This was the last time, he had promised himself, pounding the hallways with an excitement and expectancy that near shocked him. The very last time.
But now, here, as she stood, a figure in a flimsy white bathrobe that pressed to her body, outlining her smooth back and curving hips, gorgeous thighs and ass, he pledged against everyone who tried to impose his better good, everyone who told him who he was and what he did and the things he believed in. He pledged that as long as he lived he would love Hermione Granger.
He paused, quick, before she sensed him, and he breathed. In through the nose, out through the mouth, as shivers ran down and up his spine and along the back of his arms. The breeze from the open window blew at her wild hair.
He loved her hair.
Suddenly, like by magic (Draco thought everything about her was like magic, not that he would ever admit a Mudblood like her was magical in any aspect), she turned and she gasped (She was the first thing he had ever heard truly gasp; before he had never thought people really did gasp to such an extent as you were made to believe) and she fell back, sitting slightly against the window, skin allowing to the frame that must be digging into her, her hands going to the edge, shot straight down, light-skinned and narrow and grasping.
He had known her so long, but never had he known her so well. This, right here, he thought, was who she was, not the girl screaming for recognition in a class, or laughing with her friends, or eating in the Great Hall (Come to think of it she hadn't been eating lately, was that because of him?), or smiling at the other boys who noticed her breasts and her pretty face.
"Oh, God--" She always called for God; did she still believe in God? "--No, please."
He wanted to smile but was abruptly overcome with emotion, of need and happiness and love. Above all love. The emotion went beyond simple facial expressions.
"Hi Granger," he said, and it felt like a gift, something precious, to say that to her, to here, to himself, while everyone else was somewhere else and she had just been standing there thinking (About him?). And now he could know her as he had always wanted to know her. It was beautiful, it was fantastic, looking at her in the clean white light. "How are you?"
Her face was contorting, a mixture of anger and fear and both mental and physical exhaustion, and everything was shaking and her eyes looked wet and glazed (She looked so beautiful).
Her mouth struggled to move and her tongue to work and her vocal cords to vocalize some warning or swearword (Fuck you, who the hell do you think you are?) or just a question (Why are you doing this to me, I never hurt you). Her voice failed her and she turned back to the opening in the wall. He knew her eyes were crazy for somewhere to go, looking outside, desperate outside.
They were six floors up.
She would jump.
He loved how she would jump, just for him.
Her body was tense and her feet only had their toes to the floor, in danger, in recklessness, in devastation.
He breathed, in through the nose and out through the mouth, and then he couldn't take this anymore, this need, this happiness, this love, and he went to her.
He was rougher than he meant to be on her arms: It didn't take much to pry her off the windowsill, to turn her and himself around and shove them together-- one being quarrelling with itself, trying to scratch and tear itself apart-- to the floor.
Draco saw her ready to scream and urged his hand tightly over her mouth, the bones in his fingers outlined and protruding and near white, avoiding teeth and sealing her lips shut as his body pinned hers down, stopping her arms but letting her legs kick him and beat him and try to break free without a chance.
His erection pressed into her, right below the stomach.
Securing her down, his free hand went to the zipper and button of his pants, quick and skillfully-- he had done this so many times, horny as all hell, with a girl under him, but this was the only time that really mattered, only with her.
He shoved up her robe (The fabric was made to be touched; maybe, impossibly made to be touched by him, just him). There was nothing underneath but her.
Her entire body was shivering violently and rejecting him and he groaned, rubbing her hips and thighs harshly and not being able to take it.
He aligned himself and thrust into her, savour coming out in fierceness. He felt like he was melting in her, all that softness and heat. He ground his teeth and shuddered as her eyes shut tight, wet streams running in crossing directions down her reddening cheeks.
He let loose her arms as he drove into her, harder, deeper, faster, and her hands moved like they were drugged, like it was taking her time to realize that she could ball them into fists, to punch at his back, to claw at his face and sides. Her nails dragged his skin in the sweetest pain; he ground her into the stone floor, imagining her shoulder blades and spine hurting and bruising.
He made love to her while she was raped.
Moaning, loving her, he came and came and came and near collapsed.
Heart beating fast, faster than he had thought it could ever beat, his hand moved from her face and her searing pink lips parted, no use for a fight, why struggle when it was over and she was done in for, she was gone?
He adjusted himself and zipped his pants, fixed the button, watched as her limbs sprawled out, dejected and lifeless. She sobbed openly, in front of him, without modesty, for the first time in all the times he had come at her, all the times he had fucked her in the library and in a broom closet and behind the Quidditch stands and she had screamed and fought without use, without progress, without chance.
He knew that she hadn't told anyone and he knew why.
He leaned over her, on his hands and knees, and kissed her, lightly, tenderly, adoringly, on the cheek, then on the forehead, then on the mouth.
He stood shakily and he looked at her, at her disheveled robe and her face and her throat as she gathered her broken strength and risked retaliation after so much violation as she asked, "Why?"
And he smiled, feeling blessed, because of the happiness, because of the need, and he said, "I love you."
And above all, with everything he faked and pretended set aside, with everything he knew or thought he knew, he did love her and he always would. And that was really all that mattered.