I do not own Harry Potter.

Thank you to my beta, blueskyshymoon. Without her, this would probably be filled with never-ending typos.

I always told myself that I would be different, that I would not be like the others. I always used to pride myself in knowing that I would never make the same mistakes that others would simply fall for.

I was better. I was stronger. Or so…I thought.

I look at the door, knowing that I have to get out of here. His arm is around my waist, his grip a bit too tight for my taste. I can feel his breath against my neck, the alcohol wafting up into my nose. The sharp scent was painful to my nose.

The room is too humid, and I feel clammy. It's as if I have something wedged in my throat and I want to cough, but I try my hardest not to make a sound. It is too much, this is too much.

How could I be so stupid? How could I let myself be dragged down, just like all the others? I try to carefully remove my body from his grasp, yet his hold on me only tightens further. How could this happen?

It was only supposed to be a drink. That was all.

I knew how he was, the whole Wizarding world did. Every week, the Prophet would display a picture of him with a woman, always a different one. Sometimes she would be blond, with platinum hair and a dazzling smile; other times, it would be a brunette, mysterious and enthralling at the same time. It never failed to make me laugh how these women could fall for his charm, knowing that he would kick them to the curb the morning after his fun was done, when he got bored.

I noticed that there was a pattern between the women he dated: they all were bimbos. Not that it was a pattern, per se, perhaps more of a "taste." They all seemed like airheads, probably never opened a book in their pampered lives, their shallow minds only focused on one thing: his fortune. They probably thought that they might be the one for him, the one to change his womanizing ways. Too bad he only had one thing on his mind: sex.

Every man's fantasy was to have a horde of women at his feet. Of course, there are still a few who are respectable, but not him. No, he loved it. He was a womanizer at heart; he enjoyed leading on women who were stupid enough to fall for his charm. With a little wave of his hand, they came to him like puppies.

Too bad I now fall into the category of women who have fallen for his appeal.

His hands graze my stomach and I can't help but shiver, the hairs on the back of my neck rising instantaneously. He mumbles in his sleep, a trait that I find annoying. He doesn't even say anything coherent, which made it pointless when I spent twenty minutes trying to decipher what he was mumbling about.

"Hermione."

I turn my head, only to notice that he was still asleep. My heartbeat goes back to its normal pace, the threat of having him awake enough to cause sweat to form in my forehead.

My name sounds almost hypnotic coming from his mouth. I think I had been too caught up looking at his mouth, his delectable lips, instead of paying attention to how much I was drinking. I don't usually drink, the only times where I do are typically at Christmas and New Year's celebrations. And even then, I only have one flute of champagne, at the most.

I feel as he turns his body, his arms leaving me, making me feel cold and alone. I sit up slowly, not wanting the mattress to squeak, giving away my grand exit. It would be too humiliating for him to realize that I was still here, in his flat.

It feels degrading to be searching for one's own clothes, especially in the dark. I can't stop the tears that are falling, which only makes it that much harder to see with merely the glow from the moon as light. The night looks so peaceful, the stars bright, able to be seen without a cloud in the sky. It makes me laugh quietly, seeing as how my insides feel anything but serene, my emotions going a mile a minute.

It takes me a long time to put my articles of clothing back on correctly. Even though I want to get out of here quickly, I don't want to be seen with my clothes on backwards, fully showing everyone just what I was doing the night before.

I can still feel his kisses, his hands roaming, his breath on my skin. I close my eyes, trying to put the memory, the nightmare, to the back of mind. However, it was to no avail, for the memory kept on repeating over and over again. It makes my skin crawl, knowing that I consented to all of this, knowing that I let him use me, while I used him too. The itch that I had had been taken care of, and at the moment, it had not mattered that it was him.

I look at his pale form, his blond hair sticking out in disarray, his mouth slightly open. He looks so peaceful, his chest rising and falling in even breaths.

The blankets lay forgotten, most of them hanging perilously at the edge of the bed. The pillows are on the floor, their presence too uncomfortable to remain on the bed.

I can't make myself rise from the chair that I'm currently sitting in; it's as if my legs are too numb to move. My arms feel heavy, a foreign weight to my body.

I vaguely remember him guiding me out of the pub, his hand pressed firmly against the small of my back. He kept whispering in my ear, and I kept blushing. He smiled a lot, and I thought that he had a really nice smile, more so than what pictures in magazines showed. His teeth are straight and really white, a contrast to his naturally pink lips.

I was nervous and yet excited when we got to his room, and I had wondered if he felt the same. He looked liked he knew what he was doing, and I let myself be dragged into it all.

I shake my head, wondering why I'm even bothering to think about these things. What happened happened, and I can't go back and change my actions.

I look at his form one last time before I am able to rise from the chair, but not without effort on my part. I don't do casual sex, so I know that I won't be able to forget this… him. I won't forget how his lips felt, how he touched me. This was all going to be imprinted in my mind for a very long time, even if it meant nothing to him.

I turn the doorknob quietly, opening the door, grateful when no sound came from the hinges. I smooth my skirt out, my fingers moving on their own accord. I clear my throat, the something that was stuck in there finally gone. I step a foot outside, and that's when I hear it again.

"Hermione."

I know that he's not asleep anymore, for his voice is clear and yet a little hoarse, not like the mumbling from earlier. My first name from his mouth still makes me shiver, and I curse myself for being so weak. I hear the sheets rustling as he moves. I stay facing the hallway, half of my body out of the room.

"Where are you going? It's three in the morning."

I hear as he yawns, the quiet action filling the room. I can hear the wind, the usually soothing sound now an aggravation to my ears.

"I'm going home," I say silently, careful not to disrupt the quiet atmosphere.

He doesn't answer back, and I wonder if he fell back asleep. I remain standing, my muscles about to burst from standing still. I blink my eyes repeatedly, trying to will my unruly tears away.

After what feels like an eternity I hear his voice, much clearer that minutes before. "I guess I'll see you around."

I almost snort, the ludicrous implications of that comment hitting me in the face. It was one thing to go home with him, inebriated, but I would not repeat the action.

"Goodbye, Malfoy."

I used to pride myself in not making mistakes. Now I guess I'll have pride myself in not making them twice.

"Goodbye, Granger."

A/N: Hey there! I hope you guys liked it. Although this is not like my usual fluffy writing style, I still hope that you guys enjoyed it.

Please tell me what you think. That would make me extremely happy.