Title: Fugue
Author: Ai Kemi (zelgadis13@hotmail.com)
Rating: R for violence, bloodiness, and general weirdness
Setting: Um…post 7th year.
Spoilers: None, really.
Summary: 'This was part of it. Remembering. She hated remembering, and he knew it. But then, that's why he made her do it.'
Disclaimer: Me? Own Harry Potter or anything remotely related?….*dies laughing*
A/N: This is a strange, strange piece. *shrug* Blame it on the rabid demon plot bunny that's been gnawing away at my brain for the last couple of weeks. *grumble* I hate rabid demon plot bunnies…anyway. The title. It's a psychological term. Look it up. I'm too tired to explain right now. It's 6 AM and I have to be up in three hours. Joy. *yawn* Damn those rabid demon plot bunnies. Damn them to Hell.
A/N Part Deux: My first Harry Potter fic. It was late, I was tired. Please be gentle. Flames will be given to my pyromaniac brother to play with.
She'd just begun to soap up when she felt a familiar prickle at the back of her neck.
He was back.
She froze only an instant before asking, "What do you want?" She was pleased she managed to keep her voice from shaking.
"I'd think that was fairly obvious." The smirk in his words came through loud and clear.
"I'm trying to take a shower."
"I know. Why do you think I bothered?"
"Who knows why you do anything you do?"
"You know. You know me better than anyone. Just like I know you better than anyone."
"God knows, I wish that weren't the case."
"Tsk. Is that any way to speak to a such a close…personal…friend?" She felt a light touch on her shoulder and jerked away.
"We're not friends! We've never been friends. And we'll never be friends."
He was silent a moment before saying, "Can't argue with that." He had the nerve to sound amused.
"Good. Now leave me alone."
"Mmm, I don't think I will. Not until I get what I came for…" She flinched as she felt the unnerving coolness of his arms wrap around her from behind. Goosebumps raced along her skin wherever he touched her.
"No." She couldn't give in this time.
"No?" He sounded vaguely confused.
"No. No more." She wouldn't…
The coolness tightened about her until she had trouble breathing.
"I own you, you stupid girl," he sneered. "You don't get to tell me 'no'."
"You don't own me!" she gasped out.
"You think not?" The smirk was back in his voice.
His grip loosened slightly and she was about to draw in some much-needed air when she felt the feather-light brush of lips against her neck.
"…Stop it." The protest was feeble, weak. Just like her.
She felt his lips curve against her skin. "Why? You seem to be enjoying yourself." As if to emphasize his point, he brushed a hand almost negligently across one tightly drawn nipple.
She shuddered. "I…N-no…" Her voice died as his touch grew firmer. So familiar…Just like before…
"That word is getting on my nerves." His other hand joined in and she fought valiantly for coherence, for control.
"S-stop…and you won't…have to…hear it—ah!" Her words ended on a small shout as he tugged roughly on her breasts.
"No."
"Uhn…n-no?" One of his hands had drifted downward and she was having trouble following the conversation.
"No. I won't stop."
"Why?" It came out caught somewhere between a whisper and a moan. God, why? Why did she like this so much? Why did it have to be him?
"Because you're mine to do with as I please. And this pleases me. Immensely." That wayward hand was gliding slowly over the slick skin of her inner thigh now.
"No, I meant…why do you…do this to me?" She was panting now. And she hated that.
"You know why." She did know why, but she had to ask. She always asked. It was part and parcel of their encounters. She knew the script, what was expected.
"It was an accident!"
"That's what they think. You and I both know what really happened." His hands had stopped moving. The one on her thigh gripped her painfully.
"But—"
"Do you remember that day?" This was part of it. Remembering. She hated remembering, and he knew it. But then, that's why he made her do it.
"…Yes." She remembered all too clearly. The violent argument—one of many—, the way she had shoved him away with all her might only to watch him fall down down down… "It was an accident…"
"You knew when the stairs would change. You knew the signs." His hands were moving again, this time his touch was meant to bruise.
"No! I…" Had she known? Had she, on some subconscious level, waited for the just right moment to push him?
"And then, of course, you were so concerned, so full of remorse." He practically spat the word.
She couldn't say anything to that. Not even if she wanted to, she couldn't. The pain he was inflicting on her made it hard for her to breathe much less form words. But then, this was always the point when she would get lost in the memories. Really, it was just picking one pain over the other. One penance over another…
* * *
"Frank!! Come quick! The Granger girl's done it again."
The large man in the white uniform let out a weary sigh as he hurried towards the bathroom, first aid kit swinging from one beefy arm.
He sent Connie, Hermione's roommate and the one who had found her, to get one of the doctors before bracing himself and stepping into the gleaming white communal bathroom.
Only the tiles weren't so white right now.
"Jesus, Hermione…" He knelt beside the unconscious girl, her blood staining the knees of his uniform. She had clawed herself up pretty good this time. It took him nearly two minutes to stop the bleeding on her arms and neck. He couldn't stop the bleeding between her legs; thick pads of gauze would have to do until he got her to the infirmary.
"Frank?"
He looked up and saw that Connie had returned with Dr. Phillips. Dr. Phillips had brought a wheelchair and a blanket with her.
Taking the blanket from the doctor, Frank carefully wrapped it around the injured girl. He was about to lift her into his arms when her lashes fluttered open.
Icy grey eyes glared at him and her mouth twisted into a derisive smirk. "You can't help her," came a hissing voice. "She's mine."
Chills racing up his spine, Frank stared at Hermione. "What?"
But there was no answer. She had slipped out of consciousness once more.
"Frank? We need to get her to the infirmary."
"Huh? Uh, yeah. Coming, Dr. Phillips."
Hermione woke again as she was settled into the wheelchair. Her brown eyes settled on Frank in confusion before a resigned kind of realization settled over her features. Frank frowned. Brown eyes?
"Is she settled?"
Shaking off his unease, Frank stood. "All set."
Dr. Phillips murmured a thank you before she began wheeling Hermione towards the hospital wing of All Saints Psychiatric Hospital.
"You were doing so well, Hermione," Dr. Phillips said softly. She always spoke softly to her more fragile patients, and apparently Hermione was more fragile than she had initially thought. The girl had been here almost two years since that unfortunate accident at her school and these attacks of hers were steadily getting worse. "What happened?"
"Malfoy—"
"Hermione." Dr. Phillips fought back a sigh. The girl was quite delusional. It had taken nearly four months to convince her that there was no such thing as witches and wizards. However, she had yet to be convinced that she wasn't getting visits from a ghost. "You know Draco Malfoy is dead."
End.