiteful mouth of his back – hard, fanatical and terrified.

That’s why.

Harry nodded. “Whatever,” he said. “I just wanted to offer you the opportunity to vent.” He fumbled with the bottom button of his shirt. “If you wanted to.” He was looking down. “Vent, that is.”

“I’ll be fine.”

Harry looked up at her and shrugged slightly. “I’m not going to sort out anything if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“Should I be?”

“No, that’s what I’m saying.”

“Glad to hear it.”

“Good.”

“So who are you taking?” she asked, grabbing her book back off the sofa and settling down again.

She still felt sick, she noted, and that of course wouldn’t go away until she either made herself throw up, discussed some different arrangements with Malfoy or quite simply killed herself. Or him.

“Who are you taking, Ron?” asked Harry, avoiding an answer to Hermione’s question. Which quite obviously was “no one” as of yet.

“Probably Lavender,” he replied. “Not that I’ve bothered to ask her yet.”

Hermione’s mind drifted again as Harry started to tease Ron about his slow progress with Lavender.

The worst part about that stupid kiss with Malfoy was that she felt completely robbed of any right to claim sympathy for how it ended. She knew that even if she told them how she tried to stop it, tried to pull away, desperately, all Harry and Ron would hear was how it began. She kissed him back. She kissed him back. That would be the only thing that mattered to them.

She knew this because it even overruled everything else in her own head. Whenever she thought about the kiss, it was only of how she’d pulled him further into her and felt his hot skin and perfect mouth and brutal tongue and tightened grip, bite on her lip, drawing blood, licking, nipping, tugging, fusing, and that was always followed with— What? A sinisterly sardonic wave of pleasure? She didn’t like to think. So she’d think about how she tried to wrench him off and how she couldn’t breathe and how her lip was bleeding, she thought of Harry, thought of Ron, thought of the consequences, thought of its path. But all that was just a blur. Just a huge blur in her head.

Did she really try her best to pull away all that time?

Merlin. Damn that boy. The bastard had her thinking maybe it wasn’t his fault after all. When it was. It was, it was. She tried to pull away. She did. She kneed him in the fucking balls like he deserved. And she was pleased when his mouth left hers.

Can you hear this? She asked herself. She was pleased. She told herself.

“—what I’m talking about.”

“I’m sorry?”

“You’re so bloody distant this week,” sighed Harry. “Did you even hear Ron?”

“Erm,” Hermione stuttered a little. “Sorry, Ron, can you say that again?”

“Ginny was yapping on about how you haven’t got a dress?” he repeated.

She stared at him blankly.

“For the Winter Ball?”

“Oh, no. Not yet,” Hermione closed her book again and sighed. “Bloody hell.”

“Well I’ve got a suggestion,” beamed Ron. “I could get Mum to send that big gown you got so interested in last time you saw it at our place.”

“The red one?” laughed Hermione. “The one I was so interested in because it was so abnormally ancient?”

His smile faded.

“I’m sorry but I don’t think so, Ron.”

“It couldn’t hurt to try on,” he shrugged. “It wasn’t that old.”

Harry laughed. “You ran out of the room because I found a spider on it, Ron.”

“Oh, yeah, just your average spider, was it?” he frowned defensively. “Just an everyday spider with about twelve bloody legs!”

Hermione joined Harry laughter before noticing that Ron had begun to stare expectantly at her again.

“Ron, please,” she sighed. “You can’t be serious?”

“Why not?”

“It looks a bit similar to what you wore at the Yule Ball,” she smiled. “I’m sorry. I just don’t think Head Girl would give off the right sort of authority dressed in some sort of over-sized velvet curtain.”

Ron shrugged. “It’s not like I’m deeply offended or anything.” But he slumped into the sofa and fell back into reading his comic.

“I suppose it doesn’t matter,” said Harry. “It’s not like you want to look nice for Malfoy, anyway.”

Great. The absurd ancient gown suggestion took her mind off him for what? Three seconds? What a holiday.

“I suppose not,” replied Hermione, the sickness returning with a rush of vengeance.

“Maybe you could go with Ginny and the others,” he began again. “They’re going shopping for their dresses tomorrow.”

“I don’t have any time for that.”

Harry and Ron glanced at each other, sympathy etched across their faces. It annoyed her a little.

“Maybe you should make time,” suggested Ron. “I thought this ball was like a bloody birthday for all you girls. They’ve been huddling round those posters like they couldn’t be big enough.”

“What posters?” asked Hermione, her heart jolting.

“The Winter Ball posters.”

Another lightning bolt shot through her brain. She hadn’t even organised the bloody promotion of the event, let alone her dress, date or, what was amounting to – let’s face it – anything in general about the evening whatsoever.

“Don’t tell me…” she trailed off. No way, Malfoy would never pick up a pen and draw up posters. How incredibly lowly and sufficient that would be. “Well the prefects are obviously more with it that I am at the moment.”

“You could get Ginny to get a dress for you,” suggested Harry.

“Maybe.” But who actually cared about the bloody dress?

In that moment, the only thing that seemed important to her was planning a realistic enough illness to skip the whole thing altogether.


*


“Suck,” panted Draco. “Harder.”

His eyes were shut tightly as he grabbed a handful of dark glossy hair and pushed Pansy’s head down further onto his throbbing cock. She was moaning. The sounds were only a little distracting and probably, he thought, more annoying than anything else. There’s something less arousing about knowing they are just for effect. It’s little nagging hints like that that remind him he’s getting head off a first-class slag. Experience is good, he thought, but nothing beats a virgin.

“Draco,” she drawled, “You’re so—”

“Just shut up and suck.” His voice was coarse, his breathing rough. He pushed her head back down and began to meet her mouth with a gentle bucking of his hips so that the tip of his cock bumped the back of her throat. “That’s right,” he hissed. “Suck me, you little prefect bitch.” And her pace quickened, letting him fuck her mouth through her tightened lips. She squeezed the base of his cock lightly and he groaned.

“Fuck...”

Pansy was good with her mouth – the way she would sometimes graze her teeth ever-so lightly along the top of him – and there was nothing to complain about.
“Fuck…”

She resumed her moaning in response and he cringed a little. Today especially, he was finding it difficult to hear. There was something wrong about the way it sounded. Something almost – for the first time – too dirty about the way Pansy vocalised her pleasure.

But – shit – was she as good as ever with that pretty little mouth of hers. Draco had been appreciating it for the past five, six, seven-who-was-counting minutes and now he was nearing the end. He pushed down on her head rhythmically, clutching the arm of the sofa with his other hand as he sped up her mouth and engulfed himself in the wet heat faster, fiercer. Mouth full of that hot blazing soaking heat. He could hear her gagging slightly. Good, he thought incoherently, somewhere in the back of his brain. Gag for me, you stupid slag. As her fingers reached under to squeeze his balls, every nerve in his body hit that familiar, deafening, worth-doing-every-filthy-slut-in-the-school climax. Draco sucked his breath in through his teeth, coming in quick, long, thick strings that spurted into her mouth, as she downed it all willingly. He could hear her swallow it loudly, moaning as if it was delicious.

After a short while, he regained his composure and pushed on Pansy’s shoulders to move her off.

“Cheers, Pans,” he panted. “You’ve got talent.” Merlin, did she have talent.

She grinned at him. “Don’t I?” she agreed, her breasts practically spilling out of her bra as she moved to straddle him.

He held up his hand. “No more,” he said, tucking his softening cock in his trousers and zipping them up.

Pansy’s smile faded. “What?” she asked, wiping her mouth carelessly with the back of her hand.
“We haven’t fucked all week, Draco.”

He shrugged.

She stood up quickly, a deep frown appearing rapidly on her face. “Oh, I get it,” she said. “All shagged out, are you?”

“Don’t start,” he sighed, rolling back his head.

“How many sluts has it been this week then?”

Draco shrugged. The air in the room quickly thickened with tension. “It’s not really any of your business.”

Pansy looked livid suddenly. “Not any of my…?” she trailed off in disbelief, her face dropping considerably.

For Merlin’s sake. “Come on,” he said. “The amount of boys you let stick it in you between classes, Pansy.”

She took a deep, offended breath. “Fine,” she hissed, smiling sarcastically and grabbing her shirt from the side table. “We both might play around a bit, Draco, but one thing is for sure,” she shoved her arms into the sleeves, pausing to continue, “I’d rather fuck my own brother than touch a filthy Mudblood.” And she turned to storm off.

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean, Parkinson?” barked Draco, rising quickly.

Pansy turned back triumphantly, pleased to get a reaction. She placed her hands on her hips, her shirt still hanging open.

“Well?” he growled.

“Don’t think I haven’t noticed the way you’ve called me your little prefect bitch twice this week.”

“And what?”

“I’m not a fucking prefect, Draco.”

No, he thought, and there’s a bloody good reason for it. “Okay,” he said, “So I imagine one of the sixth-year prefects sucking me off instead of you occasionally. You should see some of them, Pans. Real potential.”

“Oh, don’t bother,” she spat. “Everyone will be hearing about this, Draco.”

Merlin, if he knew the consequences of saying no to Pansy. “That won’t be happening,” he told her, moving slowly towards her.

“Oh no?”

“No.” He drew his face in close. He could smell the stark salt of his come on her breath. It repulsed him, he acknowledged, in a sort of arrogant, hypocritical way. “You start spreading pathetic rumours around about me and Granger and what does that make you look like?”

Pansy blinked. “That’s not the point,” she answered quietly.

He laughed at her. “You’ve got something fucked in that brain of yours, Pans. Too much banging against the headboard I suspect.”

“You’re a bastard, Draco.”

And you’re a filthy fucking whore, but do I complain? “If you so much as breathe another word about these ridiculous accusations to anyone, you can be sure as hell that I’ll never touch you again.”

She drew her head back. “You don’t mean that.”

He shrugged and stepped away from her. “Every word,” he answered. “Now run along. I’ve got things to do.” Draco watched the hurt flash back into anger.

“Aren’t you even going to deny it?!” she growled, raising her voice enough to make him wince. “Say the words, Malfoy! Don’t just pussyfoot around them like you’re avoiding the truth!”

Shut up, shut up, shut up.“Don’t you fucking dare ask me that again, you stupid slapper! You know exactly what I think about Mudbloods!”

Flash of memory.

Sudden rush of sickness.

That, at least, seemed to satisfy her for a second. “Good.”

“Now fuck off.” Just please, fuck off.

Pansy mustered the dirtiest look she could and turned abruptly to leave. It was only then that Draco reluctantly noticed Hermione standing in her path.

Forever would have been too soon.

“Oh goody,” glared Pansy, stopping dead in her tracks and replacing her hands on her hips. “It’s the Mudblood. I must say your timing is impeccable.”

Hermione looked past Pansy to Draco. “How did you get her up here?” she frowned.

“The password?” he answered, bluntly. As with most of the girls I bring up, you idiot.

“We’re not allowed non-prefects up—”

“Bloody hell, Granger,” spat Pansy. “Can’t you see you just being here makes us both sick?”

Hermione rolled her eyes and began to walk past her.

Pansy shot out her arm. “Not so fast, you little bitch.”

“Excuse me?”

“I wasn’t finished telling you how utterly disgusting you are.”

Draco saw Hermione’s eyes dart towards him. What did she expect him to do? He wasn’t going to prance in between them, arms flailed, and save the bloody day. She was far too used to someone doing that, clearly. But he wasn’t Potter. And they could all be thankful for that.

“You know I’m still getting over it,” continued Pansy, pacing in front of Hermione. “Them making you Head Girl and all that. Pretty fucking mammoth mistake on their part, don’t you think?”

Hermione glared. “Jealous?” she asked, a hint of a smirk emerging through the irritation on her face.

“Of a stupid little Mudblood like you?” scoffed Pansy. “Eat shit, you idiot.”

And then there was the fact that it was mildly entertaining, of course.

“I think you should leave,” replied Hermione, clearly mustering the most Head-Girl-like tone she could manage. Gryffindor-style. “Only prefects are allowed to come up here.”

“So you said,” spat Pansy. “And yet I still couldn’t give a fuck. Funny that, isn’t it?”

Hermione took a breath. “You aren’t a prefect,” she said, “so you need to leave.”

“I’m not going anywhere, you thick bint,” she said. She leant in closer towards Hermione’s face.

Aside to himself, Draco was sure she would be able to smell the same strong salty tang of his come on Pansy’s breath. And she would have to breathe it in. Nice, long, breaths of something he was more than certain would make her want to gag. How he wanted to watch that.

Hermione was looking at Draco again.

Stop it. I’m not your bloody Potter.

Pansy laughed. “Merlin,” she drawled, “how many times are you going to look at him, Granger? I could almost pity you for being such a pathetic little tart.” Her eyes narrowed. “If you weren’t a pathetic little Mudblood tart, that is.”

Something glimmered in Hermione’s darkened eyes. “Really?” She turned back and paused for a second, staring at Pansy’s top lip with a strange smirk of superiority.

What in Merlin’s name was Granger smiling at? It was a terribly, irritably boring reaction. Not up to standard. Pansy had been verbally ripping into her, and in retaliation she’d barely given one tenth back of what she was capable of. Where was the fucking self-righteous bitch he’d grown to loathe? It was suddenly not as entertaining as he thought it would be.

Unless of course she was being mature. Good old mature Granger and her big fat granny pants.

And then Draco noticed what she was smiling at. He would have pointed it out before but—

“You have a little something above your mouth, Pansy,” said Hermione.

A little stunted, Pansy curtly lifted a finger to her face and smudged away what was quite evidently a thick drop of come.

Hermione smiled, “You might want to clean up the undeniable fact that you’re a complete and utter slag before you start name-calling others. Now get out.”

Much better. Up to standard. Shame we aren’t on the same side, Granger.

And Pansy was fucking furious. “Yeah?” She seethed, fists clenching, teeth grinding, eyebrows low enough to reach her eyelashes. And then she closed the gap between them so quickly, Hermione barely had time to react. “Fuck you, you Mudblood whore—”

Before he could stop himself Draco caught Pansy’s raised arm and swung her around.

Fuck— Why? Why? Let her pummel the stupid bitch!

Pansy stared at him with wide, you-didn’t-just-do-that eyes. “Draco, what are you doing?”

Think fast. His heart pumped frantically.

Think fast.

“Wand, Parkinson,” he mumbled. “The bitch has got her wand. Probably not the best idea.” He nodded in the direction of Hermione’s gripping hand, avoiding her eyes as he did so.

Pansy regarded him with a suspicious stare. Ferocious eyes. Oh no, no, she was not convinced. She was not convinced at all. “Well, isn’t that fucking rich!”

“Pansy—”

“Let me the fuck go, Malfoy,” she growled.

But Draco’s firm grip remained. Just in case.

Just in case of what? What the fuck was wrong with him?

“I wouldn’t do this if I were you,” breathed Draco, warning drenching his words with a heavy intimidation he mastered years ago. He silently begged that she wouldn’t be stubborn enough to ignore it. “How would it make you look?”

He could almost see the memory of his words flashing through Pansy’s eyes. “You start spreading pathetic rumours around about me and Granger and what does that make you look like? You can be sure as hell that I’ll never touch you again.”

Pansy’s frown faded slightly. “Fine,” she answered, a low, grating, scraping voice that told him he hadn’t heard the last of it. If there would ever be a last of it. And Merlin, he remembered he barely fancied the girl anymore. What a load of bullshit for nothing. “Now let me go.”

Draco slowly released Pansy’s arm, very careful not to look at Hermione in the process.

Pansy turned back to Hermione and began to smooth out her uniform. “I don’t know how Draco copes with you around all day,” she spat, hiding the humiliation in her face with a narrowing of her eyes. Even if she was now sure something was going on between them, Granger would be the last to hear her admit it. “Must be hard to know he’d rather throw up than come anywhere near you.” She forced a smirk. “He thinks you're fucking repulsive.”

That last bit was clearly more for herself than anyone else.

Draco looked away to avoid another of Hermione’s short glances in his direction. The conversation had now reached a well and truly, far too uncomfortably familiar subject. Grabbing Pansy’s arm again he turned her around and took her away from Hermione.

“Ow!” she exclaimed, “Stop fucking doing that, Malfoy!”

“Do you think I can be arsed to listen to you two all night?” he said, releasing her by the door. “Just go.”

“But – Draco,” she murmured, nodding her head in Hermione’s direction. “What is
wrong with you?”

“Just go, Pansy.”

She frowned again. “Fine,” she hissed, “But we will be talking about this, Malfoy. Don’t think I’ll forget.”

One can only hope, thought Draco.

“What’s your problem, anyway?” she added.

He opened the door and watched her walk through it. “My problem, Pans?” he replied. “Tonight it really is very much you.”

He slammed the door on her reddening face.

*

Hermione watched Draco as he leant his head against the door for, what must have been at least four, five minutes. He was breathing heavily, hands balled into fists and resting next to his head. She couldn’t work out what he was. Angry? Upset?

The room remained silent. She swallowed. Her throat felt completely desiccated. What she wouldn’t give for a glass of water at the moment.

When Draco finally turned back, his eyes met hers briefly with a cooling, emotionless beat.

Hermione was standing by the bay window, her wand was resting on the ledge.

“We need to talk,” she breathed, her eyes flickering down to quickly analyse the distance between her hand, and the time it would take for her to grab her wand. Constantly guarded. It was so necessary it frightened her.

“It meant nothing, Granger,” snapped Draco.

Hermione looked up at his sharp reaction. “What?”

“Before you get your hopes up. I stopped Parkinson for the reason I said. Otherwise she could have battered you to the ground for all I care.”

Hermione stared and him. She didn’t know what to think. She had absolutely no clue. The moment Draco had grabbed Pansy’s hand, her mind split with the shock. It was so uncomfortable she almost wished he hadn’t.

Draco looked incensed by her unconvinced look. It was a place she didn’t want to go to tonight.

“I was talking about the Winter Ball,” she corrected him, to which she heard Draco release a small breath of relief.

Yes, definitely relief. He was clearly afraid of something.

“Did you know posters have gone up?” She watched as he leant back on the door. She noticed some of the buttons on his shirt were undone. A minor detail. “Who did them?”

He shoved his hands in his pockets and stared back at her. “Some sixth-year prefect,” he shrugged. “Whilst you were shitting around looking like Merlin-knows-what all week, I told the prefects to start preparing it all.” He sounded slightly smug.

“What else have you done?” she asked, swallowing IN faint disgust.

“I’ve spoken to Snape about organising the magic-ban in the hall,” he replied, “You really should keep up, Granger.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Right.” And her fingers gripped the ledge just that little bit harder.

He shrugged again. She swore he was avoiding her eyes.

“And do you... Do you know about the date tradition?”

Draco screwed up his face. “Like I’d give a shit and care.”

How? She thought to herself. How can he suddenly be so bloody cool and calm and comfortably smug when the memory of the other night was still searing in her brain. Had he already forgotten? And what about the last ten minutes? Hermione was still shaking from it.

Was it a Malfoy’s gift to block out all the horrible, sickening things they had done? Is that how they got through it all?

So no, she realised, he clearly didn’t know anything about it whatsoever.

“Well we can’t change it,” continued Hermione, willing to let him work it out himself. “It’s always been like that according to Professor McGonagall.”

“And?” he laughed. “Are you having trouble finding someone or something? Personally, I’ve been loving the number of women that have been begging for me to take them.”

“Really?” she frowned, now placing her hands firmly on her hips.

“Yes, really. We aren’t all as pathetically sad and lonely as you, Granger.”

“You really have no idea, do you?”

“What?”

“Head Girl and Head Boy?” she said, motioning between them both. “Going together?”

He pulled a face. “I’d rather take Crabbe or Goyle, thanks very much.”

“Well we don’t have a choice,” she said. “It’s an age-long tradition. McGonagall confirmed it.”

Draco’s face fell. “I don’t care if it’s bloody gospel,” he replied. “I am not walking into that Hall with you on my arm.”

“God, you are so—”

“So what, Granger?”

She stared at him.

They stared at each other.

The moment passed.

“I don’t want to go with you either,” she said, taking a breath. “It’s my idea of hell. The way I see it, we turn up together and we announce the occasion like we would have done anyway. We don’t have to act any differently.”

“And we don’t go around telling people we’re each other’s dates.”

“Damn,” she retorted. “Because I was just about to run to the Gryffindor common room and tell the first person I found.” She looked up at the ceiling. “Anyway, people will catch on when they realise you’re not with Pansy and I’m not with—” She stopped. Well, whoever she’d be with.

Draco raised an eyebrow. “Not with who?”

“Whoever I would be going with.”

“Which would be who? Someone imaginary?” Draco wondered if it was Potter.

“Shut up, Malfoy.”

He shrugged. “Just intrigued to know who would be desperate enough.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Well if there are any more things to discuss then we should do it now so we can spend the rest of the evening, and hopefully- if we’re lucky- the whole week without speaking again.”

“As bloody fantastic as that sounds, there is just one small thing.”

His tone was still so fucking— Argh— She didn’t know. Blasé. The other day? Oh yeah, yeah…that was a bit of a bad move, wasn’t it? Never mind though, eh? Chin up, press on, forget it ever happened…

I don’t know about you, Malfoy, but I’ve spent every night this week crying myself to sleep.

He settled down beside one of the cushions. “How did Potter take it?”

Hermione frowned. “How did he take what?”

“The news that you and I had to go together,” replied Draco. “The idea is disgusting but the look on his face would ease the pain I’m sure, if only for a moment.”

How should any of this matter now? She almost wanted him to be shouting at her. At least then this wouldn’t all seem so… so bloody anti-climatic. Merlin, Hermione, she thought, what did you expect? More screaming? More hurting? More—

“He was the one that told me actually,” she said curtly, interrupting her own thoughts. “I’d forgotten before then.”

Draco looked mildly surprised. “No wild tantrums? No threatening with his fists?” he smirked. “He must have a least been a little disappointed.”

“Disappointed?”

“That he couldn’t go with you, you idiot.”

“You really don’t understand the first thing about him, do you?”

“Do I look like I give a shit?”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Well if that’s all, then I’m going upstairs.”

He shrugged nonchalantly.

She grabbed her wand from the window sill and strode away from him. Their conversation had lasted all of three minutes and already she felt herself drained. It was enough. One word was enough.

At least there seemed to be – for the moment anyway – a mutual agreement to ignore everything that had happened that night.

If only it could stay that way forever.

*


“Well if that’s all, then I’m going upstairs.”

Ten minutes passed.

Draco rose up from his seat, walked over to the stairs. Up the stairs. Through his bedroom, walked over to the bathroom. In the bathroom. Staggered to the toilet. Lifted up the seat and vomited.

The acid was like a burning drug. It made him feel better for a while. Stopped him from thinking. That was why he was like this after all, too much thinking, he told himself. Too many thoughts.

It had been a year and a half since the news of his father’s death. A year and a half since his mother had cried enough tears for them both. Now in his seventh year, Draco’s mother was still at Malfoy Manor. And, what should be a lot more important to him than it turned out to be, Draco was still the heir to all the Malfoy wealth.

And that was how it was. Father dead, and Draco a fucking rich bastard. What more could he want?

Plus he was a Pureblood. Pure-as-fucking-heaven. Just like his mother and father and grandfather and great grandfather. And all the way back. To the beginning. Whenever that was. The way his father spoke about it, it sounded like it was the most important time in the history of existence. And Draco wouldn’t dispute it. He was sure it was, too.

He heaved again. Vomited. Rested his head on his hands.

And wasn’t that just it? His father. What would his father say if he knew about her? About Granger?

The little Mudblood princess that he had just saved.

How many beatings would it take until he paid for this one? He had worse than disgraced everything and anything his father had ever spent the years of his life teaching him. And perhaps he deserved it. One easy rule. Purebloods and Mudbloods don’t mix. He wished his father was here to punish him. It would make it easy. Make retribution hideously simple. But he wasn’t there to beat. And now the voice in his head was worse than any blood that could ever be taken from him.

He hated his father but he believed every single word he had said. And he still did. When it came down to it, Draco was a Malfoy. He was a Pureblood. He was a dying breed, and Granger was a vile fault in his immaculate royal plan. Whatever fucking plan that was. She was a wholly repulsive Mudblood bitch without a glimmer of hope of ever reaching the heights of superiority that his father had set.

But she was rapidly involving herself in his life and that was unacceptable. That just wasn’t the plan. It was chaos. She was chaos.

If only that night…

”…All of it shows just how fucking vulnerable you are.”

“And your father couldn’t even teach you anything other than how to fuck up everyone else with you.”

No. Don’t think about that night. Please, Merlin, just stop the thoughts.

He felt his mind begin to cloud. His father was speaking. Draco was as good as dead to him now, he was saying. His father always found his way back into his head. It was utterly inescapable. It was as if he had never died. Not for Draco. He was sure his father had seen every filthy flick of his tongue. That night. If only that fucking night...

Drink in her mouth. Doesn’t it taste like heaven? Just wrong and dirty and forbidden.

Sick. Again. His throat was raw.

*


On the other side of the wall Hermione froze.

She had been sort-of-almost certain Draco was throwing up, and now she was just certain. Had he looked pale fifteen minutes ago, she asked herself, any paler than usual? She shut her book hesitantly and slid to the side of her bed to get up.

To do what exactly?

What was she supposed to do from here?

Malfoy, dear, are you alright? Would you like a glass of water? How about a comforting hand?

The voice in her head laughed at her. She swung her legs back onto her bed on second thought and perched cross-legged on the edge. But there it was, the sound of vomiting again. It made her shiver. Made her want to gag.

But a small part of her relished the sound. A small part of her wanted him to puke his fucking guts out until there was nothing left inside of him. Just an empty shell. Maybe then she could stop hurting the way she did. Just skin and hair and bone and teeth. Nothing else. How wonderful that would be.

He was coughing now.

Merlin, why was it never easy for her to just do nothing? Why can’t she just bang on the wall and tell him to keep the noise down? That’s what he would do, after all.

Or is it? She didn’t know anymore. Not after he grabbed Pansy.

No, she thought to herself, don’t try and justify knocking on that door. Don’t you dare try and justify speaking to the bastard voluntarily. What happened earlier meant nothing. And she supposed his excuse wasn’t that unlikely. Hermione did, as he said, have her wand firm and ready for any action Pansy may have taken. Maybe Malfoy really did have a soft spot for the Slag of Slytherin and only wanted to protect her.

He’d told her Pansy gave first class head, after all. It made sense.

And yet, at some point after the sound of violent gagging returned, Hermione found herself standing in front of her bathroom door, clenching her fists as tightly as she felt her lungs – tight enough to burst around the vicious thumping of her heart. The thought of Malfoy caused a constant devastation beneath her skin.

She brought her fist up to the door and knocked so lightly, it was embarrassing, even to her, and it was quite clear she was the only one to hear it.

The first thing she usually did upon entering the bathroom was to walk straight over to Malfoy’s bedroom door and charm it locked. So locked even ‘Alohomora’ wouldn’t open it. It was the first charm she’d looked up upon learning about their adjoining facilities. And now she wondered if Malfoy knew about it. If he ever tried to open the door. If he even used it himself.

She wrapped her fingers around the door knob. The brass was cool and dampening under the moist heat of her hand. He was just on the other side. She could hear him panting the harsh acid air out his mouth.

“M-Malfoy?” she stammered. And then stopped.

There was a long pause in which she could no longer hear his breathing. It was a silence that made her feel anxious suddenly, and she stepped back from the door.

“What do you want?”

It was muffled through the wall but she heard it. It was enough to have heard it. It made her heart jump. So much of her didn’t expect a reply. Least of all an open question. She took a cautious step back to the door and opened her mouth.

What does she want to say? Does she ask to come in? Does she even want to go in?

“What the fuck, Granger?” His tone was impatient.

“I’m sorry,” she replied. No, wait. No. She should never say that word to Malfoy. “I mean, I’m not sorry.” Oh, what in Merlin’s name was she—

“Then fuck off,” rasped Draco, the sound of the toilet flushing shortly after.

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Look,” she said, raising her voice, faking the confidence – the precious plastic poise. “Are you alright?”

“No.”

“Well do you want Madam Pomfey?”

She heard him laugh.

“If I were you, Granger, I’d get the fuck away.”

And that would have been the perfect time to leave it. But Hermione was Hermione Granger. And she felt herself become more so by the second.

“You’ve been throwing up for a while, Malfoy,” she answered, determined to sound more irritated than concerned. Because that’s all she was, of course. “I’m just asking, that’s all.”

“Well how about you come in and see for yourself, Granger?”

The sudden closeness of his voice startled Hermione and she jumped instinctively away from the door. “No,” she answered quickly. “No, you’re right, never mind.” That was the answer then, she clearly didn’t want to go in. Hermione felt an odd sense of relief at the realisation.

But it was too late. And she hadn’t put the locking charm on her bedroom door. It opened.

“I insist,” growled Draco, his voice now fully hoarse in the opening of the doorway. Hermione regarded him with wide eyes.

He looked utterly depleted, standing there in the door frame, the faint light of the bathroom glowing behind him.

“Maybe you can learn a few consequences of being such an interfering little bitch,” he added.

He took a step into her room. She could smell the waves of sickened air washing over her.

“No, Malfoy,” she said, her manner as resolute as she could hope for. “Get out. I don’t want you in here.”

“It’s a bit late for that.”

“I’m telling you no. Get the hell out.”

“What happened to are you alright, Malfoy?” he sneered. “Make up your mind, Granger. You either care or you don’t.”

“I don’t,” she replied. “I don’t care.” Especially since she realised that even after vomiting his bloody brains out, Malfoy was still a tremendous dickhead. And of course, she told herself, what else would he be? He was born this way.

“Then why ask, Granger?”

Hermione was trapped in her head. She didn’t know. And whenever she tried to answer she kept drawing blanks. Every-single-bloody-time. If one thing was for damned sure, she regretted it almost as much as everything she did lately.

“What are you going to do, Malfoy?” asked Hermione, wincing at the sound of her own voice. It was too small. She raised her chin and darted her eyes ever-so-subtly in the direction of her wand. “We’ve got nothing to say to each other,” she continued. “Just go back to your room.”

“Nothing to say to each other?”

“Yes.” And wasn’t he supposed to be the one that believed that even more than she did?

“The looks you gave me downstairs said different.”

“What looks?”

“You don’t believe me.”

“I don’t believe what?” The anxiety was slipping from Hermione’s voice. She was irritated. “What are you talking about?”

He shook his head.

And then she thought for a very small second that he may have turned mad.

Draco’s eyes narrowed. “Say sorry for not believing me.”

“What?”

“I’m disappointed in you, Granger.”

And then her anger was met with a small, soaking thrash of fear.

She didn’t understand. And that part, for her, was entirely different. There was something overwhelmingly disturbing about the way he was looking at her now. His eyes slashed with darkened stripes of hunger. He was getting too close to her.

“Malfoy, stop,” she said, her voice wavering. She walked slowly back into the wall and pressed herself against it. “I don’t understand.” Her least favourite words.

“I would have let her,” he answered, his voice unnervingly emotionless. “I would have let her kill you if she wanted to.”

Hermione’s heart jolted. “So this is it.” She almost laughed with the relief of comprehension. “Kill me?” she repeated, voice determinedly returning to steady. “You always were such a generous boy, Malfoy.”

“Man,” he corrected, his impassive tone replaced with the slight emphasis of frustration.

Hermione played to it. “If I had meant man,” she replied, “I would have said it.”

“I’m not a fucking boy!” exclaimed Draco, the sharp impulse making her jump. “Don’t fucking call me a boy, you stupid fucking whore!” Stupid fucking bitch.

Alarm bells were ringing, screaming in Hermione’s head. Shut up, Hermione, something about him is different. Something isn’t right. Shut up.


*


Hermione had gone silent at his words. She looked scared. More scared than he had seen her look in weeks.

“I mean it,” he snapped, staring at her unreadable expression. “What I said. I would have let her beat you until you bled to death.”

Draco wanted to gouge her eyes out for being so fucking bright in that moment. It hurt him to look at them. They were too fucking loud.

Hermione didn’t answer him.

Good.

If he was lucky she was thinking about bleeding. About dying. Thinking about how he would watch her. Do nothing. Absolutely fuck all. Did she like how this felt? Correcting all the tiny little fuck-ups he had made? All the stolen glances, the beating of illicit thoughts. All the times he had thought of her and not Pansy. All the lapses of concentration on making her life a fucking misery.

Draco stared into her and watched the fear. Thick, dripping, calorific fear. And he couldn’t help but drink it all in.

“M-Malfoy—”

“M-m-Malfoy!” he mocked, his high tone imitating.

This was his way of saying sorry, father. Are you watching?

“All those things you said to me that night, Granger, all these contemptible wicked little comments that burst from that mouth of yours—” that mouth of hers “—I never did get a chance to reply.”

“You replied,” her answer was quick. “Or have you forgotten?” She was trembling delightfully, still stuffed with that abundant, spiteful fury that pulled her skin taut. “You tasted my own blood because of it.”

“Shut up.”

“And I bet you can still taste it.”

“You’re wrong.”

No. He would not let the little bitch do it this time. He would not let her turn him. Tangle his bones into excruciating knots. Venom about fathers and hearts and pain and blood. He wouldn’t listen. It was her turn. And his father was watching, his mind kept telling him, even in death. His father would always know.

“You said all those things,” he hissed. “All those wonderfully nasty things. But what about you?”

“What about me?”

“Your blood, Granger. It’s a mistake. And not one you can rectify either. So I’m asking you, how does it feel? Because I sometimes wonder what it must be like. You know, feeling so fucking filthy not even a week-long soak in the bath can wash it off.”

“Fuck you.”

“Don’t pretend it doesn’t bother you. Don’t pretend that there isn’t a small part of you that wants that purity. That sweet-as-bloody-honey purity. It’s something not even a library full of books can give you. And isn’t that such a tragedy?”

“No, Malfoy,” she whispered, he was mere inches away from her. “You’re wrong. I’ve never wished for pure blood. I’ve never wished for any of it.” She shook her head. “None of it matters to me, Malfoy. Blood means nothing.”

Hermione yelped as Draco’s hands shot to the wall, his palms flat against it on either side of her body. “Blood means everything,” he growled, his lip curling upwards with fury.

And just like that she was trapped. He could almost feel the tiny vibrations of air around her wavering body. Maybe she could even smell the vomit on his breath. “Blood is the difference between right and wrong, Granger,” he spat, his breathing so severely erratic he wondered just what the fuck was happening to him. “It’s the difference between you and me. It’s what makes you an unalterable shitting little Mudblood. It’s what makes you wrong, Granger. Bad all over. Rotten.”

“And I suppose,” she answered, without the hesitation he’d hoped for, forced evenness in her voice, “your blood is what makes you so bloody well-mannered, Malfoy. Am I right?”

He bared his teeth. “Don’t joke, Granger,” he hissed through them. “You’re certainly in no position to do that.”

“What is it, Malfoy? What is it that is so special about Purebloods?” She lowered her voice. “Because whatever your father taught you, it’s wrong.”

Draco growled and banged his fists against the wall.

Hermione flinched.

He liked that.

“This is it,” he rasped. “Right here. This is how it is. I’m the one in control, Granger. We are always the ones in control.”

Hermione caught her breath. “What makes you think you’re in control?”

Draco opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it. “I am. That’s just the way it is.”

She laughed a little then. A small laugh of disbelief and trepidation.

“Your father is dead, Malfoy.”

She saw his body tense considerably. “Don’t—”

“So what are you still afraid of?”

Draco grabbed a fistful of her hair and wrenched her neck to the side. “Don’t,” he repeated, warning flashing through his eyes as he watched her gasp for breath. He brought his lips close to the stretched skin of her neck. Hermione was still. “The only thing that I’m afraid of, Granger,” he whispered into her skin, “is the possibility that one day, people like you will be everywhere. In our schools, in our government, in and out of our fucking lives without the slightest bit of respect for who we are.”

“Wake up, Malfoy,” she stammered, her voice shaking with her body against his grip. “It’s already happened. It’s been like that for years. Decades. Before we were even born. Or haven’t you noticed?” Her head was craned back so far she could barely swallow. “We’re already there, Malfoy,” she breathed. “The filthy Mudbloods have already been accepted.”

“Not by everyone,” he corrected her. “Not by the ones that have the most power to stamp you the fuck out again.”

“Maybe not everyone,” she answered, her voice a half-whisper, “but whoever those people are, Malfoy, you aren’t one of them.”

“What’s that, Granger?”

Hermione whimpered slightly as he tugged her hair fiercely.

“You may think you are, but you aren’t,” she shook, her voice louder from the pain. “You’re just one boy—“ He winced. “—without the power to do anything. Not now that your father is gone.”

“Shut your mouth, Granger.”

“The truth hurts, Malfoy.”

“I said shut the fuck up!”

Why was she doing this? What made her think she could say these things? Every word was like sharp nails scraping into his skull, burying, festering, sticking to everything they could find. She had no fucking idea what she was talking about. No fucking idea..

And then slowly, lightly, Draco untangled his hand from her hair. He placed it back onto the wall.

She looked at him, confused, aching, lifting a tentative hand to the back of her neck.

He was slipping.

Hermione stole her chance.

“Let me go,” she said.

“No.”

“Let me go!”

Draco caught her wrists and pushed her back into the wall. Pushed himself up against her. They stood there, struggling for a while. She spat out nasty things but he held her tightly, his eyes fixed on hers.

When she stopped a little, the stillness allowed Draco to notice how nauseated he felt. He wanted to vomit again.

“Why do you think I’ve been throwing up, Granger?”

She shook her head a little.

“I was sick because of you.” He breathed it at her. Her head turned slightly. “You and your disgusting, nauseatingly foul, muddied-up-stench-filled-blood.”

Hermione stifled a cough.

Draco laughed.

“Wouldn’t want to kiss me now, would you, Granger?”

“Get away from me,” she mumbled, squirming underneath his heavy proximity. But she was ensnared by the weight of his body, muscles rippling in synchronisation. “I said get out, Malfoy!” Her voice rose again, panic – oh, could he taste the panic – flashing through it.

“I don’t think so.”

“Then do it,” she spat. “Do whatever you are going to do, Malfoy.” Her voice was strained. There were tears in her eyes. “Just get it over with. What are you waiting for?”

Draco’s mouth twitched.

“I’m right here,” she hissed. “Right here underneath you. I can’t move. Isn’t that fucking perfect?”

Draco’s frown faded.

“Come on, Malfoy,” she whispered. “Be a man. Be a—”

His hand moved to her face so quickly that she held her breath in anticipation.

And then her expression fell to a frown when his hand just hovered there, barely touching her skin.

“Malfoy,” she breathed, “what are you doing?”

Slowly, so fucking lightly, Draco grazed the back of his knuckles over the corner of her mouth.

“Can you still feel my tongue, Granger?” he murmured, “when you’re lying in bed at night?” Under the covers. “I bet it makes you wet.”

Draco’s mind had silently detonated. He didn’t understand the words coming from his own mouth.

Hermione was breathless. “Stop it,” she mumbled. But her mouth turned briefly towards his cold touch, grazing her hot lips against his skin.

A tear dropped onto her cheek. And then the mumble dissolved into a sob.

“You’re crying,” growled Draco, leaning in and flicking his tongue onto her cheek. He tasted salt.
She struggled then, and he brought his hands to her shoulders to hold her still. “Don’t, Granger,” he warned. “I fucking need this. I can’t fucking…” He trailed off.

He never would have noticed before. Not like he did now, at least. Her lips were wet. They were red and moist and magnificently ripened for him. So full of blood. Hot, heated, sullied blood. He couldn’t take his eyes off them.

“What am I doing?” he asked aloud.

She was shaking, opening her mouth for a response. Lips moving. Sticking for a millisecond before parting with a formidable lash of her tongue. Wet. Full of blood. Open. How did his tongue feel against them? He couldn’t recall. She was wrong, he couldn’t taste her anymore. And it was fucking killing him.

“Kiss me,” he rasped.

The words were like ash in his mouth. Blades. Raw, rotting meat that he couldn’t keep down. Suddenly everything he had planned dissipated. And now he was simply left so empty he could hear the echoes inside.


*


Draco said it again. “Kiss me.”

Hermione began to cry heavier. Harder this time. Yet just as silently. Tears fell but everything else remained. She wanted him to go. Leave her alone. Merlin, just leave her alone to drown in these feelings. Alone— Just— Please.

“Get off me, Malfoy...” She pushed him with all the weakened weight she could manage.

And if at that moment she could have predicted anything, it was not his submission. Malfoy lifting his body and falling to the side, his back to the wall, hitting it beside her with a thud. All in a brief second. Defeated.

She watched him slide down the side of the wall, head heavy, ice blonde strands hanging over his vague and distant eyes. And she felt the largest tear of emotion she’d ever felt. Anger. And then pity. So much pungent, putrid pity she found she couldn’t even look at him. He was on the ground. On the ground next to her. And she couldn’t even hear him breathing.

Hermione stared at him for a moment.

And then she turned. Paced. Ran to the door. Sobbing. Pulled and flung it back so hard it hit the wall.

She couldn’t stay here, drenched in this contagious sickness. Stark, bitter shame.

What would have happened? If he hadn’t let her go?

She would have given in. She would have let him kiss her.

And she would have kissed him back. Again.

She would have let him ravish her. Beyond doubt.


*