Pretty Girl

A/N: I have a new story for you. I'm getting back to my roots with a nice Dramoine. Or Hermaco,whichever you prefer. The second time i heard Not a Pretty Girl by Ani DiFranco, I realized it was the perfect inspiration for a Dramione/Hermaco love story. It truly is a beautiful song and I hope I do it justice with this fic. It was originally intended to only be three chapters long, and then I decided I wanted to make it a STORY. It might be slow going, but those are always the best, no?

Please review! Thanks and go listen to Not a Pretty Girl as you read this!

*


Pretty Girl
I am not a pretty girl
That is not what I do
I ain't no damsel in distress
And I don't need to be rescued
So put me down punk
Wouldn't you prefer a maiden fair
Isn't there a kitten stuck up a tree somewhere?

I am not an angry girl
But it seems like I've got everyone fooled
Every time I say something they find hard to hear
They chalk it up to my anger
And never to their own fear
And imagine you're a girl
Just trying to finally come clean
Knowing full well they'd prefer you
Were dirty and smiling . . .

~ Ani DiFranco “Not a Pretty Girl”


*

There were many things that Hermione Granger knew without having to be told. She knew that she was, without a doubt, the most studious student that Hogwarts had seen in a long time. Since her first year, she had made it a point to go above and behind what was necessary to earn the grade. It was nice and comforting when other members of the magical community singled her out as the ‘smartest witch of her age,’ but she saw the covetous looks that that particular title had given her. An outsider would think that the best friend of Harry Potter would be immensely popular, but it was the other way around. Another thing Hermione knew was that people would rather peek over her shoulder to find out an answer then ask her opinion on a subject and engage her in conversation. Every time she saw someone approach her, it was a constant struggle inside of her, a constant let down when they just wanted homework help, which always meant that they wanted her to do their work for them.

She knew that there was a level of respect her professors showed to her, and her alone. She received a feeling of vindication knowing that her intellect was impacting the world and those around her.

Still, though, her heart beat fast to find some kind of commonality with someone her age. She shared Harry’s bravery and Ron’s anger, at times, and that seemed to be all. She could never push herself to engage in the outrageous activities and gossip that the girls her own age got into and had no interest in the topics the boys would invariably bring up.

She knew that, while reading was her passion, it was always her greatest distraction. She found a comfort in her books, the written word providing her a safe haven to fall into. She also knew that some things that were written were only make believe. Sure, hen she had been a little girl, she had read books about magic and had been told it was make believe, only to be proven wrong later on. Maybe that was what pushed her; what drove her to be the best witch that she could possibly be.

It was the desire to turn something false into truth, into something she could grasp and hold onto, a tangible thought and will of power, because no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t really hold onto magic.

No one could ball up magic in their fist, grasp it to their chest, and not let go, even though there were those who tried.

She knew she was an outcast and that would bother almost any girl her age, but it didn’t bother her. She almost preferred for people to leave her alone. It gave her more time to think and analyze situations and people. No one would ever guess the thoughts that went through her head. She knew her mind was an enigma, something even her best friends couldn’t understand.

This brought her to Harry and Ron. She knew that they cared for her. Nothing Malfoy, or the other Slytherins said could make her feel differently. She knew that they loved her in their own fashion, their own individual way. Harry was the closest thing to a sibling she had ever known, a constant life line throughout the turmulent years between childhood and adulthood. He had managed to keep her sane through so many trials and in turn she had kept him alive. It was a unique bond, moving their relationship past an ordinary friendship and into something else, yet never crossing over into anything sexual.

Then there was Ron. She had always thought he was cute, in a harmless way, and that was why she always teased him, going all the way back to that first day on the train when she had told him he had dirt on his nose. She hated to admit it, even in the confines of her mind, but Ron was too thick to realize her obvious feelings for him and that hurt her, because she was unwilling to change for him and become the whimpering, ego-stroking floozy that Lavender Brown was. Lavender was the kind of girl Ron needed, a girl short on sustenance and long on some indefinable quality that made her attractive to guys. It was a quality Hermione did not posses and Hermione knew it was something she could never garner for herself.

Because Hermione had the cruel ability to be able to admit to herself that she was not a pretty girl.

That wasn’t to say that she was like Millicent Bullstrode, who was more of a man then anything else. Or like Pansy Parkinson, who was more a dog than anything else. But she wasn’t delicate like Luna; she wasn’t fiercely beautiful like Ginny; she wasn’t hot like Lavender; and she wasn’t exotic like the Patil twins or Cho Chang. She was just average. She wouldn’t even call herself cute. She was just a normal girl, with normal features, normal skin, and a normal body.

The only outlandish feature she had was her hair, which she usually tried to keep under wraps.

No. Hermione Granger was not a pretty girl.

She knew she shouldn’t be bothered by it, and the only way to succeed in life was to adopt a thick skin, but she couldn’t help but hate the fact that even Neville didn’t look at her twice. She was convinced, or had convinced herself, that Viktor Krum had only been interested in her because she treated him like a person. She had treated him as if he had something intelligent to say, and occasionally he would actually surprise her with a smart comment about the world and how the atmosphere of the wizarding world was becoming an uneasy one.
He would surprise her sometimes, but it just hadn’t been enough to keep her interested. She needed someone who was going to work at pleasuring her, body, mind and soul. She was a trifecta, a girl that that needed more then just a handsome face or a sharp mind or a beautiful soul.

Maybe she was greedy but she wanted a man like her, who possessed her traits.

It wasn’t likely that she was going to find that at Hogwarts anytime soon.


*


It was night time. Soft, dark light spilled over the grounds of Hogwarts, trying to worm its way into the bricks and crevesses of the castle, trying to spill into the empty hallways to dance through the abandoned air.

Hermione walked through the castle, doing her rounds as Prefect. Ron had bagged off his shift and so she was by herself, making sure no one was out of bed. She didn’t feel sleepy but she did feel tired.

There was restlessness building in her legs. She got like this sometimes at night. She looked longingly around her and sighed. The castle felt like a prison built just for her.

How she longed to run out of the front doors and down the stairs, down the worn path that lead to Hagrid’s hut and into the Forbidden Forest behind, to use the corded muscles in her legs that she had gotten from years of running around her relatives’ French country estate. She longed to loose herself in the night air, in the moonlight, and worship the Gods of old as They had once intended to be worshipped.

She sighed once more. It was a foolish, romantic notion. There were creatures in that forest that would eat her with no second thought, beasts that surely craved the taste of human flesh.

She started walking upwards towards the Astronomy tower. She had to walk up there and see if any other students had gotten any romantic notions themselves. Sex under the stars, atop the highest part of Hogwarts seemed to thrill and excite the older students.

The idea was enough to give Hermione a nosebleed.

She walked almost dejectedly. It wasn’t that she wasn’t romantic, as her wishful thinking had just proven. It was just that she was sensible, logical. Rutting like animals on the hard stone of the Astronomy tower where anyone could walk up and see you, naked, in the biting cold did not seem like a good idea.

She rubbed at her eyes. Who was she kidding? Of course she wanted a boy to take her up there and whisper in her ear. Of course she wanted a boy to press his lips against hers, to slide his hands up her shirt and feel her skin, to tell her she was beautiful.

She was just insanely realistic.

It was a world she didn’t belong to, a light that would never shine on her, something that she would never glimpse. As she opened up the door to the tower and stepped up on the platform used for stargazing, she looked up and felt even more alone. A tiny knot of frustration and discontent rolled through her stomach. She wouldn’t let it bother her, she just wouldn’t. Still, she felt the tiniest of pricks at the corners of her eyes where she knew tears were threatening to spill. She stubbornly held her breath and blinked furiously.

She would not cry, not over this.

The wind picked up and she wrapped her arms around herself, looking towards the Forbidden Forest. She wanted to run away so badly.

Hermione had never been a quitter, though, and these fatalistic thoughts bordered on quitting.

She was going to ride this one out.

Hermione stood with her back to the door and so she didn’t see the figure slowly creeping onto the observation platform. She had been so distracted that she had left the door open, a careless oversight she was not used to making. She continued to stare out of the grounds of Hogwarts, occasionally lifting her eyes to the stars, unaware of her benevolent watcher.

He made sure that he hid himself fully in the darkness, cloaking himself with shadows so she wouldn’t see him if she happened to turn around. He felt foolish watching her like this, reducing himself to a mindless, restless ghost. The fact that it was her, above all others, also disturbed him. She had become his silent obsession and he knew that it was unhealthy. Even if his intentions for her were pure, he knew his spying and covetous glances were not.

He teased her, was cruel to her, and said he hated her, and still his heart beat wildly for her. He watched the way she moved with a permenant sneer of disgust on his face, when all he wanted to do was crush her to him and take those ripe, full lips and press them against his own. She moved with a grace and dignity that even some of the oldest Purebloods could never have possessed. She was fluid in not only her movements but her speech and thoughts as well. She was forgiving and kind; smart and yet she had a fierce sense of humor that took people by surprise.

His jaw still tingled when he thought about the punch she had given him in third year. She had looked so fierce, so determined, her hair streaming wildly from her face, her amber eyes narrowed in anger, her face flush with emotions.

He desired her like he had never desired anyone before.

He recognized, in some deep, dark part of his being, that he wanted to own her and make her his. He couldn’t stomach the thought of another man touching her and thanked the Gods that her intellect scared off the few brave souls stupid enough to talk to her. It also made him realize that Potter and Weasely finally served a purpose.

Maybe she didn’t realize it, but they served as a twisted form of bodyguards, and many wizards at Hogwarts were too afraid to go near her because of them. If it wasn’t her intellect frightening wizards away, it was the Doubtful Duo.

He watched her wrap her arms around her body and shivered himself. What he wouldn’t give to be those arms, holding her as they looked over the beautiful, rolling green fields, his lips near her ear as he whispered to her, telling her how beautiful she was, how unique, how inspiring.

It made him sick to his stomach, this emotional attachment he felt towards her.

She was the only thing that felt real, the only thing in this damnable world that held weight. She lived and breathed with her emotions on her shirt front, her heart bared and bleeding for everyone to see. Yet she was fierce too, a warrior princess that stood up for causes that were lost and people who would later forsake her. She was a savior, but unlike Potter she didn’t rub it in anyone’s face.

She was also beyond beautiful. Those eyes that flashed amber and deep, like thousand year old resin that had crystallized into the barks of trees. Her mouth was red and ripe, ready for kissing, her cheeks ruddy against her creamy complexion. Her body was naturally trim and toned, her baby fat having melted off as she had gotten older.

He desired her and there was nothing he could do about that.

The night breeze carried a sharp, staccato sound to his ears. It sounded like she was crying. He paused and tried to stop breathing, straining his ears to hear more in the quiet dark. There it was again, a sharp intake of breath followed by a soft moan.

She was crying.

He realized that this was far too private and personal for him to be witnessing. Hermione was one of the toughest people he knew and to see her at her weakest was disrespectful. He began to back up, trying to make as little noise as possible. If he allowed himself to admit it, it almost pissed him off that she was crying. She was stronger then this, she was able to handle anything that life threw at her.

He was so busy concentrating on not being heard that he wasn’t paying attention to where his feet were. He was walking with his hand stretched out behind him, trying to feel for the door, when he lost his footing on a loose brick. His heels got caught in his robe as he tried to avoid making any noise, but he figured that the jig was already up. He cursed softly to himself as he finally found his footing, knowing that Hermione must now be aware of his presence.

Sure enough, when he looked up, Hermione’s amber eyes were narrowed in anger at him, her tears continuing to make silent tracks down her cheeks. She said nothing to him as they stood across from each other, the Astronomy Tower filled with a crackling level of tension.

Hermione refused to look away from Draco’s silver gaze, unwilling to let him get the upper hand.

“Granger,” Draco nodded at her and turned to leave, silently berating himself. He should have left when he had the chance. He had reached the open door when her voice called back to him, stopping him in his tracks.

“Do you enjoy it, Malfoy?”

He turned to look at her, his own eyes narrowed, but in question instead of anger. “Do I enjoy what?”

He was surprised when she began to stalk towards him, coming close enough for him to kiss, her face shoved into his. From here he could see that she had clearly been upset for a while, as her face was blotchy and puffy, her eyes rimmed with red and her lips having looked like they had been bitten almost clean through.

“Do you enjoy seeing people at their weakest? Do you derive some sick pleasure from watching people crumble? Because you seem to really enjoy tearing people down,” Draco just watched her, unable to answer her question. There were so many things racing through his mind. Surely she most know that the face he showed to the Wizarding world wasn’t who, or what, he was. She was a smart witch, possibly the smartest ever. She had to know this.

He clenched his jaw tight as she searched his face for an answer. She finally sighed, a tiny dejected sound that made his heart clench. “I guess you do.” She brushed past him then and began to walk towards the door way.

“Don’t think you know everything, Granger. Even you are wrong sometimes.” That caused her to stop moving and slowly turn back to face him. There was something in his eyes that gave her pause. They stared at each other across the space of heart beats, a silent understanding seeming to pass between them. There was a haunted look in his eyes, a look that said he knew what it felt like to have others think certain things about him, to have misconceptions about him that he couldn’t change.

She knew her eyes held a similar look and it was very disconcerting to think that they might be thinking the same thing. Time seemed to stretch as she stared into his eyes, until the silence was so loud that a buzzing had started in her ears.

“What would you know about it, Malfoy?” She asked, rolling her eyes at him. His jaw tightened and tension fled his body, the breath he was unconsciously holding leaving his body.

“I know what they say about you,” he whispered, watching Hermione’s eyes widen in the dark. “And they’re wrong.” With that cryptic remark, he swept past her, hurrying as far away from her incriminating eyes as he could.

What had he just done?


*

Please review. I'm going to try and answer reviews with this one.