Title: The Darkest Nights

Author: MrsRobot

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters and receive no profit from this work.

Warnings: Triggers – read at your own discretion; rated M for a reason.

Author's Note: Please do not kill me, I only mean well. Also, please review.

Summary: Draco Malfoy falls under a Mudblood's spell just as a chandelier falls on top of her.

I remember the way you looked at me,

And the way you drew me close with one deep sigh,

Scattering pieces of my restless mind,

Forgetting all that we left behind.

/As I Lay Dying, 2005, Shadows are Security/

The first time she is in his house, he hates her. He always has. Mudblood, filth, abomination, and so much more he could come up with. That first time, they are not alone – she has her friends with her and he has his all around him. He supposes friends is too personal of a term, Death Eaters is more accurate. He isn't happy to see her and he can tell that she sure isn't happy to see him either. She never has and never will be.

He hates her. He always has. But when they ask him to identify her, he hesitates, he stutters, he fails to give her properly away. He just doesn't understand.

She is in his house, yet Father always said that Mudbloods were not welcome in the Manor. And here he is, begging Draco to identify Hermione Granger, the filthiest of filthy Mudbloods. So he just gawks, and frowns and shuts up, fading into the background as everything unrolls around him. Spells are cast, curses are uttered and Mudbloods are tortured. Mother's embrace is too tight and he can't do anything – curse, flee, help, nothing – he just stays frightened in his Mother's arms like the good boy he is.

But then blood is spilt and red oozes from the girl's broken body. Red, red, drip, drip, down onto the floor. Red like cherries, red like poppies, red like his own. And he crashes and burns, all inside his own head, for he could swear that her blood looks just like his. Her blood is not brown, her blood is not dirtied, it's just red, so, so red. And when the chandelier falls on top of her, he swears he's never gazed on a scene more breathtakingly beautiful. And then she's gone, just like that – zap! – and everything goes wrong then.

He's screwed up, he's lost, he has become an abomination himself. His honour as a Malfoy gone, just with a single thought. He tries to wash it away; tries to scrub it away, tries to scorch it away but it just won't leave him. Like a plague, his whole body is affected, is taken, and he cannot rid himself of the intruder. He curses and curses her, until his throat is dry and his eyes are closed. When he is asleep, at least, he can pretend – he can pretend she isn't a Mudblood and he isn't a bloody Malfoy.

The second time he sees her in his house, he is angry. What right has this Mudblood to be in his house? After everything she has (unbeknownst to her) put him through. He laughs at her stupidity – recaptured?! – the fool! Her friends aren't here this time but his' are. The wounds from last time, barely healed, open once more. Red, red, drip, drip, down onto the floor once more. Red like cherries, red like poppies, red like his own. He stares at her form as they drag her below the house and into the dungeons. He hears her wails, her piercing screams and tries to enjoy them. He tries, but more often than not, he fails.

At some point, everyone retreats to their chambers for the night ahead. The Manor is silent and he makes sure to keep it that way. He cannot lose this opportunity, so he slithers noiselessly like the cold-blooded beast he wishes to be. Down, down, down he goes, into the dungeons, into his fantasies and into his peril.

She doesn't feel him come in but she feels his pointed stare and turns around to face him. She is on the filthy floor, where she belongs. Her blood is drying and almost looks like mud. But that doesn't stop him, nothing seems to work anymore. And then her voice invades his ears and he has lost himself – lost the battle.

'Malfoy'

'Granger'

He surrenders then. He is on her, he is in her, he is everywhere. Her screams don't get past his silencing spell and his own grunts don't travel farther either. In, out, in, out, he dirties her in the same way she has spoiled him mentally. Red, red, drip, drip, down onto the floor once more. Red like cherries, red like poppies, red like his own. When he is done, he curses her but he also swears he loves her. Words like wind, words pouring out of him onto her. She says nothing.

The feel of her is still on him, the peak reached, the longing gone. He doesn't hate her. He never could, not again. She says nothing and doesn't look at him. He understands then that he can never feel her again. Never is a long time. It burns, it hurts, it pains him like nothing before but he gets up and leaves. Only he never locks anything and he knows that she has noticed.

Before he walks away, she spares him a hateful look, resentment lining every corner of her face. But he must tell her, he must confess it – it's no point keeping it secret now.

'Now we're both filthy.'

Up, up and up he goes, and he swears that he never sees her again.