The Challenge: Create a Dramione one-shot centered around this quote and its idea:
"I could easily forgive his pride, if he had not mortified mine." ~Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice
A/N: I wanted the theme to come out a bit more subtly, and this is the first time I've taken a challenge like this.
Please let me know how you think it turned out and my Tumblr ask box is open again to recommendations. :)
When an Unstoppable Force Meets an Immovable Object
If there was one thing Draco Malfoy hated, it was fucking Muggle Studies. Professor Burbage, that old, ratty bat, never stopped blabbing on about how fascinating the stupid creatures were. Worthless, if you asked him. His father had a cellar full of them, and they never met his eyes. It was so easy to hate them, so easy to despise how little fight they gave.
Nothing but a bunch of filth producing more filth. Who gives a bloody fuck if they figured out how to use electricity to communicate? Whoop-dy fucking da.
"Can anyone tell me who is credited as the creator of the telephone?" Professor Burbage asked, her eyes immediately going to her favorite pupil.
Draco drew his attention away from the paper plane he was making (the only useful thing he learned in the class was paper folding), tilting his head and narrowing his eyes at the girl who sat in the front of the room. Her arm was stretched straight up, robe shed from the heat of the classroom, her back curved elegantly against the material of her shirt. Her bottom was nearly lifted off the chair from her enthusiasm and he smirked, trying to make out the line of her panties.
"Anyone besides Miss Granger?" Pause. "No? Yes, then, Hermione?"
"Alexander Graham Bell in 1876, Professor. There is this classic story, you know, in American myth. It says that Watson, his sidekick of sorts, came running-"
Professor Burbage waved a thin hand, cutting her off with a smile and a swish of her multicolored robes.
"Now, Miss Granger, let's not ruin my whole lesson."
Her hand dropped into her lap.
"Sorry, Professor."
Unforgiving snickers resounded around Draco, and he immediately knew what was coming. Pansy leaned forward, pressing her chest against the desktop and sneered at Hermione, starting the whisper chorus.
"Little mudblood, raised in a cave…"
"She has a big head, but she never gave…"
"Well, maybe with Weasel, who can't get a save..."
"Poor little mudblood, poor to the grave."
Draco sat back, a small scowl crossing his lips as Pansy's face turned malicious, her eyes glinting.
She's so damn proud of that thing. I saw her sitting with the rhyming dictionary last week, for fuck's sake.
Though most of the words were below an audible murmur, he knew Hermione knew it by heart. Pansy's chant had spread like wildfire among the Slytherins, and she was hounded everywhere, even in class. It was worst when Draco was around.
He couldn't help but smirk at the irony of it.
Hermione's eyes were dark and wet as she turned to look at the back of the room, glaring at the girl sitting next to Draco. Pansy couldn't hold it in anymore and she broke out into a shrill laugh as Hermione's eyes flickered to Draco's snarling mouth. He could practically see the hot air blow out her nose as Potter grabbed her arm and turned her around, whispering something in her ear. She shoved him away, shaking her head and staring determinedly down at her book.
Pansy's ear-shattering laugh startled Professor Burbage, who had the hearing ability of someone underwater, and she jumped and pointed the huge muggle phone in her hand at the Slytherins.
"Miss Parkinson! 10 points from Slytherin! I don't know what you're laughing about, but Muggle Studies is a very important subject and shouldn't be taken lightly!"
This only resulted in the rest of the Slytherins, including Draco, breaking up into laughter. 50 points were deducted before the class settled down.
As Professor Burbage took up once again, Draco stared down at his paper airplane and fidgeted with it as an excuse not to meet Pansy's eyes. She was desperately trying to catch his attention, and he entertained the idea of pushing the pointed edge into her eye.
Stupid cow.
Deciding against physical violence in the off chance that he needed a pick-me-up fuck, he unfolded the paper and smoothed it out against the desktop. It was a page he'd ripped from the Muggle Studies book. As he was about to fold it into a scar and shoot it at Potter's head, an italicized phrase caught his eye.
"What happens when an unstoppable force meets an immovable object?"
He furrowed his brow, scanning the next few crinkled lines.
This muggle paradox…immovable object and the irresistible force are both implicitly assumed to be indestructible…two separate entities….Such an object would collapse under its own gravity…
He took the paper and folded it, shoving it into his pocket as he focused his eyes on the back of Hermione's bushy hair, letting his mind wander off.
Oh. Fuck me.
He liked the idea of the muggle paradox, of something being so great that it folded in on itself and self destructed under its own magnitude, dragging everything down to the depths with it. To have that much power, that much sway on the world. It was something his family had strived for for centuries.
Too bad it was a muggle idea. By convention, the ones drilled into him by his father and the Malfoy lineage, anything muggle-made should be disregarded. Looked down upon. Spat at. Used. Including humans. And mudbloods, Salazar forbid, were the worst. Practically a muggle invention walking and breathing in their world.
But as he stared at Hermione Granger, he couldn't get himself to hate her. She was an annoying, self-righteous know-it-all to be sure, but she wasn't the filthy women in his cellar, the ones who refused to look up. She didn't apologize for what she was.
A muggle product that wasn't so useless.
Leaning over his chair and away from Pansy, Draco grabbed his book and fanned himself, tendrils of damp hair flying off his face.
Fuck it. Must be one hundred degrees in here.
He raised an eyebrow, trying to find a muse to distract him from the heat.
Weasley was sleeping with his head propped up on his hand, a small bit of drool coming out his mouth.
Wanker.
To Weasley's right, Hermione's hand shot up again as she reached an arm back and moved her pile of curls up and off her back. Draco tilted his head to try to catch a side view of her breast as she turned her body, exposing the smooth curve of her neck. Her back arched as her hand flailed a little, and he could see her chest pressed against the fabric of her button up. He sat back, letting a breath out through his nose.
Damn.
The thing about Hermione Granger was that she never sweat, something that Draco envied as a drop of perspiration ran between his shoulder blades. That first night, on her first prefects round of the year, the humidity was ripe as she caught him out of bed. Her hair had frizzed out to monstrous levels, and he had laughed, clutching at his sides. She had been so self-righteous, her cheeks flushed pink as she yelled at him, threatening all form of house point deduction, detention and damnation if he didn't move his arse.
Looking back, Draco swears to Merlin above that he only did what he did to shut her up. Not a drop of sweat, not one hint of nervousness or break in her determination as he had kissed her, shoving her back towards a wall. Not a drop of sweat, but a different kind of salty wetness hit his lips as he realized she was crying.
She wouldn't move from blocking his path, and he wouldn't stop kissing her if she didn't.
He wanted to disgust her away.
She wanted to prove her position.
An unstoppable force.
An immovable object.
What resulted when they collided wasn't an implosion, a loss of gravity, a collapse, but an ease, a light wind, as effortless as breathing and sleeping and living.
When they met up after that night, never planned or timed or scheduled, it always started with hatred. There was anger, hurt feelings, a couple of slaps that left them breathless and red and tired.
Mudblood.
Pure-blood prat.
Know-it-all bitch.
Fucking bastard.
They were yelling, but within the angry words and harsh postures and shoving, there was truth.
He would watch her screaming, tears streaming down her face in the poorly lit corridors, raising her hands up and clutching at her hair with a pain he wasn't sure was possible inside that little bookworm.
She always complained about Weasel, always.
Just to spite her, he would complain about Pansy's inability to give him head without biting down at least once.
Sometimes, occasionally, he would get so riled up that the feelings about his family and the war would fly out, the crucios he suffered as a child, his aunt's visits in the night, covered in blood, a muggle ripped apart in tow.
Those nights hurt the worst. The next morning, he absolutely hated himself. He would sit up in bed, staring out the window and wondering why the fuck he'd said that to Hermione Granger, Queen of the Mudbloods, Virgin Goddess of Books.
But the story never changed. A new night would come, and there they were in the corridors, spilling everything until the words didn't mean as much as the emotions behind them.
At one critical point, every night, things would start to spin out of control.
On the verge of exploding, of losing all sense of sanity within their endless venting and hair pulling, one of them would kiss the other. They would always kiss, and the effortlessness of the action would come back. Thought escaped. It was fluid, touch met for touch, sometimes calming and gentle and other times heated and rough.
She was a drug. A fucking drug. The calmest high. When his father berated him, when his mother cried, he imagined kissing her and the calm that settled through him. It was turmoil and quietness, hatred and the ability to forget.
But he didn't owe her anything.
Malfoys take, and they certainly don't give back.
Professor Burbage tapped her wand on the desk and a bell sounded, snapping him out of his thoughts.
"Class dismissed. Don't forget to read chapter 24 on electricity and muggle uses for next time! Essays due on my desk at the beginning of class!"
Her words were drowned out as the students stood, loud clattering filling the room as they gathered their books and rushed towards the Great Hall and a promising lunch. Draco watched Hermione stand, shrugging off Potter's arm as he tried to grab for her. She snatched her heavy bag and slung it over her shoulder, eyes downcast and determined as she walked out of the classroom, shoving past Draco.
"Drakey, let's get lunch," Pansy said, blocking his view of the doorway as she sat on the desk in front of him, flicking her hair and crossing her legs in a way he assumed was supposed to be sultry.
"No, I'm not hungry," he grumbled, standing and peering over her shoulder. Hermione was gone.
"Come on, you weren't at breakfast this morning," she cooed.
"No."
"Please, Draco, I haven't seen you-"
"For fuck's sake, drop it, Pansy. You're not getting into my pants by getting me to eat. Better luck next time."
Draco ignored the haughty puff and small tantrum that followed as he walked past her and out the door, heading down towards the more deserted corridors. He let out a frustrated sigh, shifting uncomfortably to get his sticky shirt off his back.
Should've stabbed her in the eye.
He continued down the corridors, moving between the cool reprieves of the school's shadows and the sweltering sunlight streaming through the windows. Twirling his wand between his fingers lazily, he took several random turns, hoping to Salazar that Pansy hadn't followed him.
It was nice to get lost in Hogwarts sometimes.
His best company was himself, anyways.
But he wasn't alone today. When he turned another corner, Hermione Granger was there, her arms crossed. She was staring directly at him, her cheeks bright pink, the heat radiating off her body palpable.
She was livid.
She had been waiting for him.
But she was breaking their unspoken rule. It was broad daylight, bright enough for him to see the flecks of gold in her eyes, the blonde undercurrents in her hair.
It was so off-limits.
It was so fucking delicious.
Draco tilted his head and smirked, pulling on his tie to loosen it in the sweltering humidity.
"Something up your arse, Granger?"
"You…you! How can you associate with such a, such a foul creature?"
Well, she's certainly not wasting time.
She needed the vent, and the idea fascinated Draco. He was the one who usually sought her out on rounds, and she only ever let loose after he'd talked himself to exhaustion.
He found himself wondering just how immovable she was.
"What are you blathering on about? Parkinson?"
Hermione threw her hands up in the air, scowling.
"Who else would I be talking about? Her and her stupid little poem! She thinks she's so clever, that it's actually getting under my skin-"
Draco raised a pale eyebrow.
"Well, clearly it is under your skin. And I don't know, I thought the thing was rather catchy. What ingenious rhyming. Maybe they'll put it to a tune."
"You stupid prat, how can you defend her?" She was more incensed than before, her voice rising in pitch as she walked toward him. They were a foot away now, and he stared down at her, the height difference unnoticed by the fiery little Gryffindor.
This was the game they played, the dance they choreographed, the vicious cycle and circle that Draco found himself hard pressed to get out of.
Step one: Taunting
"Well, fuck, Granger, maybe if you didn't let the cow get under your skin so easily it wouldn't be an issue! Didn't you ever learn from your more bushy-haired days?" He tugged on one of her curls and she slapped his hand away.
"I remember a certain arse hexing my teeth!"
"I did you a favor, those things were fucking monstrous. Looked like a beaver, I was about to send you off to live in the forest and chew down trees."
Hermione let out a frustrated growl and shoved Draco in the chest. He stumbled back a step before catching himself and walking over to her, his eyes narrowed dangerously.
Step two: piss Draco off.
"I hate you, I hate you, how could you say such ignorant things?" She was screaming now, and Draco knew that she was nearing her breaking point unbelievably fast, hot tears growing in her eyes.
He felt a sudden weariness, a sudden need to go and actually stab Pansy in the eye.
"Take a seat, Granger."
He pushed her backwards and she nearly fell, her knees hitting the edge of a bench hard enough that her legs buckled. She landed on the marble and he was there in an instant, propping one leg up next to her and leaning an arm against it. She glared up at him, a small sniffle betraying her.
"Listen here, Granger, because I'm only going to say this once. Parkinson is going to be a cheap whore when she's older. I'm not taking the piss, either; she thinks it'll get her in the lap of someone loaded with galleons. Also, I'm fairly certain her parents dropped her on the head as a child. For the love of Salazar, off the top of your head, what rhymes with cave?"
Hermione opened her mouth, the words spilling out mechanically.
"Monosyllables are brave, crave, knave, pave, shave, slave, waive, wave, and then if you go into disyllables, you have behave, concave, deprave, engrave, enslave, forgave, and finally the trisyllables misbehave and-"
"Ok, shut up, Granger. Fucking hell, do you read the rhyming dictionary in your free time? Anyways, I think my point has been proven. It took Parkinson almost a week to write that stupid chant and all she could come up with is gave, save, and grave."
Hermione stared up at him, her eyes wet. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the corners of her lips turned up.
Ah shit.
This was most definitely not step three. Like any normal night, Draco should have insulted her again, which would result in her first snap back at him. Insults would fly from both parties amid a huge cacophony of frustrated screaming. No, this step did not involve anyone smiling. If anything, it was the most hate filled.
Draco wondered very briefly if the daytime had changed something, if the ability to actually see Hermione and the damage that she had endured made things different.
He felt incredibly uncomfortable, because through all their nights of screaming and breaking things, they had fallen into an unspoken understanding.
It was a coping mechanism, a way to break away from real life, and he needed it as much as he needed to breathe and eat and sleep.
And fuck it all, despite himself, Draco felt a bit too protective about the little mudblood.
He had to get off this line of thinking. Moving on…
"But you're still an annoying know-it-all with bushy hair."
Her smile dropped and she rolled her eyes, going to stand.
Step four: the kiss.
He ran a hand over his sweaty forehead and leaned his head down, his lips meeting hers lightly as her eyes fluttered closed.
Ugh, that fucking feeling. It was sleeping and eating and breathing and the greatest fuck of his life rolled into one touch.
It was bliss and he was an addict, craving and waiting.
The heat had dissipated from Hermione's body and she parted her lips as she took a breath, stealing the air from him. His hand snaked around her waist and lifted her slightly off the bench, pressing her closer, wanting more. She tasted so fresh, a breath of spring air, and he let her take all of him as her hands pressed against his sides.
This wasn't what he wanted to happen.
This kiss was so different. They had completely fallen off their path despite his attempt to pull them back. There were no steps and no corridor, no Hogwarts, nothing else.
This was soft, this was gentle.
This wasn't so much nothingness as too much of…something.
Draco wanted to pull back, wanted to hurt her for making him feel this way.
But even more than that, he hated himself that he couldn't stop.
So he just didn't.
"Oi! HEY! Draco, the fuck, man?"
Shit. Shit. SHIT.
Draco pulled back, instinct taking over as he grabbed the fabric of Hermione's shirt and pushed her back against the wall. She let out a little scream as her head cracked back, a couple swear words leaking from her mouth.
Blaise Zabini, Theodore Nott, Crabbe, Goyle, and Pansy all stood at the end of the corridor, various expressions of bewilderment on their faces. Pansy looked furious, her hands balled at her sides.
Draco Malfoy had a few seconds to react, and his mind worked furiously. It was the deciding moment.
Forget that smile.
Damn that moment of understanding.
They had broken the rules and been caught, and this time the world would fall in under their gravity. They'd crashed too hard, and the unstoppable force was about to decimate the immovable object.
When it came down to loyalties, Draco Malfoy was a Slytherin.
Draco Malfoy was a Malfoy.
And nothing runs thicker than blood except for reputation.
"Something you'd like to say?" Draco drawled, glancing at the Slytherin group and pulling Hermione off the bench by her shirt.
"You were kissing her. What the fuck is going on?" Theo asked, his hooded eyes dark.
Draco rolled his eyes, keeping his gaze away from Hermione. She was trembling under his hand, a mixture of defiance and horror that he didn't want to see.
It would get worse.
"Did you see her in class, gents? Fucking little know-it-all." He shoved her back into the nearest wall, his face masked in contempt as she let out a small groan. "I had to follow her and show the mudblood her place."
"I'm a prefect! You can't just do this!" Hermione said hotly beside him.
Crabbe and Goyle let out low snickers, but the others weren't convinced. Yet.
"You were kissing her, Draco!" Pansy exploded, her face almost as red as Hermione's.
"I was tormenting her, you slag. Do you know anything, really?" Draco gritted, ignoring Hermione's attempts to squirm out from under his arm. He was so much stronger. It wasn't fair at all. "You have to break their spirit."
"She is a bit proud of herself, isn't she?" Blaise mumbled, and Draco smirked, turning back to Hermione.
Her eyes were dark. Smart girl, her brain had already decoded what was happening. What side he took. Draco tilted his head and pressed his body into hers, nipping at her earlobe.
"You didn't want it, did you, little mudblood?" he mumbled loud enough for the others to hear.
"Get the hell off of me, you disgusting ferret."
Crabbe and Goyle let out low "ooohhhs," and Draco shoved her back painfully before moving his lips to hers, pressing a soft kiss there before biting down hard on her bottom lip. She let out a little yelp, and Draco heard Theo laugh. His tongue flicked out, his mind hazy as he sucked on the small dribble of blood there before pulling back and spitting, catching his friend's eyes.
"Tastes like filth."
He had Pansy. She laughed, and the others joined in, stepping closer.
Draco was on a high, and such a different kind of high it was. He was drunk off of their attention, his mind blank, and god, he didn't want to stop.
"Get off of me, Draco," Hermione said, her voice a little more desperate. She was trying to catch his eyes. He grunted and pushed her back once more.
"It's Malfoy to you, mudblood," he snarled.
The others were getting more bold, especially Pansy. She walked straight up to them, tugging on a piece of Hermione's hair. Hermione didn't make a noise this time, but her eyes were wet, the flecks of gold watery.
"You think you're hot shit, don't you, Granger? You mudbloods aren't even built right, all scrawny," Pansy taunted, pressing her ample chest against Draco's back and kissing his damp shoulder.
"At least I'm not a whore."
The words were almost too low to hear.
"Excuse me?" Pansy snapped, her eyes drilling holes into Hermione's head.
Hermione took a breath and stared back defiantly, tears threatening to spill in her eyes.
"I said at least I'm not a whore."
The reaction was immediate and violent. Blaise and Theo tried to grab for Hermione, but Draco shoved them back as Pansy let out a deafening shriek. Crabbe and Goyle guffawed a few feet away, cracking their knuckles.
Draco had to get the situation under control without losing face.
He did it without thinking, grabbing his wand and ripping Hermione's shirt down the middle, exposing a black bra that had seen its better days. He grabbed her hip, his other hand pinning her arms together as his fingers slipped over smooth skin. He maneuvered Hermione in front of Pansy.
Hermione was shaking, trying to look over her shoulder.
"Dra-Malfoy, please, stop, don't do this-"
He yanked her arms together hard, causing her to stumble and hit his chest.
"Shut up," he hissed in her ear, and then louder, "Would you calm the fuck down, Pansy? Look at her. She's built like a muggle, a mudblood. Soft, made to tempt and tease and seduce. Who would really want her?"
Pansy's eyes glinted maliciously, her anger falling under control as she tapped a finger under Hermione's chin, forcing her to look up.
"Can't even built you right, can they?" Her eyes scanned Hermione's body disdainfully, and Draco was glad he had turned her away. "Nice bra, Granger, did the Weasleys make it for you? It's about up to their standards."
There was another chorus of laughter and Draco joined in, his mind blissfully vacant.
He couldn't stop.
He pushed Hermione back against the wall again, and she let out a muffled scream, parts embarrassment and horror.
"What do you say we see if her knickers match, eh, gents?" Draco drawled, running his fingertips over Hermione's thigh. She trembled under his touch, and he saw something glint on her forehead in the sunlight. One drop of sweat.
How strange.
As his hands moved up to her skirt, Draco caught her eyes for the first time since the torment had begun.
She hated him. Absolutely hated him. It shone through so clearly that he wanted to look away, but once again, spurned by the laughter and calls of encouragement, he couldn't stop.
Staring straight into her eyes, he began to mumble.
"Little mudblood, raised in a cave…"
She stared back at him, her eyes narrowing as she took a breath through her nose.
"She has a big head, but she never gave…"
His hands traveled over her bottom and Theo whistled.
"Well, maybe with Weasel, who can't get a save..."
"I hate you, Draco Malfoy…" she muttered between a shuddering gasp of air and he smirked.
"Poor little mudblood, poor to the grave."
The tears flowed over and she started to cry as his fingers dipped under the edge of her skirt.
His brain cleared as her fingers caught his.
And Draco Malfoy stopped.
He stepped away from Hermione, dropping his grip. She refused to look at him as she pulled the ripped remains of her shirt together and picked up her discarded wand and bag. In a moment she was sprinting down the hall and around the corner.
"Why'd you let her go?" Theo asked, still chuckling to himself.
"Just leave her," Draco said, running a hand through his hair.
Fuck.
"Aww, poor little Granger might be scarred for a bit after that," Pansy cooed.
Draco lost it. He shoved Pansy back into the same wall, and she screamed, her eyes wide.
"Shut up, you fucking, worthless little bint," he managed to snarl before Blaise and Theo pulled him away.
"What the hell is wrong with you, Draco?" Blaise called, shoving him away.
Draco ignored them, grabbing his bag and turning on his heel. They called after him, but he refused to look back.
The rest of the day he spent holed up in his room.
The next morning, Draco Malfoy hated himself more than he ever had in his whole life.
He waited in the corridors every night.
She never came, changing her round scheduled.
He sent owls.
She never responded, burning them letters immediately.
He watched her in class.
She never made eye contact.
And they graduated Hogwarts the next year without one more word between them.
The day they graduated, he sent her a flower.
And the next day.
And the next.
And the next.
A single dragon lily every morning for five and a half years.
Then, one day, Draco didn't send it.
It was the morning of his mother's funeral. She was a causality of an Order massacre, a senseless murder in an unending war, and while her frail body was lowered into the ground outside Malfoy Manor, Draco cried so hard he thought the world would swallow him whole.
When he looked up, everyone was gone. His father had disappeared to mourn in his own way: with booze and a whore.
Everyone but one person.
To his surprise, there she was. Hermione Granger, leaning against one of the trees in a bright red dress, a Daily Prophet hanging from her left hand. His mother's face plastered the first page. She dropped it, the sunshine catching the glint of gold in her eyes.
She lifted her right hand.
One dragon lily.
Draco took a shuddering breath and took it from her, feeling a light breeze ruffle his hair as their fingers touched, a calm he hadn't felt for years.
He walked over to the grave and laid it gently on his mother's headstone before kissing the marble and stepping back.
When he turned, Hermione's lips were pulled up into a small smile.
Maybe something was thicker than blood after all.