There are few things Draco Malfoy is certain of. Firstly, that this was his last few months at Hogwarts; secondly, that he couldn't stand the pathetic sight of his pale stricken face mocking him in his every reflection; and thirdly, the fact he was a coward. It seems as though these simple notions want to surface, crawl under his skin, and linger on his tongue as he follows Granger down the winding passageway.
He knows not how fate, wry and contemptuous, has devised this kind of callous torture. He wonders how a simple toss of words turned into a schoolyard fight; words biting, wands ablaze, chocolate eyes darkening with burning honest hatred. He doesn't know why she had to make detention so much harder than it needed to be, what with her deliberate silence and heated glares. She should know by now he will respond to her in the way he knows best: smirks and silence.
They have left detention and he follows her back. His grey eyes have blackened, brooding as he trails her quiet footsteps, following the cascading light of her wand. She glances back intermittently, cursory it seems, and he hisses, earning a cautious deride from her throat. He is ever silent, simply watching her whitening knuckles and the bounce of her curls against the dark poly-blend robe.
Thud.
Thud.
Thud.
The almost rhythmic requiem of her hair sings in the reticence of the hallway, a cursed reminder of his fate. He hates the sound; he wants to rip out every single strand of filthy Mudblood hair off her sanctimonious preaching head. He wants her writhing on the stone clad floor, screaming and begging. And this time he will be the one laughing.
He's scarcely aware of his own lips moving when she turns to face him.
"I don't understand."
His upper lip curls with contempt.
"Whatever do you mean, Granger?"
"Where is the belittling, the disrespect? Don't tell me Malfoy can not garner one petty racist slur?"
He wants to slap the smug sneer off her face. His jaw twitches, and his fist clenches momentarily but she's already turned on her feet, laughing crudely. He cusses inwardly and quickens his strides to catch up to her. He grabs her wrists and wrenches Hermione to face his ugly twisted face, his painstakingly beautiful face.
"What do you want, Mudblood? Do you want me to curse at your mere wretched existence? Believe me Granger, I would, with such pleasure you can't even fathom. Or shall I cut off that revolting tongue of yours? Merlin knows how you love to hear yourself speak, listening to those sharp little quips that pour out your filthy mouth."
He seethes.
"Or would you prefer the Cruciatus curse? Seems you have a particular penchant for that spell, Mudblood. Did Bellatrix bring to light that predilection for pain you've so brazenly misplaced?"
Her expression is stoic for a moment. She is taken by his striking complexion, pale and ethereal from the half-light of her wand; the sharp curve of his nose, seraphic and Patrician; his gaunt Slavic cheekbones and parted lips. Lastly, her eyes linger on his gray for only a moment. The lazy ashen color threatens to discover her emotions, yet they display all his sentiments as though he carries his heart on his sleeve.
His content smirk falters at her chuckle. It's slow and unintelligible at first, tangled and guttural, echoing in the corridor. But few seconds pass and the quiet laughter becomes a chilling cackle – he sniffs regally to mask the cutting insult. She leans forward slightly, catching her breath and sneers.
"Trying to prove something, Malfoy?"
She jerks from his loosening grip and steps back, eyeing him. It's as though she knows he is weak from cowardice, weak from the façade. She gives him a purposefully dismissive glance and walks away, wand raised as a sort of hidden warning, a caveat.
He is disappointed that she did not rise to the bait. He hates that she hasn't retaliated with unadulterated emotion, her words wielding weapons dripping with loathing. This act of silence is tepid in comparison, and he hates it. There is something about her ignorance that raises bile in his throat. He sees the change.
There is no more clamor to wands, no more quick retorts and glares. Therein lies a new kind of competition – a battle of wits she dares challenge him. She thinks him weak; it's evident from her constant scoffs and verbal triumphs. And he thinks she is stupid because no one should challenge a Malfoy to a contest of the mind. No one is as labyrinthine and tortured as he.
He finally follows her footsteps, and comes to the conclusion she wouldn't have cared if he simply turned and left her. He chokes out her name.
"Granger."
He can hear her stop, a huff of annoyance and a shuffle as she turns around.
"What do you want?"
He is trembling as he asks, "How do you do it?"
She hasn't moved, but the weight of her breath speaks otherwise.
"Don't be cryptic, Malfoy."
This time her feet travel and in a few moments they are face to face. Only now he realizes how petite she is, how lithe and fragile is her frame. Her curls border her face, drawing his eyes to the upturn of her nose and smattering of freckles below her eyes. The dusky light only allows their eyes to meet, and he is winded by their stubbornness, their hardness.
Her eyes narrow and he realizes now she is the superior one. She hasn't once fallen prey to his words or ways, neither has she faltered at his mars or insults. She is the only one that ever held intelligence in her poise and sagacity in her words, the only person at Hogwarts to keep the title of top student out of his grasp. She is the only one who will deny him anything, yet she gives him everything. His grey eyes scrutinize: a worthy opponent had she been Pureblood.
This time he leans in with temerity and he sees a flash of fear in her eyes. His breath is hot against her ear.
"How do you make it so easy–"
His trembling hands lifts her chin; his eyes are bright.
"To appear so damn perfect–"
Her wand drops and the next minutes are lost. The anger of his kiss, the heat of his touch; her sounds of pleasure and shaking knees. The devouring lips and aggressive tongues, her pulling hands, disheveled hair. It is a bewildering medley of color as her fingers trace his jaw and he bites her lip, their bodies moving melodiously. Lost in tongues, hands on skin, skin on skin. It is fantasy, their hesitation. He feels the heat.
Her back arches into his and next thing he knows her blouse is unbuttoned and his shirt is gone. Her skin glows in the light of her fallen wand and he kisses the sensitive spot below her bare breasts and she moans. No coherent thoughts. Her skin is soft and he caresses against hip. Stroking, wet, warm, a look of trepidation, murmurs. A kiss of positive reinforcement, a wary smile, groans of pleasure: desire.
He has reached the point of no return and looks into her chocolate eyes. Her breathing is ragged, her sharp intakes matching his own. He knows this is not how she would have wanted it. He knows she is pained. There's a part of him that believes she deserves better and he must cease. But the desire is too much; even he sees the arousal in her eyes, a simple yearning.
Her fingers reach up to trace his jaw and he feels vulnerable for a moment. Never has anyone seen him like this before, his emotions so carelessly tossed behind his shoulder. He shudders and her eyes are aglow as though she sees his apprehension. He hates her when she whispers a barely audible,
"Yes."
She fumbles at his trousers and he fingers at her panties until both are gone and the only sounds in the hallway are her moans and his grunts of pleasure. Her fingernails claw at his back and their naked forms cast shadows in the light. Against the wall, his knees feel weak and she is straddling against his hip. The thrusts become erratic and more powerful as he reaches the point of fulfillment. Breathless pleading. Her shouts are becoming louder and when he looks up, she has turned away, eyes shut.
They are jammed tightly, as though she has tears that will threaten to give way. She bites her lip but the small sounds of pleasure escaping her lips encourage until she clenches down on him and collapses against his chest. In the next moments he feels nothing but euphoria, and then shame.
They fall down in a tangle as his legs are too tired and she is comatose, body listless and lined in sweat. He doesn't know how long they're going to lie in his cloak, perhaps until her breathing isn't so labored. Her breasts heave against his chest and her head rests on his shoulder blade. He even ignores that her hair is brushing against his neck and tickling his chin. He wonders how long the house elves will need to scrub the robe to rid it of her scent, her hair, and the liquid of their consequence.
She is the first to get up, crossing her arms self-consciously as she slides her Hogwarts' skirt against her shapely legs and buttons her shirt. She grabs the robes discarded at his side. Berating herself she looks at him and realizes his eyes are closed, pensively, as though he is in deep thought. Now she wonders how long they've meandered in the hallways. She hopes Harry and Ron haven't left the Common Room to look for her.
"Malfoy," her voice is a soft whisper, rustling in the silence of the hallway, "We need to go."
He engages in a battle over whether to respond or ignore her. He chooses his words carefully.
"Do what you want, Mudblood."
He expects a gasp, lecherous or shocked at least after what they've just done; he wants her to fight back. He needs her to fight back – to show him that something in the world is still in tact. That something in this world will never change. His eyes open and she doesn't appear the least bit upset. Instead she is watching him, eyes bright as she twirls her wand between fingers. Now he is the one who is surprised.
She holds a vacant expression as he shrugs up his boxers and slacks, buttoning his Oxford and collecting his cloak. She is leaning against the wall and he just stares back. Her face softens now and he wants to shake her shoulders and scream that he doesn't need her pity. He wants to scream that she should be the one filled with regret, with some pleasure or emotion. Instead she appears empty; there is nothing in the way her expressionless eyes hold his gaze.
He hates that she is empty; why must she usurp him in every way? He is filled with rage now, and all he can see is red. He jolts towards her and impulsively wraps his hands around her neck. His eyes are wide with mad hilarity and he begins to squeeze, waiting for a flicker in her eyes. He will wring her neck, he assures himself. He warrants that he'll kill her if it so pleases him.
The laugh is slow and cruel, like a thousand knives plunging inside and twisting viciously against his chest. He stumbles back at the weight of all the humiliation and defeat. There is humor and mocking in her eyes, scorn in her tone. She is composed, and an eyebrow rises disdainfully at his form. He runs his fingers through white-blonde caricature as she narrows her eyes. He quivers at her terse declaration.
"I do pity you, Draco Malfoy."
His face falls into his hands as he collapses, sliding against the stonewall across from her until he is resting upright. His voice is caught in his throat and he wants to throttle her. He tries to speak, but no words come and nothing seems to suffice.
"You won't forget. No matter how hard you try and erase this memory, you will always remember the curve of my waist, the flare of my hip. You'll remember the texture of my skin, the turn of my calves, the arch of my back."
Her voice quietens, as though she is thinking. He dares not look up, but he knows she is unawarely biting her bottom lip. He hates himself further for knowing her simple quirks.
"You know the intimate sound of my breath when your hands travel across my body. You know the lull of my tongue and the feel of my breasts."
Drowning in her words, he does not notice that she has fallen on her knees beside him. He turns and sinks into her pleading eyes.
"And I don't want you to forget my eyes. My eyes that burned with passion when you touched me, kissed me. Don't forget my graze, the impassioned and trembling touches. Tell me Malfoy, tell me that you won't forget."
He is shaking and so is she. His fists clench knowing she is just as vulnerable, that perhaps she can hide emotions better but it does not make her any less susceptible to their woes. He clucks inwardly, wondering how it is that his fingers are now laced in hers. He wants to scream again, asking how she can inveigle him so easily. But now she rests her head against his, and her slumped form punches at his gut. She is weak as is he. They will both be losers, and they both know it.
She wears the façade that he sheds, and he holds onto the only pure emotion she has graced him that no one else will. They are vulnerable and they are children, dancing invariably into their own death. It's in these few fleeting moments before war that leaves them breathless, these few careless moments that they allow feeling above thought. Perhaps this is the illusion of bravery, he thinks.
He wonders how she combats this – this feeling before thought struggle that must rage within her. After all, she is all that is logical and rational. He thinks how her brain is analyzing this experience, picking apart each and every second of this occurring phantasmagoria. He wonders if this is one of his sick twisted dream and that minutes from now he will wake up, drenched in sweat and drowned in the sounds.
But this experience gives him hope. She must see something in him that no one else sees; the person lurking behind shadows and dusted in secrets. She gave herself willingly to him and took him in return, she accepted him more than anyone had. It is her fervent kisses and quiet acceptance that gives him hope.
She does not sob but he can see from his peripheral that her eyes are glazed with unshed tears. He closes his eyes and remembers her body against his; skin on skin, the trepidation, and the ecstasy. Her fingers are gone when his eyes open and the small welling of hope subsides. The only glimmer he has left is the soft hum on her lips. He smiles.
There are few things that Draco Malfoy is certain of, but he forgets them in this moment. The only thing he does wonder is how she makes it so easy to appear so damn perfect, when she is slowly breaking like glass.
fin.
Disclaimer: All belong to J. K. Rowling. Fruits of my labor. Please review.