She had never truly known him. The boy she thought she had known and loved all of these years was a lie. He was really a filthy disgusting, adulterous creep. The Ron Weasley that she had thought she loved would have never ever cheated on her.

In their house.

In their bed.

With Fleur Delacour.

Oh God, how was she going to tell Bill? She did have to tell him, didn't she? But even this horrifying thought couldn't distract her from the old time spotty movie playing loops in her mind. Opening the bedroom door, dropping her vase of flowers, the sound of smashing glass, water hitting the wall. It had a dreamlike quality to it. The bedroom and scenery were dulled and gray, while the couple on her bed stood out in stark relief. Her bed.

Writhing naked bodies, twisting together in carnal abandon. So wrapped up in themselves they hadn't heard the noise. Or perhaps they thought they broke a lamp in their passion. It was the strangled "I love you" as he came that set her feet in to motion. Out the door, down the walk, apparating strait to seedy London. The four floors to Harrys' rat-hole of an apartment proved fruitless. No one answered the door, and despite her extensive knowledge and experience with curse breaking and charms Hermione didn't dare try to infiltrate Harry's home. The last year had made him hard, worn away that boyhood charm and left raw hostility in his wake. But at least she knew him. At least she could trust him. His flat had been the only place she had known to go.

She wondered the streets aimlessly.

The cold finally seeped into her soul, numbing her pain and grief. There must be some explanation. Some reason? What excuse was there for adultery? None she could think of. Her clever mind had never failed her before but she stood on a busy corner while the world washed around her, and drew a blank. A burst of warmth, laughter and cheer snapped her from her hypnotic state as the door to the pub on the corner opened for a moment to let someone out into the cold. The door closed slowly, one of those heavy monstrous things, and with a final click sealed in the bright atmosphere. With truly nowhere else to go, and toes literally little blocks of ice, Hermione pushed her way through the people walking by and let herself in.

She made her way to the bar, because that was what one does at a place such as this. Someone down the bar ordered bourbon and she copied them when the barkeep asked what she would have. She had little to no experience with alcohol, and the boys always ordered Fire Whisky. She doubted that this little Muggle pub would carry it. She stared dubiously at the brown liquid for a few minutes, sniffed it and made a face, before throwing up her hands mentally and taking a sip. Ugh! Why anyone would submit themselves to such a horrid tasting brew was beyond her. But the burn was welcome in the ice pit that was her stomach and the boys always acted so happy after drinking themselves retarded. She took another sip.

Hermione sat at that bar and methodically worked her way through the entire foul tasting concoction waiting patiently for the bloom of joy and goofy smile that inevitably accompanied the boys drinking experiences. She felt kind of sick. It struck her suddenly that she was at the bar alone, drinking, like some kind of seasoned alcoholic. The whole bar was alive with laughter and games. A group of men was at the back haggling over a game of darts, another pair bent over a worn and faded billiards table. How very pathetic she was, the only person in this foul awful bar that was alone. The only person here who wasn't worthy of companionship. No one wanted her. No one was her friend.

Big tears welled up but she wiped them away, suddenly cheered.
She wasn't the only one alone after all.

He was watching her. The glow of his pale hair was unmistakable even across the smoke-filled room. He sat with his back to the corner, in true Slytherin fashion, clothed from head to toe in his usual light sucking black. How typical and un-original. If one thing could be said about Malfoy it was that you could trust him to never change. One year to the next, school long over and yet Malfoy was exactly the same as he had been all those years ago. Whiny, spoiled, beautiful in a pale ghostly way. He hated her and she hated him and it had always been that way. She took comfort from his unwavering disdain.

Honestly though, the truth was that she had never really hated Draco Malfoy. That was more Ron. She had always more pitied him than anything else. Not that he hadn't made her spitting mad on more than one occasion, but she wouldn't call it hate. Later on Harry had come to share her feelings of pity. But not Ron. No Ron Weasley had always hated Draco Malfoy more than anyone else, even when others certainly deserved his bone deep loathing more. Lucius Malfoy, Greyback, Voldemort himself. No matter the deed, blame was often laid at Draco's feet. Ginny, Bill, Dumbledore. In Ron's mind, it was all Draco's fault. And it was true he shared the blame, but only because he wasn't strong enough to say no. Not because he actually orchestrated any of those horrible plots. Draco Malfoy was certainly no mastermind. He wasn't even worth their notice. He was beneath them. Ron had never gotten that.

She'd asked him why once, while they were still at school. Their relationships fresh and new like dew on the morning grass. "He watches you as if he is starving for you." She had understood, smiled softly and brushed a soft kiss on his dry lips. Ron had always been so insecure; surely a popular, wealthy, good looking boy like Draco might have some sway over her heart. He had misinterpreted Malfoy's hate filled stares as something else. Those things didn't matter to her and she spent years proving her loyalty and love to someone who should have never doubted her. Had he ever loved her? Or had he just wanted something he believed Draco Malfoy wanted? She ordered a second bourbon. Maybe you had to drink more than one to feel happy.

Was that why Ron had sent her flowers? Was it because he was feeling guilty about his filthy affair? Just how long had this been going on? He obviously had never thought that the flowers would make her smile, make her heart swell up with so much love that she couldn't wait a moment more to be with him. Make her so happy that she would leave early to rush home. If he had thought so he might not have sent her flowers. Would it have been better to go on in ignorant bliss? She downed the rest of her bourbon in one harsh swallow; she was quickly becoming a seasoned drinker.

A third was placed in front of her, but when she reached for her purse the barkeep shook his head. "The gentleman paid," he waved a hand vaguely towards Malfoy before going to his next customer. She resolutely bit back the bile in her throat and sipped down the bitter brew. She didn't look over at him, didn't politely nod her thanks, but when she had finished the last vile drop she got to her feet.

When she stood the world tilted wildly on its axis and the bar came up to meet her unsteady hands. She stood there a moment, waiting for the world to center itself. The room swayed dangerously and then the swaying swirled down to her middle and stayed there. She took a deep breath, willing herself not to be sick and swore never to drink again before turning to walk with as much dignity as she could muster towards Malfoy. She called herself nine kinds of stupid even as she made her way across the room, but it was insanely exciting to think that a guy like him might really be interested in her.

He had always been wildly popular, not to mention obscenely rich and very good looking. All those years ago, when Ron had said something she had laughed him off, believing it to be a figment of an overly jealous imagination. But he was just now staring at her, and he had bought her a drink, and Ron would be so mad at her for talking to him. She wished the floor was level; all of those dips in it were making it difficult to walk. If she didn't know better she would think the floor was moving. Why shouldn't he be interested in her? She was intelligent, pretty enough, and free of disease. Which was more than could be said of the dozens of floozies he'd dated. So what if he believed she had dirty blood.

Wasn't the forbidden supposed to be irresistibly desirable?

She'd never once understood the pull of mischief. She had always followed the rules, except when the rules were stupid of course, and never felt any desire to paint the town red or go to wild parties. But standing there in front of him now, she felt insanely reckless. Her anger was brittle and tangible and she felt it surge knowing how wild Ron would go if he knew she was in a bar with Draco Malfoy. The very thought had a slow smile turning up the corners of her mouth despite her best intentions. This was what if felt like to be bad. Truly bad. Breaking the rules to save the world did not count. Suddenly she understood the lure. The dark seduction of it all.

Maybe she shouldn't drink.

He reached out with one booted foot and kicked a chair out for her. Not the most romantic gesture, but nevertheless she sat down with as much grace as she could manage. With his usual arrogance, how crazy was the world when she was familiar with his habits, he gestured for another drink and was promptly rewarded with some clear liquid. And another bourbon for her. "I never pictured you as a bourbon drinker" He still had the same cultured drawling tones that had made the girls in school swoon.

"What are you drinking?"

It was all downhill from there. Hermione knew that she was in over her head and that maybe just maybe she would regret the slow sexy smile he gave her when he nudged the glass in her direction. She knew that she shouldn't give a slightly skewed smile in return and take a disgusting swallow of some horrid poison that he seemed immune to. Maybe it was the alcohol that kept her from caring.

"This is revolting!" She told him, screwing her face up in displeasure. He called over the din for something called a Pink Squirrel, and she was feeling numb enough that the predatory look he pinned on her didn't even faze her. She took the drink from him and sipped at it, knowing she shouldn't. Slowly with each sticky swallow of the sweet frothy badger thing Malfoy had ordered, the pieces of a brilliant plan of revenge were forming in her mind. Ron would just die. And since Malfoy wasn't even trying to disguise his blatant staring. obviously believing her to be drunk, she had no doubts that he wouldn't mind playing into her hands.

Draco must have done something right once upon a time. He couldn't think of what it was but someone upstairs had reason to smile down at him. Hermione Granger was completely snookered, had leaned over the small table, and asked him if he would like to get out there and go somewhere more private. Surely he must have inadvertently promoted world peace, or aided an angel. Maybe Granger was the Angel.

Draco Malfoy considered himself to be a lot of things, irredeemable Git high on the list. But he wasn't stupid. He hid his surprise and eagerness as best he could and stood immediately to help her up. He felt a small moment of hesitation when she swayed drunkenly and clutched at him, but then he reminded himself of his Git status and put an arm around her shoulders to steady her on their way out of the bar. She was so drunk she didn't even slap him.

She smelled like cinnamon and honey, despite the bourbon, and fit nicely under his arm. Just like he'd always known she would. Surely his father was ice skating down below, doing fucking triple toe loops. Because who would have thought the pristine Hermione Granger would ever lean into him; giggle drunkenly when he caressed her ass. The minute they were through the old-fashioned swinging door he had her body aligned with his and Apparated in tandem to his swanky London flat.

He was kissing her before the spinning stopped, and he wasn't sure if it was Apparation or her scent that was making him dizzy. She tasted like warm rich whisky and pineapple rum. And she kissed with her whole body. Clinging to him with an almost desperate air; hips gyrating invitingly, one leg wrapped around his calf to pull them even closer. He thought he might drown in her overwhelming presence. He had half expected her to Avada him the moment he touched her lips, instead he found himself caught up in a windstorm of Hermione that he wasn't entirely sure that he could weather. But he did know that he had no intention of taking shelter.

He felt out of his depth and inexperienced, the way her every touch seemed to light him on fire putting him off balance. It wasn't supposed to be this way; he was supposed to be in control. But she had reduced his usually glib tongue to mere guttural sounds and he couldn't keep up with the speed at which she was undressing him. One moment he was in robes the next almost bare, literally overheating with the friction of her bare skin on his. If she didn't slow down he was going to embarrass himself, and yet panting out a wait seemed so undignified so he pulled her plain white knickers down her hips and kissed her with as much finesse as he could manage with his muddled wits.

If he doubted her inebriation, she confirmed it when he tried to waltz her backwards to his bed and she got tangled in their combined feet and almost brought them both down. He hoisted her up and she automatically wrapped her long limbs around his hips to keep his balance and he almost lost it right there. He was never going to last. He tipped her onto his sheets with almost no grace and had to stop a moment to stare. Hermione Granger, sprawled naked on his Slytherin green sheets was not a sight he'd ever thought he'd see outside of his fantasies. A moment was all she gave him before she regained enough equilibrium to grab his hand and tug him down on top of her.

She was a frantic ball of need and he fervently gave thanks to whatever God had blessed her with no tolerance for alcohol. Her skin was velvety soft, like wet silk stretched over bone, and she was so hot she almost burned him. He would have waited a bit, petted her, kissed her lips, her neck, and her soft rounded breasts. She was having none of it, pushing him firmly down between her parted legs. She was strong for such a little thing. With someone else he might have minded, refused the favor, but she was offering herself up like a four-star buffet and beggars can't be choosers.

She was neat and trimmed and had a mild creamy flavor that he found pleasant enough. He took great pleasure in spreading her legs wider, cupping her ass for better leverage. Hermione Granger moaned like a top dollar hooker and clutched his hair in both her hands. He might have died of shock if she wasn't begging for him not to stop. He'd made the Gryffindor angel beg for his tongue. He could die a happy man, right here buried between her quivering thighs. She came almost instantly, grinding herself up against him borderline painfully and letting out long drawn keening noises that would haunt his fantasies for eternity.

Then she snapped a picture.

His head popped up and he glared at her, just what was she playing at? She snapped another and another while he gave her his most evil look. It was difficult to accomplish such a thing, naked and sprawled across his bed, her juices on his face.

"Stop scowling! You are ruining the photos." Apparently he had accomplished his goal.

"Who are the pictures for?" She looked for a moment as though she would lie, he could tell by her open honest Gryffindor features. Something in his expression must have warned her against it and she blushed as she answered.

"Ron."

A new piece of the puzzle snapped into place and it hurt like shards of glass on bare feet. He wanted to pull away, to break things. He was a fool and he knew it, but he wasn't stupid. He lowered his head, looking up at her all the while, unfurled his long tongue and gave a lusty lick. She dutifully captured the moment on film. He'd never hold her again, he knew that with perfect clarity, but at least the Weasel would know that he had once. "I want a copy of the prints, or we stop right now."

"What makes you think I want to go any further?" She tried to be haughty, putting her chin in the air and giving him one of those McGonagall looks. But her breasts bounced when she moved, she had dusty pink nipples, and her expression was skewed from drunkenness.

He slipped one finger inside of her body, curving his finger and rubbing along the top until he found a patch of roughness and then stroked it firmly. She almost fell off the bed with her reaction. He supposed being a rich pureblood still stood for something, even if it was only the value of a sexual education from a high-class concubine. He didn't make her admit it out loud, dragging him up her body and letting him kiss her mouth was enough. She didn't pull back at the taste of herself, she was either too drunk to care or more sexually open than he would have guessed. All the same she wrapped her legs around his hips and tried to maneuver him inside her body.

"If you want good photos you should be on top, does that camera have an automatic resetting timer or should I get mine?" He reevaluated her sexual experience as she looked at him blankly; erotic photos were new to her. He reveled in being her first at something, especially something as raunchy as this. He took her camera and examined the settings, it was a decent magical model and he got up to set it on the dresser where it could get full body shots. He timed it to take three shots a minute and made his way back to the bed.

Once again, he felt a small tug at his conscience as he noted that she had pulled the sheets around herself. Her hurry before probably wasn't any overwhelming desire to jump his bones as soon as possible, more of a desperation to get caught up in the moment. He slipped his briefs down his hips and kicked out of them before walking over. Embarrassed or not he wasn't going to stop short of death or dismemberment. She didn't look like she wanted to dismember him, but you never could tell with women.

He crawled up the bed, kissing her ankle, her thigh, her bare soft tummy. He finally got to taste her generous nipples, and cup her full breasts in his hands. He tried to kiss away her nervousness but he seemed to be too gentle, too slow for her. She hooked her ankle around his and twisted their bodies so that she was on top. She was awkward for a moment, giving him enough time to scoot up to the headboard so he could sit up; he'd planned the angle of the camera for this position. Plus, he had access to her delightful breasts and soft sweet mouth.

All thoughts of cameras, Weasels, and tomorrow fled from his mind the moment she adjusted herself and took him inside of her. His whole world narrowed down to just the taste of her skin, the slow pleasurable friction, the intoxicating scent of sex and woman. He might just die of the ecstasy. And he didn't have a bone in his body that cared. She threw her head back when she climaxed, rocking more frantically, clutching at him with too much force. The sight of her in ecstasy sent him over the edge of reason and he gripped her tighter, plunged deeper, took his own pleasure.

His owl delivered the film to a one hour shop that he knew would be discreet. He ordered triple prints, perhaps she wouldn't want them, but maybe one day she might. She was languid with the aftermath of sex and let him hold her naked body close to his, run his hands possessively over her hips, kiss her neck. She probably wouldn't be so accommodating when she found out he had given her a sizable hicky. He obsessed over the mark for a good hour while she slumbered, wondering if she would charm it away or wear it proudly. It wasn't like it said Draco.

He woke her up for another ride on the merry go round and this time was able to hold on longer, make her writhe and beg, make sure that she wouldn't forget him. He balanced himself above her and memorized her naked body as he plunged into her over and over again. He would never ever forget the way she felt in his hands.

Sleep eventually claimed him and when he woke she was predictably gone. Two sets of prints lay on his dresser and the flat had that empty feel he'd become accustomed to. Yet still he checked every room and waited by the door for two hours before bitterly conceding that she hadn't run out for breakfast. The cold sting of his shower on sore skin banished the weepy way he was feeling and by the time he was dressed and neatly pressed he'd made a decision. Malfoy's got what Malfoy's wanted. And he wanted Hermione Granger for his own. He'd been pining for her long enough, it was time to man up and go after what he wanted. He grabbed his cloak and stepped out into the sun, only the vaguest of plans in his mind. He'd work out the details later.

Hermione Granger thanked the Lord that she was a witch and did not have to take the usual walk of shame. No cab ride in her wrinkled, sex stained clothes. No people staring knowingly at her disheveled hair as she made her way up to her fourth floor flat. Nope, she Apparated the moment that she walked past Malfoy's wards straight into her own living area. She was all full of righteous anger this morning, none of that week poor me attitude today. She'd had if fucked right out of her. Her memory burned with last night's events. She had used Malfoy's owl to send her husband his copy of the photo's last night. So he must have had plenty of time to look them over.

She had gone through them, to separate them into piles, and even though she had done those things she was shocked at how lewd it looked on film. It hadn't felt that way, it had felt electric. She was definitely never drinking again. Obviously the evil alcohol had warped her senses. She had certainly been thankful more than once for magic this morning. When she had found a standard hangover potion in Malfoy's cabinet she had almost wept with relief. She loved magic.

But now was the moment of truth, the time had come to face her traitorous husband with the full knowledge of her own treachery. The place was quiet, eerily so, and she found herself taking out her wand and holding it out in front of her. Something just wasn't right, and she wasn't on top of her game this morning to say the least. The hall had a draft and when she pushed open the door the first thing she noticed was that the window was open. The curtains blowing in a gusty breeze. Later she would focus on that image when relating what she saw to the Aurors, choosing not to dwell too much on the twisted bloody form of her husband on the bed. A jagged hole in his chest, the blood still oozing from the wound, vulgar pictures spread out on the sticky sheets.

She carried the shame deep inside for a long time. She burned those photos before she called a healer. It was too late for him anyway.

It was a balmy day with a good breeze the day Ronald Weasley was buried. His wife wore black from head to toe, and held her cloak tight around her trembling form. She hated windy days. The service was as expected and beautiful. The man had an abundance of friends and family, and his work as an Auror was legendary. The official verdict on his murder was death eater activity. There were more holes in that story than Swiss cheese. But she could hardly tell everyone the whole of the truth. Especially Bill, who was taking his brother's death so badly.

He clung to Fluer at the service, weeping like a lost child. Hermione tried not to glare in their direction. After it was all said and done she remained behind at the site to say her final words, and perhaps, after she had tracked down Ron's killer she would find some peace. Oh, and some retribution would have to be paid against the floozy, if she could just think of some way to exact pain without her wrath spilling over onto poor Bill.

She bowed her head and offered up a silent prayer, words failing her. She had loved him so much, but now her feelings were all muddled up with unresolved pain and she wasn't really sure what to do about it. He would never argue with her again, so they could never put this behind him. Tears slipped silently down her cheeks and she wiped them away impatiently, she had reception to go to and couldn't be all weepy.

She squared her shoulders and prepared to leave when out of nowhere an owl swooped out of the sky and perched on Ron's tombstone. He had clutched in his razor-sharp talons a package addressed to her. She reached out a hesitant hand and took the brown paper wrapped parcel and the bird immediately took flight again. She watched befuddled for a moment before slowly un-wrapping the package.

A silver letter opener fell out of the package to the soft wet soil at her feet, but she felt too sick to retrieve it at first. The other item was the very parchment on which she had written her last note to Ron.

A gift for you and Fluer,

Your loving wife

Underneath her neat handwriting was a much more elegant script.

Polyjuice has always been my favorite potion. Thank Fluer for her hair. Add in a little dash of Imperio and something interesting is bound to happen every time. Don't worry, your husband had plenty of time to enjoy the lovely gift you sent him,

Bellatrix.

P.S. Be sure to say hello to my nephew.

She stooped and picked up the long sharp letter opener, blood still crusted in the etchings, as all the pieces of the puzzle fell together with perfect clarity. The red blob became an apple, the green splotch a leaf, all with this one piece. She didn't know how long that she stood there in shock, clutching that slim innocent piece of household clutter. She might have stood there forever if Malfoy hadn't draped his long black coat over her shoulders and led her away.

This fiction was a gift written for a fiction exchange, I forget which one. I found it in my writing folder and thought I'd post it for you.

Challenge Parameters:

Three things you want your fic to include:1) Hermione
being in love with a deceased Ron. 2) Hermione taking
advantage of Draco. 3) A silver letter opener.

Three things you do not want your fic to include:) A
happy ending. 2) A good Lucius Malfoy. 3) An
insensitive Harry