Water

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

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 9.

Ron could sense the difference more now than he ever could before.

He could sense it even though, for the first time in a long time, Hermione hadn’t avoided him and Harry over the weekend. She’d sat in the common room several times, smiled at a few jokes, helped Ron with an essay and sorted out Neville’s Transfiguration homework, but there was something extremely unnerving about it all. Something odd about the way she turned the pages of her books, even though Ron could have sworn she’d been staring at the same word for the past five minutes.

It was all, almost, not Hermione. Emotionless, in fact.

And her eyes. Hermione had stared. There had seemed to be plenty of places for her to lose herself in. The wall. The desk. The Gryffindor fireplace. The amount of times Ron had waved his hand in front of her face, laughed, mumbled something about zombies and received a faint smile of apology in response.

Merlin, Hermione, snap out of it.

And the strangest part, to Ron at least, was that she seemed to have forgotten everything that had gone on with her, Harry and Draco. She hadn’t even passed Harry a cold look before muttering responses to his ridiculous, for-the-sake-of-it questions. She was quiet, but it wasn’t a quietness aimed at anyone in particular.

And to be honest, it drove Ron absolutely wild.

In his head, of course.

Because something wasn’t right. He knew Hermione was mature – mature and sensible and Head Girl material – but when Harry over-stepped the mark, and the mark had definitely been stepped over, Hermione was the first, the second and the last to put him in his place.

Harry had tried to talk to her about it. Ron knew. But she’d shrugged it off, told him to-

“Forget about it.”

And since when? Since when did Hermione Granger say “forget about it”? If you disrespect Hermione, you learn to accept the consequences. It was a basic and well known rule, one he and Harry would often bitch about when shoved into the proverbial dog house for Merlin only knew what – sometimes for things Ron still, to this day, remained completely clueless about.

But now Harry. Harry had done something wrong. And yes, Hermione had shouted at him that night, he’d heard all about that, but the next day? And what about the day after that? Not even one bitter comment.

Nothing.

Absolutely fuck all.

And that just wasn’t right.

The last time Harry and Hermione fell out over Malfoy-related matters, it was only words, only careless words, not punches being thrown and blood being splattered. And they practically ignored each other for a whole week because of it.

What’s more, the argument that she and Harry had engaged in after the punch-up had ended completely unresolved. Or so he was told.

So where was the closure?

Even Harry was feeling uneasy about it all. And he would surely feel the most relief at the shortening of the consequences.

Really, Ron should too. You know: ‘good job Hermione isn’t on your case so we can bloody well get on with things for once’ and all that. But instead, he was pissed off. Pissed off because now, more than ever, he felt that there was something pretty damn gigantic that he was missing.

And even after he’d put Harry into bed the other night, loosened his tongue a little with the dreamy side effects of one of the healing potions his mother sent him, he was still holding something back.

“There must be more to it, Harry.”

“What can I say, Ron? Pansy said that Malfoy wanted Hermione. Wanted her for- Merlin- I don’t know. A quick shag. Something unforgivable. But he’d have to kill me first.”

“Did she say anything else?”

“No.”

“Nothing?”

“Nothing.”

Of course it made Ron angry. Of course the idea of Malfoy wanting to be within two metres of Hermione grated on his brain paired with an incessant need to punch the guy.

But Hermione was attractive. Noticeably attractive. He didn’t like it, didn’t like that other boys looked at her, but there was nothing he could do about it.

She’d grown up to be beautiful.

And so the fact that Malfoy desired her, though initially the biggest and most infuriating surprise he’d had in a long time, wasn’t the strangest thing in the world. And surely he still hated her, surely he wouldn’t touch her. Not with his mentality. Blood and pure blood and blah fucking blah. So surely, really, it wouldn’t come to anything. Pansy had probably caught him staring at Hermione for a second too long. Something accidental like that.

The only problem being- Ron couldn’t help but feel that this theory might well be complete and utter bullshit.

And only because of how things were unravelling around him.

Because, really, it just didn’t add up.

Harry had, though perhaps not acting completely out-of-character, thrown himself into the room, ignored anything Hermione had had to say, and decked Malfoy several times around the head for good measure. Followed by, of course, shouting at her in the corridors afterwards, just in case he wasn’t already being a big enough arse.

Okay. Idiot. He was a complete idiot. And he should never have gone there in the first place. He should have waited for a different opportunity to pound Malfoy into the ground. A less conspicuous, Hermione-present situation.

But what made it worse, so much worse, for reasons Ron couldn’t quite word correctly in his head, was that Hermione had seemed to forgive him the very next day.

And if that wasn’t unusual enough, these past weeks, what had felt like hundreds of them, Hermione was becoming increasingly distracted. Harry, increasingly stupid. Something had happened, somewhere amongst it all. Whether it was something to do with Hermione, Harry or both of them, he didn’t know. But there was something that had gone wrong. And at the time, it had clearly passed Ron straight over his head.

Yes. He was definitely missing something.

And the only likely place to find Hermione late on a Sunday evening, was the library. So that’s were he was. Ready to learn and understand what the bloody hell was going on in his best friends’ heads. Starting with the most rational one. The most likely to string together three or four decent words that wouldn’t fill him with the same disbelief and frustration as Harry.

“Alright, Granger.”

She jolted so hard he may as well have poked her in the ribs.

“Merlin, Ron,” breathed Hermione, “I thought— Since when do you call me by my last name, you prat?”

“I don’t know. Just sort of slipped out.”

“Okay, Weasley, how about you leave that to the Slytherins and just call me Hermione?”

“Sorry.”

“What are you doing here?”

Ron pulled out the chair opposite her and sat down at the table. He peered over at the piece of paper underneath her hand.

“Is that for the Ball?”

“Yes. It’s the rules.”

“The rules?”

“No magic, no smuggling in intoxicating fluids, and such like.”

“I see.”

“What are you doing here?” Hermione placed her quill down on the table. “It’s late. Where’s Harry?”

“It’s not that late. And he’s up in the common room. I just wanted to – erm – talk. To you. About something. If you don’t mind. Because I mean... Well... It’s possibly quite important.” He moved his hands a little. “You know. You and me. Just a quick – or not so quick, I mean that part’s up to you –sort of chat.”

And then a strangely uncomfortable, very unfortunately placed silence set in.

And they simply stared at each other, Hermione expectant.

Right. Okay. So. Yeah. Say something. Something slightly better than what you just attempted to say.

Ron had never been gifted with a fluent tongue. If only, at this moment, it was the one thing that he did possess.

Hermione‘s eyebrow had raised predictably, and Ron was feeling a thorny rush of unease that he hadn’t anticipated. He’d known it would be difficult to bring things up with her. But he’d done it before, and yes, at times it had been awkward. But it hadn’t felt like this.

Perhaps it was the fact that he really had no idea where he was going with any of it. He didn’t know what to ask. Didn’t know how to approach it. Didn’t even understand what exactly he was looking for or how the bloody hell he was supposed to get there.

“Ron?”

“How are you— I mean – you know, after the other night? How are you feeling?”

She took a deep breath. Because yes, noted Ron, her over-sized brain had probably seen this one coming.

“I’m fine,” she replied, looking down briefly at the table before focusing her eyes back on Ron.

“Are you, though?” he asked, hesitantly edging his hand a fraction towards hers. “Harry—” and then he paused for a split second to anticipate a change in her expression, uncomfortable shift in her chair, roll of the eyes – anything...

Nothing.

“Well, Harry really is sorry you know,” he continued, oddly disappointed. “If you just let him talk to you about it then maybe— Maybe things can get back to normal.”

“This is normal, isn’t it?” she asked. “We’re talking, aren’t we?”

“Yeah, but…” Ron paused for a second. “You may as well not be, Hermione. It just all seems so... Well, you know – forced. And I really don’t think even Harry wants it to be like that. He’d rather you gave him the cold shoulder than this weird thing that you’re doing.”

A frown suddenly appeared on Hermione’s forehead, and Ron found himself anxiously repeating his words back in his head to see what it was that had done it.

“This weird thing that I’m doing?”

Ah. That must have been it.

“Okay. Not weird as such. Just – you know – it’s not you.”

“Merlin, Ron. You complain when we don’t talk, and you complain when we do.”

“But this time, I’d understand if you didn’t want to talk to him for a while. At least then it would be, I don’t know…” What was that word he’d thought of earlier? “Closure.”

Hermione shook her head. “No, Ron. That wouldn’t be closure. Nothing will ever be closure with Harry. It’s useless.”

“How is it useless?”

Hermione took a deep breath. It was one of her do-I-have-to-spell-it-out-for-you sighs. Ron didn’t like it. But all the same, he was glad she was responding to him in the first place.

“Well, what’s the point? We can talk about it, over and over again, I can ignore him for a couple of days or we can scream our heads of at each other. None of it makes a difference. Not in the long run. Harry will always be like this. He’ll always do these things. I’m not going to go out of my way to try and stop him the whole time, Ron. I just don’t have the energy to do that anymore.” She leant back into her chair and looked down at her lap. “I’m tired, Ron. I’m just too tired to argue, alright?”

Too tired? Ron didn’t like the way she said that. It made her sound old.

“He didn’t mean it,” he insisted. “Honestly, Hermione.” Because Ron didn’t like hearing that she was too tired. Too drained. The day that Hermione was too tired to put Harry in his place was the day that Ron would know something was very, very wrong.

But then again, he realised, staring into her pale face, didn’t he already know that? Wasn’t that why he was here?

“Don’t give up on him, Hermione.”

“Don’t be daft. I’m not giving up on him, alright? It’s got nothing to do with that. I just... I just have too many things to think about at the moment. I can’t deal with Harry all the time.”

“What things?” Yes, what are these things? Because Ron had a feeling whatever they were, they were big, and – to state the obvious – they weren’t helping. “What are these things you think about so much?”

She shrugged. “Prefect duties,” she mumbled, brushing a strand of hair out of her face. “What else?”

“You tell me.”

“Excuse me?”

“Oh, come on. You reckon I’ll believe that all of this is because they made you Head Girl?”

“All of what, Ron?” Her eyes had narrowed.

Merlin. Would he have to be the one to spell it out this time?

“This, Hermione. You. This whole bloody change that’s been happening recently. It’s so damn obvious, not even you can pretend you haven’t noticed.”

“I have a lot of responsibility now. A lot of stress.”

“And that’s it?”

“That’s it.”

“That can’t be it!”

“Be quiet, will you? We’re in the library, for Merlin’s sake.”

Argh, Hermione. Who gives a flying fuck about the library?

Ron had pressed his hands flat out on the table. His breathing was becoming deeper. If she wasn’t even going to try and be honest about her feelings, then where the bloody hell did that leave them?

Surely this should be easier than talking to Harry.

“You can talk to me, you know. I’m not going to tell anyone. Not even Harry if you don’t want me too. And I’d understand.” He lowered his voice again. “If it’s about Malfoy. Anything about him at all. I’d understand if you didn’t want Harry finding out.”

And then Hermione flushed so unmistakably red it made Ron’s heart skip a beat.

Did that mean...?

Malfoy.

The bastard.

This was something to do with him.

“So it is Malfoy, then?”

“Oh, please, Ron. What makes you think you’re so much more tolerant than Harry? I understand that he takes it that one giant step too far, but you both hate him. Both of you.”

“Is it Malfoy, Hermione?”

“No, alright? No, it’s not. What makes you think—”

“Merlin,” growled Ron. “How long are you going to keep up this stupid pretence?”

Her cheeks stained darker, and he knew that this time it was probably more due to anger than anything else. He definitely should have remembered never to use the words ‘stupid’ and ‘Hermione’ in the same sentence.

“This isn’t some stupid pretence, alright?” she frowned, her voice a heated whisper. “You should try being a Head Prefect, Ron. I’d love to see how you would handle it all.”

“Seriously, Hermione, even you know you haven’t been paying full attention to the job. And that must be for another reason.”

“I see. So now you’re questioning my commitment to Head Girl as well, are you?”

“No. No, you know that’s not—”

“What exactly is it you want to ask me, Ron? Because I suggest you just come out and say it.” The same strand of hair fell back onto her cheek, and she pushed it away again irritably. “Please. I’m sick and tired of people pussy-footing around their words. Merlin, I can’t read minds. I have no bloody idea what goes on in peoples’ heads. Don’t you realise it will make my life a hell of a lot easier if you just get to the point?”

She was still frowning.

And Ron struggled to figure it out. Work out the point. His point. And how on earth he was supposed to get there.

“I don’t know, Hermione.”

“You don’t know?”

“I don’t know how to say it. “

“Well then leave it. Just leave it and let’s forget about it.”

And then Ron almost found himself growing angry with her. In fact, no, not just almost.

“Bloody hell, Hermione,” he growled. “Don’t act like I’m stupid. Like I don’t have a single reason for bringing any of this up. If you’re just going to treat me like I’m mad – like there’s nothing wrong – like there’s been nothing wrong for Merlin only knows how long now – then this is a waste of time.”

“I’m not—”

“I just want a bit of honesty. Just a small insight into what the hell is going on in your head. I’m lost, Hermione. Lost in Harry’s stupid rage and your countless distractions. I have no bloody idea what’s going on, but I know there’s something—”

“Fine, but—”

“—and I’m not about to accept any more lies.”

“Will you stop that, Ron?”

“What?”

“That. The implication that I’m lying about everything. I don’t appreciate it, you know.”

“And I don’t appreciate being lied to.”

“Ron!”

Fine.

He inhaled deeply.

Perhaps Ron didn’t believe that she was actually lying – not the big fat black lies sort of lying – but he couldn’t deny that that was certainly what it felt like. Still, it was clearly not the way to tackle the situation.

His palms remained pressed into the table as he attempted to level out his breathing again.

“Sorry,” he murmured.

Her eyes softened a little. “It’s okay.”

“At least I’m getting a decent reaction out of you.”

“Pardon?”

“You know. At least I’m talking to the real Hermione and not the cardboard cut-out we’ve been hanging out with all weekend.”

Her eyebrow raised again. “I see.”

And then, with a small hesitation, Hermione shuffled her chair closer into the table.

She took a deep breath. “Listen, Ron,” she whispered, half sighing, half something else in her voice Ron couldn’t quite work out, “I suppose I should probably be the one to apologise.”

Well that was...unexpected.

But good. Yes. Good. Ron deserved an apology what with the being kept in the dark part, and all those- dark places, and everything. And this was obviously going to lead to a small explanation of some kind. A little enlightenment that can finally pave the way back to normality.

“You’re right about the whole weirdness,” she continued. “About me acting out of character this weekend. I didn’t mean to upset you. Or even Harry, in fact. It wasn’t aimed at anyone in particular.”

“I know.”

“I just— Maybe— Something just…” She diverted her gaze and stared down at the table. “I mean recently, Ron, things have been strange and— Sort of— Merlin.”

She was having trouble.

Hermione barely ever had trouble.

“I can’t say it,” she breathed, eventually.

“You can’t say what?”

She looked startled, as if she hadn’t meant him to hear her.

“What?” she asked.

His voice was gentle, concerned. “You can’t say what, Hermione?”

She stared at him, eyes wide. Pearly, dark, glistening with firelight.

Stared.

And stared.

Then she bit her bottom lip.

Can’t say what? What?

“Head Girl, Ron...”

His heart sank once again with the ever-familiar disbelief.

“Oh, don’t start.” He growled and rolled his eyes. “Don’t go back to the whole prefect thing again. We’ve already been there-”

“Can’t you just listen to me?”

“What? Listen to you tell me how hard it is? I’m sure it’s hard. In fact, I don’t doubt it for a second, Hermione. And I would share the load with you, I honestly would, were it not for the fact that I’d be bloody useless at it. But it shouldn’t be as soul-destroying as this, surely? I mean, I know my brother acted like a stiff-arse prick when he was made Head Boy, but he already was a stiff-arse prick as far as I’m concerned. What’s your excuse?”

Hermione’s eyes narrowed so fast he barely saw the change take place.

“And what exactly is that supposed to mean, Ron?”

Play that one back in his head again.

Had he just essentially called Hermione a stiff-arse prick? Because he really, sincerely hadn’t meant to.

“Oh, no, no— Hermione—”

“You really don’t go the right way about offering someone a shoulder, Ron.”

“I’m so sorry, I really didn’t mean—”

And then— Merlin, no.

A tear fell onto her cheek.

“Please, Hermione, don’t cry. You know what I’m like. I never think before I speak. I swear on my life I didn’t mean to say—”

“Don’t.”

“Hermione—”

“Don’t. It’s not you, alright?” she mumbled, and then another tear fell.

“Please don’t cry.”

Hermione shook her head. Her lashes fell.

“I don’t mean to. I’m sorry,” she sniffed. “I’m sure it’s just hormones or something or— Oh, Ron. I’m such a mess.”

Ron blinked.

Because at that moment, those last words seemed enough to shut him up for life. That voice, it was filled with something close to pain. Hermione sounded hurt. So hurt that for a fleeting second, it didn’t even matter that he didn’t understand why, couldn’t piece things together, couldn’t get her to talk. All that mattered, right then and there, was making her feel better. Making the sudden tears stop.

And then Ron was just about to pull out from the table, rush over, pull her into his arms and whisper he was sorry – that no, she wasn’t a mess, she was beautiful. She was his best friend, and he and Harry would take care of her. Whatever the problem was. They would be there.

Just the three of them.

To talk about things. Sort them out. Help each other.

But suddenly, he saw something that stopped him. Saw someone else, from the corner of his eye, walking up towards them between the towering shelves of books.

And when they came into light, this someone, this surprise – low brow, cold eyes, sharp stare – Ron’s heart clenched so tightly with his fists that he was sure the loathing had replaced every single trace of concern in his face.

Absolute loathing. And nothing else.


*


She looked up as Ron’s expression changed remarkably.

She noticed. He was looking straight past her, glaring at something over her shoulder. And oh. No. That look.

They had company. A company that was clearly, visibly, splashed across every feature on his tightening face.

Every single tiny hair on Hermione’s quivering body shot up so fast it snatched her breath away.

Because there was only one person that made him look like that. And she almost could feel his breath whispering against her skin.

“Granger.”

She didn’t turn around, she just froze, letting the cool waves of dread relish her.

“Piss off, Malfoy,” scowled Ron, voice deep, eyes narrow.

“I don’t believe I addressed you, Weasley. I’m speaking to Granger.”

“We’re busy.”

Hermione hastily wiped the tears away from her cheeks. Clearing her throat in an effort to compose herself.

Because if Malfoy knew, if he saw them- those wet cheeks- then she would never be able to swallow that sour stinking shudder of shame. It was important, so incredibly important, that it seemed as if she didn’t care. About any of it anymore. As if it had passed her by. As if now, his presence meant nothing. Since she didn’t care anymore.

She didn’t care.

“Tough shit,” snarled Draco.

And then Ron rose from his chair with the same threatening posture that evoked singeing memories of Harry. No. Enough of the stupid testosterone face offs.

“I suggest you leave us alone, Malfoy,” he hissed.

“Ron, wait,” said Hermione, mirroring his movement and pushing her chair back to move out from the table. She turned away from the glaring response and looked at Draco.

Looked at him.

She’d avoided doing that ever since. Ever since...

“What do you want?” she asked. Be Head Girl, be Gryffindor, be Hermione Granger. Just for now.

Because whatever it is you want – whatever the words, the remarks, the stupid bloody plans – as it’s all coming out of your mouth, know that I don’t care.

Just like you don’t care about me, I care even less about you.

“It’s Dumbledore,” he answered. His eyes, they were staring straight back into hers. Slicing. Hot.

“What about him?”

“He wants to see us in his office.”

“We don’t have a meeting planned.”

“He still wants to see us.”

Why? And now? And please just go away.

“But— What’s it about?”

“He didn’t say.”

For a moment, the complete and utter devastation underneath the surface of her skin was replaced with yet another chaos.

What could it possibly be about? Were they in trouble?

It was late, after all, too late for a regular meeting with the Headmaster. Too late and too ominous. Because there were a million and one things he could have picked up on. A million and one ways he could kick them both out on their ex-prefect arses and hand over the job to someone else. Someone better qualified.

Two people who weren’t a total marvel of a mess together.

And Merlin – hadn’t she seen this coming? It was Professor Dumbledore. He wouldn’t miss a bloody thing even if he were blinded.

He must be able to sense that something was wrong. Something was going on between them. Something very, very wrong.

“Why the hell would Dumbledore want to speak to you at this time of day?” spat Ron, his expression ridden with suspicion.

“Maybe you can totter along with us and find out for yourself,” snarled Draco. “I’m pretty sure he’ll ask why the hell the Weasley runt has turned up, but if it means you’ll sleep in a dry bed tonight, then by all means, come and make sure Granger gets their safely.”

“You fucking—”

“Don’t bother, Ron,” murmured Hermione, turning back to him briefly. “He’s not worth it.”

“That’s right, Weasley,” growled Draco, “I’m not worth it.”

Hermione turned back.

Draco was staring at her.

The expression on his face seemed to match the spite in that comment.

She swallowed.

“Shall we go, then?” she mumbled, gathering up the scattered papers from the table.

“Hermione—”

“If you’re awake, Ron,” she said, glancing up at him, “I’ll stop by the common room on the way back, okay?”

She could almost hear Draco rolling his eyes.

“Fine,” mumbled Ron, eyes fixed on Malfoy with threatening malcontent. The usual silent warning.

Hermione sighed a little, a half deep inhalation of air, air that she begged to fill her with a strong sense of self-assurance as she turned, walked past Draco, left the library and began to make her way to the Headmaster’s office.

Draco’s footsteps followed close behind.

As Hermione trailed uneasily through the darkened corridors, past the glimmering firelight and in between the shadows, his unmistakable presence was deafening. Deafening and destroying, peeling back the hardened layers of her determined defence. Every sound of his feet touching the ground sent cold shots of chaos running up her spine.

And all just because he was there. Close on her heels. Sharing the same air.

And as they slowly walked, Hermione with Draco, she felt it. The return. The bringing back, bit by bit, of everything she had spent the best part of the weekend attempting to ignore.

Attempting and failing. Astoundingly. But never giving up.

The only successful part of her time being the strenuously planned ways of avoiding him. Avoiding everything about him. Words. Eyes. Presence altogether. Because it seemed extraordinarily important that she never – ever – spoke to the bastard voluntarily again.

Because it had been confirmed. Once and for all. He was a Malfoy. Through and through and fucking through to the very inner core of his body. And she was a fool to ever think otherwise. To ever invent fantasies about a tortured heart, screaming for redemption, trapped in the shell of his father.

There were no excuses for Draco Malfoy anymore.

He had made that perfectly clear. As clear as sharpened crystal, if that’s all it had been. All that time. Just a way to humiliate her. Butter her up and leave her to drown in the shame of it. Whisper wicked things and relish the reactions.

Smear Hermione Granger’s good girl glaze.

It must have been such a power rush.

If that’s all it had been.

Maybe now they could just return to normal. She could hate him more than she ever had before. Return to how it used to be. Pretend to forget she ever tasted the darkness of his mouth. His skin.

Like she never opened her legs for him.

Merlin, Hermione, why were you so fucking stupid?

The worst part, she remembered, and will until her dying day, is that after she’d left him her body was still silently begging for him, still pathetically soaked for him, as she lay restlessly upstairs on her bed.

Still throbbing and moaning and crying with need. Disgrace, dejection, denial. And need.

She was a virgin. She had almost hated herself for it. How was any of that right? She had been so careful. So sensible. Beautiful. The original “your parents must be so proud of you” daughter.

Innocent. She had been innocent and untouched.

Yes. The innocent and untouched that would have let Draco fuck her so hard into the desk that it split in two. Again and again. Begging and screaming and dying for more.

Yes, Mother. You must be so proud.

And no. She never wanted to think of it again. Lying on her bed. Breathing so hard she heard sounds escape her mouth. Heated. Frustrated. Devastated. At how she lifted up her skirt. Closed her eyes with those tears. Tasted them on her tongue. And touched herself.

Furiously.

Back arching. Muscles pulsating. Eyelids flickering. Swollen and sodden, until the need quietened.

It was all such a disappointment. Because downstairs, on that desk, Hermione thought for a fleeting moment she’d seen something else in Draco’s overcast eyes.

And what? What the hell do you think it was, you stupid little girl?

It was triumph. That’s all it was.

Triumph.

“Granger.”

His voice pulled her out of her memories and back into the scene in front of her.

Her movement jolted suddenly, and then picked up speed.

“Granger, stop walking so fast. We need to talk.”

She had nothing to say to him. Nothing to say.

And thank Merlin that they were almost there, almost at the office, even if she was dreading the consultation almost as much as the voice persisting behind her.

“Granger, you idiot. Just slow down, will you?”

Her fists tightened.

But honestly, she almost laughed at herself, she could hardly argue with the label of idiot now, could she?

That’s exactly what she was.

A complete idiot. To ever look twice at him.

And then suddenly his body had stepped in front of her, halting her movement.

He was glaring at her angrily.

She looked past him and with a wave of relief and realised it was too late for any confrontation, because Dumbledore’s quarters stood right behind Draco. There was no time for him to say anything else. No time for him to chew up her insides with anymore revelations and insults.

She was going through that door, getting this over with, and then resuming the avoidance of anything even remotely associated with the bastard.

“I’m going in, Malfoy,” she frowned, head tilted in defiance, “and it would probably move things along a lot quicker if you did the same.”

“We need to talk first.”

“I have nothing to say to you.”

She walked around him, heart pounding, bringing a fist to the door. She knocked loudly three times.

“Please, come in.” The response was almost instant.

Hermione’s mouth went dry.

And all the what-this-could-be-abouts came rushing back into her head with a sharp and brutal stab.


*


“Thank you for coming at such short notice, Miss Granger, Mr Malfoy.” Dumbledore nodded at both of them in turn. “I hope this isn’t too late for you, but I have an unfortunate knack for impromptu meetings.”

He had an unfortunate knack for a lot of things, noted Draco, determined not to glare in an obvious fashion. The old man had an unfortunate knack for existing, for example.

Draco glanced at Hermione out of the corner of his eye. Her fingers were gripping the arms of the chair so tightly there was a distinct possibility her nails would bend backwards and snap off.

And he hoped they did, his mind spat, for being such an obstinate bitch and not even granting him so much as one distant comment the entire weekend.

I know you’re hurt, Granger, and I’m desperately trying not to care. But without you around to insult and shake it out of myself, it’s proving very difficult. It’s felt a lot like suffocation.

He let Dumbledore’s drone re-enter his head.

“I’ve been slightly concerned as of late, I must admit,” he had began, voice stupidly gentle, “and before I continue, please, do not assume I am stating any sort of claim that either of you are incapable of the job at hand.”

Draco couldn’t help but indulge in the moment's relief that washed over his body. Hermione was still rigid in her chair, but his posture slumped slightly with the realisation that tonight was not a night they would have their positions withdrawn.

“On the contrary, you were elected for the very reason that you are both very able and proficient students who…”

Blah, blah, fucking blah, and the rest. The man’s voice had a way of making Draco’s eyelids droop. He really didn’t want to be there. He really didn’t need to be there. The only part that made this situation even remotely redeemable was that it had provided him with an opportunity. An opportunity to talk to Granger.

Not that he should want one, he reminded himself, stupid, messed up and completely infested with some sick little attack of crawling guilt that he had been desperately scratching off for the past two days.

That suffocation.

Without her.

Without her?

Fuck that and fuck you.

You’ll pay for that one later.

Now stop thinking. As soon as the walls of his head collapse in on him he won’t be able to fight the urge to be sick. And sitting in this office, in front of Dumbledore, next to her – this wasn’t the right time for any of it.

Just listen. Listen to what he has to say.

Distractions. Be thankful for them.

“I do not want you to feel you have to hold anything back from the professors. Any concerns you may have – any at all – it is important you share them. Being Head Prefects is far from easy, and the inevitable strain is certainly not something to be underestimated by anyone. If you are feeling the extent of the pressure, do not hesitate to let me know.”

“Thank you, Professor.”

Listen to her stupid voice. Stupid answer.

Dumbledore nodded to her and continued.

“There are, of course, some things I have noticed that lead me to suspect that such anxiety amongst you both has grown.”

Draco felt himself tense suddenly. Some things he had noticed?

“For instance, I have not seen either of you attend many of the meals in the Great Hall recently. Particularly you, Miss Granger. It is understandable that you may occasionally be too busy, but at the same time, it is important that the Head Prefects try to maintain a regular appearance at mealtimes.”

He wasn’t sure what exactly was about to come out, but nevertheless Draco opened his mouth to speak.

“As I said, Mr Malfoy,” added Dumbledore, peering at him over his spectacles and cutting him off before he could begin, “I appreciate that it may not always be convenient, but it provides an opportune time for students to come and find you if they so wish. It also sets a good example to the rest of the students. We do not look too fondly upon those who skip meals.”

“We apologise, Professor, I can assure you our attendance will improve.”

Granger, again. He couldn’t quite understand why her remorseful tone was annoying him so much.

“Thank you, Miss Granger. And now the most important issue. It has not completely passed my notice that interaction between you both has been somewhat distant. I would encourage more shared effort with the forming of plans and so on. I understand that, perhaps, differences exist between you, but on a purely work-related basis, it is important to learn to place these differences aside.” Dumbledore clasped his hands together on his desk. “I am not completely foolish. I realised – upon appointing you both – that your relationship was far from comfortable. However, I also trusted that you may benefit from learning more about each other. I’m not asking you to be friends, Mr Malfoy, Miss Granger, I’m asking you to be colleagues.”

Draco had to stop himself from rolling his eyes.

Something, he quietly noted, that he had quite clearly and irritatingly picked up. From her.

“I must emphasise, once again, that I am not doubting your capabilities. I believe you both possess the ability to provide a sound prefect system for Hogwarts. And I hope you do not let whatever it is that is creating so much pressure ruin your chances of success.”

“We won’t, Professor.”

“No,” murmured Draco. “We won’t let that happen.”

And then he and Hermione glanced at each other momentarily.

“Excellent,” smiled Dumbledore. “In which case, Mr Malfoy, if you wouldn’t mind remaining seated for a further minute. Miss Granger, you may leave.”

As if he hadn’t seen this one coming.

Draco noticed that Hermione froze for a second, hesitating before she got up.

You’re off the bloody hook, Granger. Don’t drag it out.

He felt her eyes drift over to him. Her mouth opened and then closed. And then she disappeared altogether after a few short words of farewell.

Draco stared back at Dumbledore across his wide oaken desk.

“Is there something else wrong, Professor?” asked Draco, desperately trying to keep the contempt from his voice.

Do you want to tell me that actually, Granger is fine as Head Girl, but on second thought you’ll have to retract my position? Replace me with Potter, perhaps? Your gold star wonder boy? He’d surely do a much better job in a position of power. The hero of Hogwarts. You may as well give him all that’s left.

“Well I’m afraid, Draco, that it is up to you to tell me what’s wrong,” he answered, his head tilting down slightly.

“I’m sorry?”

“I spoke with Professor Snape over the weekend,” he began. “He mentioned, or rather, came to me specifically to mention, that he saw you the other night, Draco. You’d been hurt. Severely, by the sound of things.”

“I fell off my broomstick,” he replied, fast, toneless. “During Quidditch practice. It was raining.”

Dumbledore’s eyebrow raised.

“I see,” he answered, complete and utter disbelief soaking his words. “And I suppose that Mr Potter had a similar accident that night, as well, did he?”

Draco shrugged. “I wouldn’t know.”

“Healing charms can’t fix everything, Draco.”

He shrugged again.

“It wouldn’t be the first time you and Harry have gotten into a fight.”

“Potter and I don’t get on, Professor, I’m not going to lie about it. But we had nothing to do with each other that night.”

“Of course,” replied Dumbledore, touching the side of his spectacles lightly with his hand. “Because you do realise that if I discovered the Head Boy had been involved in such violence, Draco, I would have no choice but to take serious action.”

Draco swallowed. His throat was raw.

“I understand,” he mumbled, “but I assure you it was an accident.”

“Let's hope so,” he nodded.

And then Draco felt quite overwhelmed with surprise. Was that it? Was he letting it go this quickly? It was as clear as day. He believed none of it. And Draco could hardly blame him.

Surely even the very suspicion that he’d gotten into such a serious fight...

“I think it’s clear I will be keeping a close eye on you, Draco,” continued Dumbledore. “You and Miss Granger. I believe you both need to be very careful about how you conduct yourselves over the next few months.”

“Granger hasn’t done anything wrong,” said Draco, before he could stop himself.

Unnecessary. Unnecessary on so many levels.

Dumbledore’s eyebrow raised again.

“I hope that neither of you have done anything wrong,” he replied, slowly. “I also hope that you begin to find more of a direction this term with your handling of Head Boy.”

More of a direction. Right.

“Yes,” nodded Draco, rising from the chair.

The Headmaster stared at him for a moment, eyes fixed upon him with an unreadable expression that took nearly every nerve in Draco’s body to stop from asking what the hell it was supposed to mean.

“Thank you for your time, Draco,” he said, finally, standing up from his own chair and gesturing towards the door. “I hope I haven’t kept you up too late.”

“No,” was all he could mutter in response, turning his back and heading purposefully towards the door. “Goodbye.”

“Goodnight, Draco.”

And then the foreboding light and sinister warmth of the office had gone.

He was at the bottom of the steps, pushing open the door onto the corridor.

What a stupid waste of time that was. And no surprise there. This was Dumbledore. Dumble-fucking-dore. Supposedly greatest wizard of the century. Harry Potter’s third best friend. Or perhaps fourth, after the bastard giant.

But if he was chanting on about pressure and stress, he’d done a pretty spectacular job at adding to it all with his stupid interference. No doubt Granger would be more on edge now than she ever was before, if that were at all possible.

And keeping an eye on Draco himself? How kind of him to care so much. Probably looking for a perfect mistake to use against him. Throw him off the top. Watch him crawl back down again. Stupid fucking Dumbledore. If ever his father was right about anyone, it was him.

What annoyed him beyond all of that was that being kept behind had meant he’d missed his chance to—

“What did he say?”

Draco jolted. So hard he was almost embarrassed.

“Fuck,” he mumbled, involuntarily. “I didn’t even see you—”

“Well? What did Dumbledore say?”

Draco exhaled.

Good.

She was still here. He still had his chance to say the things he felt he needed to say. Whatever those things were.

Lies. Truth. Something in between.

And now... How the hell does he say it?

“Malfoy?”

“Not a lot.”

“I gathered that. You were barely in there for two minutes. So whatever it was, he obviously got to the point quickly.”

“Nice deduction, Granger.”

“Just tell me what he said, Malfoy, and then I can leave you the hell alone.”

“What was going on earlier, by the way?”

Hermione’s face screwed up in frustration . “What?”

“Between you and Weasley. What had he done? You were crying.”

“He hadn’t done anything,” she hissed, cheeks visibly reddening even in the dim light of the corridor. “I wasn’t crying. And it’s none of your business anyway.”

“Well then neither is this.”

“Oh, don’t be so stupid,” she spat, voice hushed. “Of course it’s my business. What did he say to you? Was it about Harry? About the fight? Does he know?”

“No.”

“He doesn’t?”

“Well yes, he does. But he doesn’t have a way of proving it. So there’s nothing he can do about it.”

“But he asked you about it?”

“Yes.”

“And what did you say?”

“That nothing happened.”

She paused for a second. He could almost hear the moral arguments of his lie fizzing inside her skull.

She stared at him. Or not quite at him. A point just to the left of him.

It was irritating.

“Granger, what the—”

But before he could finish his sentence, she’d spun around and began pacing off down the darkened corridor away from him.

“Where the hell are you going?” he asked, immediately moving his legs to follow. “I said we needed to talk.”

She didn’t reply.

“Don’t you dare,” he growled, running to catch up with her. “Don’t you dare start ignoring me again, Granger.”

“Fuck off, Malfoy!” she exclaimed, her feet moving faster than he remembered them doing in a long time.

No. You can’t walk away from me. You can’t do this. I don’t care what happened the other night.

I don’t fucking care, Granger.

I’ve spent the whole fucking weekend staring at you walk away from me and I’m not going to do it again.

“Will you slow down?”

He ran ahead and stopped in front of her.

Hermione glared at him. “Move. Or I swear I’ll—”

“If you would just let me say what I have to say—”

“No! No more words, Malfoy!”

She moved to step around him.

He mirrored her, blocking her path.

Her eyes seethed.

“Calm down, Granger.”

“Fuck you!”

“Oh, for the love of—”

“Shut up, Malfoy!” she frowned, voice raised, eyebrows as deep and as low as ever. “I don’t know if it’s completely passed that sick and twisted head of yours by, but I’ve been going out of my way to ignore the hell out of you, and I’m not about to jump into yet another bloody confrontation just because you feel you’ve been missing out on your chances to mess me the hell up again!”

“Of course it hasn’t escaped my notice, you stupid bitch,” he snapped, his expression changing to match. “What the hell do you think I’m doing here now? Asking you how your weekend has been?”

“Just let me pass.”

“No! Not until you tell me what the fuck is going on!”

“Excuse me??” The infuriated disbelief in her voice flashed right across her face.

Fine, Granger. Fine. I already know what the fuck is going on but what else can I do? There’s no way on earth I’m going to apologise for it. I still don’t want to think about it long enough for any sort of words to come out. But this. I don’t know about anything else but this. This weekend. And you pissing about behind every other corner in this castle and refusing to so much as look at me.

And I don’t want to care about it. In fact I don’t fucking care. I don’t.

Don’t.

But if it’s screwing me up as much as this, then anything – anything – I can do to stop my head from hurting so much I’ll do.

Even if it involves this.

Just talking.

Just seeing you look at me.

I’m so pathetic and desperate now I’ll stoop this low, Granger, I’ll run after you. Just to shout. Hear something alive.

Feel something inside myself.

Be honest, Granger. You miss seeing how fucked in the big fat fucking head I’m getting. Just look on this as a little update.

“It’s you,” mumbled Draco, searching, snatching desperately at any words he could find amongst this sudden, burning psychosis. “You know I’ve tried to talk to you several times this weekend, Granger. You’ve ignored me. And I don’t like it.”

“And you really have to ask yourself why?!” she growled, voice still unusually loud.

“Well it’s not like I wanted it to happen either!”

His comment threw them both slightly.

Because what hadn’t he wanted to happen?

Which part?

The whole thing?

Or the fact that it ended.

“I think you should step aside, Malfoy,” breathed Hermione. “You’ve done enough damage as it is.”

“I’ve done enough damage?” he laughed. “And I suppose I’ve managed this all by myself, have I?”

She stared at him.

Yes. That’s right, Granger. Did I ever tell you how much I can taste the guilt whenever it washes over you? It’s ripe.

Like those lips.

“We’re both a part of this,” she mumbled, voice suddenly quieter. “I don’t deny that. But... You. You just— What you did to me. Don’t think I don’t know.”

“Don’t know what?”

“What it was all about. I’m not stupid, alright? You made your point so why can’t you just leave me alone now? It’s finished. It’s done.” Her lip quivered slightly. “It’s over.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Oh, don’t bother!” she laughed, voice louder once again. “Don’t pretend you have no idea, Malfoy! Don’t make this even worse! You really don’t know when to stop being such an absolute arsehole, do you?”

“Maybe if you stopped with the cryptic shit, I’d be able to understand what it is you’re banging on about.”

“What I’m banging on about?” she hissed, eyes narrow. She shook her head. “A load of shit? Is that what it sounds like to you?”

“Pretty much.”

“Well you’re the one who wanted to talk! Let’s hear what you have to say!”

“Tell me what you meant, Granger.”

“No.”

“Tell me.”

“If you can’t even admit it yourself, then it’s not worth the air, Malfoy.”

The impatience began to creep just that little bit further across his skin.

What had she meant? It was about the other night. But what? Don’t think she didn’t know that he what?

His fingers slowly curled over into fists.

“You’re going to explain, Granger. Now.”

“Why should I?”

“Because.”

“Because what?”

“I mean it.”

“Fuck you.”

“What is it, Granger?” exclaimed Draco. “Just tell me, or I’ll—”

“How about I throw myself against the wall this time, save you the trouble? Isn’t this where this is leading?” she asked, skin frantic, chest rising and falling so furiously it was driving him mad. “You’ve already taken two steps towards me, Malfoy, I can only expect the rest! Let you give it another go! Let you see if I’m pathetic enough to let you do it all over again! Watch you lap up all the humiliation into that perverted mouth of yours and swirl it around your tongue like you can’t get enough!”

“Humiliation? You want to talk about humiliation?”

“Are you joking?” she laughed. “You aren’t honestly about to turn this around, are you? Don’t forget it was you who forced me down onto a desk and had your way with me! Your sick plan to solve the situation! End with that complete feeling of power! Because that’s all it was, wasn’t it, Malfoy? A power struggle? You used me. And you won. So congratulations. The triumph. I hope you fucking choke on it!”

“Triumph?” Draco needed to punch something. Anything. “What’s wrong with you, Granger? At what point did any of it look like a victory for me?”

“Don’t, Malfoy. I’m telling you, right here and now, just how much you won that night! You ruined me spectacularly! Achieved your goal! Now why can’t you leave me alone?”

“Because I don’t understand! I don’t understand you, Granger! I was so fucked up that night, I was so sick and twisted and insanely lost, and not for those reasons! Not for kissing you, for feeling you moving underneath me – but for pulling the fuck away! Because when you told me— When you said that you were...that you’d never— I couldn’t do it anymore! I couldn’t let that— I just— Fuck! I don’t even know! Listen to me! I had my chance to ruin you completely, brand whore all over that pretty porcelain skin of yours, and I stopped! Don’t you understand that?”

“You went as far as you ever planned on going, Malfoy. Don’t lie! I’m a Mudblood remember?! Don’t pretend you were ever going to do anything more than what it would take to humiliate me!”

Draco cringed.

Blood.

“It wasn’t like that. Not then. I didn’t think about it like that, alright?”

“But that’s all I am to you! Just a stupid filthy Mudblood! You would have thrown up for days if you’d gone through with any of it, be honest, Malfoy! You never would have been able to live with yourself!”

“Fine! You’re probably right, Granger! I probably would have thrown up for days! My head imploded weeks ago and I haven’t been able to stop throwing up since! I can barely keep anything down!”

“Because of me!”

“Because of us!”

“It’s the same thing, Malfoy! The same thing! There is nothing about any of this that makes sense! Nothing about it that is genuine and good! And I hate you! I haven’t stopped, not once!”

“I hate you too! I always have!”

“And that’s just it! All these things between us, Malfoy, they’re just raw. Just raw and bloody and rotting. We hate each other. So why do you want to continue this? Why can’t you just leave me alone?!”

“If I could answer that then maybe my head would stop feeling like it’s fucking splitting in two the whole time!”

“Oh, you poor thing, Malfoy! Is it all taking its toll on you? Getting too much?”

“Shut up, Granger.”

“Why should I? You don’t get to play the victim, Malfoy, you don’t get to do that! You’re the biggest bastard in this whole school! You’ve made countless lives a complete misery whilst you’ve lived between these walls, so the day you turn around and look for sympathy, you must be fucked in the head to think you’ll get any!”

“I’m not looking for sympathy, you idiot! I’m not looking for the kind and caring compassion of Princess Fucking Granger and her wise words of advice! It’s the very last thing I want from you! I’d never ask for your pity!”

“Pity and sympathy are different things, Malfoy, and do you want to know how I know that? There is no way in hell you’ll ever get my sympathy, but you should know that I have pitied you for the past six years more than anyone I’ve ever met!”

No.

Draco stared back at her.

Pity.

If only she knew. It was practically his father’s favourite word.

You’ll never learn, Draco, you’ll never become what you’re supposed to be. A Malfoy. You’re too incompetent. Too riddled with failure.

I almost pity you for it.

“You can’t say that,” he murmured. And swallowed.

But her eyes were still ablaze. And she looked certain, in every part of her body, that she could say it again. Again and again.

“Why not?! Because I do! I pity you for thinking that you have to be like this! Like you have to act this way! I pity you for ruining so many chances of happiness! Not just for others, but for yourself! You’ve self-destructed since the first moment I met you, Malfoy. So yes, I almost pity you for it. And it’s completely destroying me, dragging me down, taking my happiness, and it’s enough. You’ve done enough. I don’t doubt you're capable of more, alright? You don’t have to show me. You don’t have to prove it! I just want you to leave me alone!”

And she was hurting. Anyone could taste it. And she wanted him to hurt with her.

He knew this because he did. He hurt too.

“I don’t know why I need you to know,” he breathed, voice lower than hers, quieter by miles, but not calm, still jagged with breathing. “I just need you to know. I hate myself for it, but I just do. And I don’t care what you think of it. I don’t care because I hate you. I still do. Right this very minute. But... The other night, Granger, I didn’t stop touching you because I wanted to. I didn’t stop touching you because it was a plan for humiliation. And if it was a power struggle – that night – I lost. Because I was completely helpless. And it took all the strength I had ever given myself to stop.”

“You’re lying,” her voice had fallen so dramatically, it was almost a whisper.

“No, I’m not. I needed you that night. And I still need you. I’ve spent the whole term needing you, Granger. But I couldn’t do it. When I realised... I couldn’t take that away from you.”

“Don’t,” she breathed. He could almost hear her tears.

“I’m not lying.”

And suddenly, “Yes!” Voice higher again, strained with emotion, anger, frustration, confusion, “Yes, you are lying! I’ve had enough, Malfoy! I’ve had enough of these cruel games! I don’t want anymore! I can’t do this anymore!”

“But I’m not—”

“How can you expect me to believe you? After everything! After knowing who you are!”

“Because! Because it’s not as if I’m telling you I love—”

But then something inside him fell silent. And so did he.

Completely.

“I don’t care! I repulse you, remember? I disgust you!” His failed sentence seemed to go unnoticed. “I’m so muddied up that I’ll never feel what it’s like to be pure! I’ll always be rank with dirt! The kind of dirt that never cleans, never disappears, never changes! No spell can fix me, Malfoy, I was born like this, and I’ll be this way forever and ever! Just think about that! Think about my blood! Think about it on your tongue when you sunk your teeth into my lip, Malfoy! How long till you stopped vomiting after that? And the second time? No bath could ever have been long enough, could it? Nothing could ever wash that foul, stinking taste away! That stench! You tell me all the time! So many times it’s drummed so hard into my skull that I can’t forget it! Yes! YES! I’m a Mudblood! And that’s how I know, Malfoy! That’s how I know you’re lying! Lying through your fucking teeth! Just waiting for the next moment to strike me down and break me again! But I’ve had enough, alright? I’ve had enough, Malfoy! You can’t anymore, I won’t let you—”

It was all he could do to shut her up.

He knew he was doing it again. Noticed she had let him again. Both falling with the feel of each other. But it was all he could do.

Draco kissed her so hard he almost lost balance. Almost lost himself. Completely. Lost with the feeling.

The severe simplicity, the sheer difficulty of kissing Hermione Granger.

But before he could reach down, wrap his arms around her, stumble her back into the wall and feel her glorious skin burn under his lips – she pulled away.

Pulled away. Stepped back.

“Don’t, Granger,” he rasped. “Don’t.”

“Not again,” she murmured, shaking her head.

“Don’t,” he repeated, and then mindlessly, desperately, he grabbed her hand and pulled her back towards him.

She stumbled, her body crashing against his.

They stood there, pressed together, the sounds of heavy breathing surrounding them.

“I want you to see,” breathed Draco, so close to her ear he could almost hear the tiny vibrations of his voice inside it.

He needed her to touch him. He needed the touch to burn holes through her skin.

He needed her to understand.

Draco reached between them and grabbed her hand. Slowly, confidently, he pressed it firmly against his cock.

Draco groaned at the contact, resting his head on hers.

Hermione whimpered.

“This— This is what you do to me, Granger,” he growled. “Can you feel it?”

She said nothing.

“When I think about you,” he murmured, voice thick, dark, hips bucking against the heat of her hand. “Whenever you’re around. There’s nothing I can do, Granger. I’m falling. And I can’t get you out of my head. I can’t— I can’t fucking think straight.” His breath quickened. “Do you understand that, Granger?”

Hermione resisted slightly.

He held her still.

“I wish it wasn’t like this. I swear on all the life I have left. But there’s nothing I can do to stop it.”

And then she wriggled again. Harder, this time.

She snatched her hand away.

“Let me go,” she muttered, somewhere against his skin.

He didn’t want to.

“Malfoy.”

Slowly, he released his hold on her.

“If you would just listen to—”

“Don’t speak, Malfoy,” she whispered, tears abundant in her swollen eyes. “Just... Just don’t.”

He stared at her.

Don’t?

Why not? I need to.

If I can’t touch you, I need my words to touch you.

Look at me. Just fucking look at what I’m becoming.

“We can’t do this anymore,” she murmured. “You have to understand that. I’ve had enough, Malfoy. This can never, ever be anything more than devastating.”

His throat was dry.

“I just— I’m saying this for the both of us, Malfoy. For the sake of everything. Head Girl and Head Boy. Everything that either of us have ever worked towards.”

“Granger-”

“Please don’t, Malfoy,” she sniffed, wiping her cheek with her fingers. “Just don’t. I can never understand what this is. We can never understand it. And it’s too dangerous to try. It’s too painful. And I don’t like hurting like this. I don’t—”

“But it’s not something you can just-”

“Stop,” she whimpered, another tear falling to the floor. “I’m sorry. Or— I don’t know what I am. But that’s how it has to be, Malfoy. That’s it now. It’s finished.” She looked back up at him. “We’re done.”

They’re done?

Draco was still.

No. This isn’t like that. It’s not that simple. You can’t just say those words and expect it to work.

“I really do mean it, Malfoy,” she breathed. “I really do. If we go on like this, I’m going to...to end up so broken. So beyond repair. And I won’t do that to myself.”

Her mouth was still moving. What else could she possibly say?

He’d heard enough. He understood.

He understood that she understood absolutely nothing.

And it was all he could hear. “We’re done.”

She was so wrong. Wrong about everything. Why couldn’t she see that? You can’t decide to end it. If you could, if that were possible, he would have done it, didn’t she understand? He would have done it so long ago. Before it had even started.

He didn’t want this. He didn’t want any of this. And now she thought it was over.

And she believed herself. Completely. Merlin, can’t you understand it’s too far gone, Granger?

He stared as she disappeared around the corner.

She can’t believe her own words. She can’t honestly believe them.

Because he didn’t.


*