He dreaded the very sight of her. She made him want to purge. Everything about her just made him sick. And still, by some calamity, all he wanted to do was press his lips fiercely with hers and to disregard all the foolish logic his father had bestowed upon him. A part of him knew this would never happen. He knew they would hate each other forever. Nevertheless, for right now, all he wanted was this moment that had been recurring in his head to finally play out, to be more than a forged memory.
He had been wanting this for much longer than he would ever admit to. It was not her looks that had captured him but her unseen arrogance. She was just like him, stubborn and led by an impulse, and that is why, when he grabbed her wrist in the corridor just a few moments earlier, he had said what he had.
She was still furious with him from a double period during Potions. Secretly, he knew she enjoyed every minute of it. They did nothing but argue and for some strange reason, it made them even more attracted to each other. Potter and Weasley would not have understood if they had told them. So instead, after this little incident, they decided that it would be the end of their severe romance. Lust is nothing but an addiction and neither of them was willing to fall. Instead, they would snog relentlessly, never going too far but far enough for the likes of both.
She walked briskly past him. Draco's eyes following her pale wrist swaying next to her hip, slowly, ever so slowly. Almost as if, as if it was asking for it.
He captured it within his grasp, without hesitation, and pulled her near him. Her breath stuck to his neck. He would not have dared to if the corridor was anything but empty.
Her eyes, furious as ever, pierced him almost enough to hurt.
She then loudly yelled, "Malfoy!"
"What – is – your – problem?" she questioned him, exaggerating every syllable.
A smirk appeared on his light features but within a moment, he dropped it, hoping she would continue in her rage. He always loved it when the filthy Mud-blood went on one of her rampages and her billowing, wild hair made her irresistible. Although, when they were a tad younger, she looked more like a banshee than a seductress.
And to his joy, she did. She hollered, screamed, yelled in his face, his grip on her wrist remaining firm. She used her other hand animatedly, throwing it around the air wildly. She then brought it back to slap him across the face but this was his cue to intervene. He grasped her other wrist.
"Fuck this. I want you."
And those were five words that changed everything, at least, for the next few minutes.
She suddenly grew weak and he used this as an advantage and pushed her up against the opposite wall. Still gripping her wrists, he kissed her wildly; on her lips, collarbone, cheeks, forehead, and soon she was too. Shirts were tearing, hands were traveling, and teeth were biting until slowly and steadily, he came to a halt and backed away from her.
He did not dare look up into her eyes. He already knew what the expression would be. He would not allow himself to fall for her and that was how it would be.
Draco often questioned himself after moments such as this. There was no possible way, in such a sincere world, that the two could be anything more and he had accepted that fact. It did not precisely mean that there was not hope that one day he could take her out for the dinner she deserved. Yet he knew they lived in a world where that could never happen. He was expected to succeed his father as an unwilling soldier for Lord Voldemort's growing army against the Wizarding World. Even if his father had accepted her, which he had no hope for at all, Hermione Granger would not be persuaded. She loved Potter and Weasley more than anything and her love for Draco, if that was what she felt, could never amount to anything more than this.
Perhaps one day, when the war is over, if Weasley never found the courage to marry her, Draco could find a way to be with her in a more permanent manner; however, that was a long shot within itself. Draco was not even sure if he would survive the war, if Hermione would.
For the moment, this was enough for Draco. He could see it in her chestnut brown eyes that she felt more than just lust and he was sure that she could see within the cavities of his chest that he felt the same. He laughed upon his idiocy, constantly, whenever it came across his mind, which was often. He remembered how he swore he would never fall in love with her yet found himself in complete raptures with the girl. This frighteningly controlling substance she fed him was enough to drive him to the most hazardous of places, all residing within the corners of his delicate heart, which she had stolen.
Draco was tired of lying just to catch his breath. Yet each time he perjured himself, he found himself excusing his behavior as a necessary doing to not only protect himself but to protect those in harm of his future endeavors he may commit during the war. He would not risk her life. The Dark Lord would betray as easily as he would defend his supporters, even if they were his most devoted followers. Draco would not be able to live with himself if he were the reason for her death. He would not be able to bear it.
He has had dreams about it, nightmares really. He pictured her, standing over the ones she had lost. His fingertips, inching closer and closer to caress her shoulder, reaching far and wide yet he cannot seem to grasp her. It is as though she is part of the wind, a solitary being that he could not possess.
When she becomes aware of his presence there, she slowly turns around. Her facial palette disfigured by the damages of his fellow Death-Eaters. Scars from time and wear are etched permanently upon her once porcelain skin.
And she says to him, in every nightmare, she says, "I cannot bear to look at your face for that face is the very one that has scarred mine."
He always awakens moments after this, face blanketed with sweat, dripping from his brow.
And so, as an alternative, he let his eyes burn a hole through her back every moment they had Potions together. He continued to be the wicked man he knew he could be one day, in the stead of his father, yet one day was coming soon and soon would come the war that would define him as such.
It was strange that he would allow himself such an addiction. He liked to say he did not want her; yet every time he passed her within the very same corridor he could not help but to smell her perfume calling him, her eyes ripping the clothes right off his body. And this was how it was every time: he was always left desperate and wanting.
Always desperately wanting.