Forbidden, a harry potter fanfic

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You're used to getting everything.

You never ask, simply take, because, well, it's yours for the taking, isn't it? You're rich and you're powerful and you have the money and the heritage and the good looks and the charm – oh, you have the charm if you want to, don't even kid yourself – so why is it that this is one prize you'll never get?

You can't take this prize. She has to offer it to you.

And if there's one thing you're sure of, not in a million years will she offer you this prize.

Draco stood in front of his mirror naked, like every morning, after rolling out of his sheets from a restful night's sleep. Better to sleep naked, you feel the silk of the sheets sliding against your skin and isn't it just sensual. The feeling is something he was so accustomed to, and sorely missed when he went without.

He went to his drawer to pick out his outfit for the day, same outfit every day: boxers, shirt, slacks, tie, pin, socks and shoes. Sometimes a sweater to go over the dress shirt. But it was too warm today. He felt too hot. Stifled.

And he ran though his motions, fixing his hair, just so (the lock of hair that falls irresistibly in front of his face is painstakingly placed for just the right amount of effect), shaving his coarse facial hair so the fine lines of his jaw and cheeks would not be hidden (an ever-present sign of his blood and his heritage, able to be traced for generations upon generations), brushing his teeth and stepping back, hoping today would be the day.

Maybe today would be the day. The day he walked into the Great Hall and she'd be there, and she'd be his, and no one, not one of them would be able to take her from him. She'd come to him and come for him and oh the sound of her song would be sweeter than that of the Muses themselves, the great Thunder God's entertainers, with their song entertaining the divine as they sat at their feast.

Probably not though.

The girls called it "the Draco effect," the way their eyes were drawn to him when he walked in a room, because he simply looked that good. He really didn't know what they were getting on at (oh, stop lying; yes, he did), but he just walked his walk and talked his talk and it wasn't his fault that he was able to kiss and touch and oh, god whomever he wanted in this forsaken school.

The fruit, it was ripe for the picking.

They were pretty and plump and oh, so tasty, and he learned how to tell just by looking which ones were sweet and which were bitter, which would pant his name over and over and which would bite their lip so hard to keep from crying out loud, until she came for him and screamed, later denying anything because she blacked out from the force of his pleasure.

And maybe he was being stuck up. Snotty, arrogant; his prat self.

But maybe it was true.

But there was one, one of these fruits, no matter how high he climbed, he'd never pick it. He once got so close, so close he could touch it, could almost wrap his fingers around it, but it drew out of his reach, and he watched as his path lengthened and he saw how much further he had to go.

He knew that the taste of this fruit was so sweet, so lovely, that finally picking that fruit and taking the first sweet bite out of it would be worth it.

Oh, it so would be worth it.

Nothing was ever handed to you.

Not even the magic that runs through your veins, everything came at a price. You were willing to pay the price, in your time, your energy, the use of your resources and you soon developed a love for paying the price, because your prize was so worth it. You had your eye on the goal since you started this, and Merlin help you if you didn't make it. You would make it; there was no other option.

And no one, not them, nor him, would stand in your way. No matter the taunts, no matter the obstacle, there was always an answer. The books always had the answer.

And if a book didn't have the answer, then you'd write the book yourself.

Hermione always woke up fully alert. None of the 'five more minutes' nonsense that her room mates indulged in (and probably still did), and none of that space-less, timeless feeling either. Simply alert. Ready to take on the day.

And so she got up and swung her legs out of bed, tucking her unruly hair behind her ears and pulled out her clothes for the day: bra, panties, skirt, shirt, tie, socks, shoes. Sometimes, she'd put on a cardigan – something to feel a bit dressy. But not today.

Today was going to be a scorcher.

She could feel it, and if she had a choice, the school robes would be left behind for the sheer weight of them. But her badge had to go somewhere, didn't it? And it didn't belong on her forehead.

And she went through her motions, attacking her hair (never brushing, her hair was never meant to be simply brushed) and brushing her teeth, collecting her books and her notes and making sure everything was in order (by subject, date, day-month-year, and then alphabetically, just so she knew where everything was), and pulled over her robes. Maybe today…

Maybe he'd forget about her. Forget about that ridiculous notion. Not that she could forget about him, no. Alert or not, her thoughts went round and round, even while taking notes, all her focus on the questions and the answer (for every question had an answer), all on one subject. And it certainly wasn't Arithmancy.

Probably not today, though.

They dubbed it "pulling a Hermione," when you stayed up all night and all day and all night because you had to do well because that was your job and what was this nonsense about not doing well?

It was her job, after all.

And she simply went about your business, which was going to class and answering questions and doing her homework, and her best friend's homework, and her research and essays and maybe with her free time work on that project, S.P.E.W. (not spew!).

And maybe she was being overzealous. Bossy, loudmouthed; her know-it-all self.

But maybe it was true.

And there was that one little detail, where her thoughts went round and round. And as she collected her pre-sorted books and notes, she picked up a stray. She opened it and read it, then tucked it haphazardly into her bag.

There's something to be said about curiosity. And that is to say that it's never sated. Even when you think it's sated, something new pops up and you just have to know. And you know when someone is curious enough to never be sated. She was one of them. One who, without answers, would find them herself. And if she couldn't find them, would make them. And she would research and repeat and experiment until she knew that the answer she found was right. She was always right. No one bested her.

Is that why you desire her? The one that wasn't meant for you, the one who is totally, utterly better and disgustingly revolting in how she is completely beneath you? She is a bundle of contradictions, and you know you can wrap your pretty face around only one bundle of contradictions, and that bundle is yourself.

So do you make room for her? Do you forget her? Do you force yourself into her life, show her what she does you, and leave just as chaotically?

Is that what she is to you?
Chaos?

Draco never simply walked into the Great Hall. He sauntered, stalked, ambled, meandered, prowled, but never walked. He made a statement not only to those paying attention to him but also those who didn't; those he didn't look at were not worth noting, those who didn't receive his attention were not worthy to share the air that his place in society entitled him to.

However, no matter how he entered the Great Hall, one girl never failed to receive his attention. Even if it was a glance, a look, a hard stare, anything, he tried to get her attention every day, every time. To convey what, he didn't know. There was something there, though, something urgent. He needed to reach her, reach out to her, touch her, feel her, because he knew she wouldn't feel like any of the others.

And oh, how he craved something different.

He was different. Beautiful, yes. Godlike? Certainly. But he was undeniably different. His hair, he knew (and was very proud) was unnaturally blonde, in its natural state. And his eyes, like steel, so grey and cold and so like him and the way he carried himself; everlasting ice, majestic and unbreakable and solid and utterly essential. His face, his fine bone structure, his milky skin, so perfect his complexion many girls envied, wished to possess his magnificent skin, something only gifted to the generations of careful breeding and selection of only the most beautiful and superior mates to carry on the Malfoy line.

And she? Yes. She was certainly different.

She was everything he was not. She was not refined (though, unlike her companions, she certainly ate with grace), she was not bred. Her hair said it all, really. Summed it up in one feature. Plain, simple, almost impossible to control. Brown hair, nothing special, nothing done with potions or chemicals, cut simple and straight (although there were a few things about it that helped to define her face, her neck, her eyes), unruly to a point where it was almost ludicrous, and so distinctive (you could tell that bush from a mile away), so Hermione, really…

Her hair really did say it all.

There's something to be said about elitism. And that is to say that you've known from the very start that it's a bunch of bull. You know that it's used because people are afraid of what's different, what's better, what's worse. He was one of them. And you know they're like that because they know that if they accept that something can be different from them that means everything they think and have worked for and hold dear is completely null and for small-minded, bigoted prats like that, rocking their whole world on axis could destroy their fragile, elite, stupid self-image. And oh, did he have an image.

Is that why you can't stop thinking about him? The one who shouldn't mean anything more to you than the gum on your shoes, and yet the one face you undeniably always find in the crowd. He's big and mean and nasty like your grade school bullies, yet so beautiful and so close and you knew deep down in your heart that even those nasty bullies could be nice if there was just someone who would be nice to them.

So do you make room for him? Forget him? Make that first move, show the bully that there is someone who cares about him for more than the fear of her lunch money? Or do you shove him out of your life, forget anything he ever said to you, and leave one question unanswered?

Is that what he is to you?
Your only unanswerable question?

Hermione loved to talk. Mind you, it was always an intelligent kind of talk, one that got most of her friends confused about ten minutes in, because invariably it included something along the lines of how to brew such potion more efficiently or how the derivation of an equation could be applied most effectively.

But she loved to talk.

And she loved to answer questions, especially teacher's questions. Today, however, she wasn't answering questions. She was taking notes most diligently, copying the words and diagrams appearing magically on the board and the tiny bit of her focus that was on Professor Vector's voice noted the points her professor made an emphasis on, but the majority of her mind was elsewhere. Hermione Granger's mind was never elsewhere when in class.

Except for today.

Today she was focused on a little bit of sound coming from the back of the room, the sound of fingers running over a quill feather, and she was astonished to find that it sounded ridiculously like skin over skin. Like his skin on her skin. Because it happened once. She let it happen once. She couldn't believe she let it happen. Even if it was only once.

He touched her. And she was caught up in the Draco effect; yes, yes she was and she couldn't stop it, he was like a drug, and she got just a little, only a little taste, and oh, god, she wanted more.

It was so simple really. He kept leaving her notes, she'd find them every morning, every morning, destroying her routine, giving her a time and a place and asking her if she remembered because he remembered and oh, sweet Merlin, she remembered. His skin was like silk against hers and left a trail of stinging warmth up her thigh when they found themselves accidentally alone, and they knew that it was worthless and meaningless and stupid because he was dark and temptation and she was light and resistance and she knew, she knew, she knew she'd succumb.

The war, it was too much.

Too much to go on every day knowing every day is one day closer, too much to go along to finish school because they had that year to buy, dead time. Crucial to the grown-ups, but even more crucial to the children; the year that they had to hone their skills from raw metal to fine steel, a sword of knowledge to be used as a weapon as they used their weapons best.

But he was not dark yet, and neither was she light, and he told her that as he marked a trail up her neck, hot and wet, sticky with sweat because it was near the end of the school year and summer was coming fast, too fast.

And with the summer came recruitment and the war and growing up, too fast, it was all too fast, and for once in her life she was struggling to keep up. And he had said that they deserved one last chance to be children, and feel the pleasures of being adult without the consequences, and damn his Slytherin soul if he didn't say he wouldn't use it against her because he was using her as she would be using him and if she wanted him to he'd sign it in his blood and burn it, so they could never, would never speak a word.

And she promised herself that she would never, ever, ever speak a word.

You know you're the best when you outsmart even yourself. That by something of your doing, that you didn't even realize you were doing, you get what you want, you got it, you finally got it, and she was going to give it to you and you were so, so, so Slytherin and you were so proud. You got what you wanted, everything a means to your end, and you got it and now what?

Your war isn't over; when you sleep will you still nightmare? About what you have to do and your duty and your childish notions about the glory of being an adult but in your heart of hearts you know the only glory to be found is glory in your beautiful death, and you may not even get that. You don't want any glory if it means you die.

But she'll be here and erase it all because she's the one.
She has the answers.
She always has the answers.

He was waiting for her. It was dark but still hot, too hot, and he had changed from his long sleeved shirt for classes to a shorter polo, but that was his only concession to the fact that he was free from his classes for the night. That wasn't to say he didn't look good.

Draco Malfoy always looked good.

And he was waiting for her, up at the astronomy tower, the common spot for lover's trysts, but that wasn't where they were staying. Draco had much more class than that. He paced quietly as he waited; one step, once second, two steps, two seconds, three steps, three seconds, four steps, turn. And this repeated until he reached three hundred, five minutes of stepping, when he heard another's footsteps, hushed, yet hurried.

He heard, rather than saw, her as she tapped the archway to the astronomy tower with her wand: *tap* up, *tap* down, *tap* left, *tap* right; the cross of the muggle Savior, Jesus Christ.

How utterly fitting, seeing she was his savior, even if she was simply the savior of his sanity.

And after she tapped, a stream of light drew to all four points, and a bright translucent light filled the archway, Hermione on one side, bathed in bright white light, and Draco, now stepping out of the dark to meet her. He reached out and she grabbed his hand, and the light that was there engulfed them both, sending them to a destination of his choosing.

-
You always wondered what it would be like: to be wooed, obsessed, utterly taken with someone so that your thoughts went round and round like a little hamster in its wheel, and now that you have it, you know that Parvati and Lavender are fools.

How could anyone operate like this?

You're willing to break rules to go see this boy in the middle of the night for no reason other than simple gratification; you tell yourself it's to let go and let be, and to help you sleep at night because the nightmares you get of your closest dying and you lifeless on the floor without ever feeling that, for once, someone loved you and thought you the most important thing in the world.

And hell, if you can get one out of the two, you can't be picky; a year's time is short notice for the fates to give you what you want. And you don't have very much to offer them, either.

Will you sacrifice what's nearest to your heart tonight to gain your heart's desire? You know that you can never get what you're giving up back, and you think you know that it's what you want to do. But you need to feel him.

He makes you forget.
For once, all you want to do is be selfish and forget.

-
She was late. She was late, late, and if he left she'd be so upset, she finally worked herself up and he'd be gone and…

She pounded up the stairs as quietly as humanly possible and tapped the pattern he prescribed in the note: up, down, left, right. A beam of light connected the points and a wall of light opened in front of her eyes, blinding her, and all she could see was a hand reaching for her and she thought maybe she should grab it? So she did, and she saw him.

And he was beautiful.

And somehow the portal took them back to his room, where it smelled like musk and spice and a little like boy, but only a little. He kept his room clean.

He led her over to his bed, sitting her down on the duvet and she relished in the softness of it; hers was soft as well but where hers was plush and heavy, his was downy, and a little lighter, so she sunk into the comforter as the air was pushed out from under her weight. He leaned over her again, again, and he came close, closer, and his hair fell in her face and it tickled her nose and she sneezed; he laughed.

He had such a wonderful laugh, when it was free and deep and it rumbled in his chest and made her tingle to hear it. And as he laughed he got closer yet and closed the distance, his lips over hers, finally, finally and it was wonderful. Soft and sweet and warm and was it hot in here or was it just her? She felt the heat coming off of him in tangible waves, her hair a mess and there was a sheen of perspiration on both of them – she could feel it – but his hands still found their way wound into her hair. Her arms were around his neck and she pulled him closer as he pulled away to attack her neck and taste her sweat and he was licking and touching and there was more pressure as she laid back and he settled over her.

And he suckled and kissed and the only sound in his bedchamber was his breathing and her panting and the tap and suction sound of kisses and laps at her neck and her moans as she responded; the rustle of sheets as they moved and changed positions so he could move over her easier.

Her hands were all over him, his back, his chest, his arms, his face his neck his head his hair, anything, anything,anything, she needed to feel skin and she started to unbutton his shirt and got frustrated – she got frustrated over buttons! – but she made a little whimper of protest and he paused in his attentions to help her.

He gave her a look and with one smooth move, his shirt and her shirt were off, and he went back down and her hands were back on him, him kissing his way down her chest, first the collarbone and then down to her breasts, first right, then left, suckling and nibbling and teasing and her back was arching to help him because she didn't want it to stop.

And he continued down, down, further down, licking and blowing and leaving a hot, wet trail behind but it didn't matter because she was just as hot, just as wet, and couldn't be bothered with something like that. And he lifted her skirt was kissing her thigh and her apex and she spread her legs for him and she didn't realize that she was totally open to him until she felt him slip a finger inside her and oh, goodness something that good shouldn't stop.

And he didn't, no he certainly didn't, and she forgot her embarrassment when he pulled her panties off and her skirt off and parted her lips with his hand and then his tongue was there and she almost protested until he started to move and she knew that this couldn't be legal, no way this could be legal, this felt way too good. And he licked and he sucked and he pumped his finger in and out of her and she felt him catch a spot and she felt her back jump off the bed but she wasn't in control any longer, her pants and her moans, her actions and those wonderful sensations didn't belong to her, she just knew she was flying so high and then she felt something intense, a pressure that she didn't know wasn't there before, and all of a sudden, she felt it release.

And her world exploded before her eyelids.

She was beautiful. She was under him and over him and around him and her scent and her feel and her sounds urged him on, to give more than he usually gave, to take her where she never went before. He had kissed her neck and she started to shiver, as he laved her breasts she was so beautiful, watching him with curiosity and interest until it was too much and her eyes were back in her head. And then he worked his way down, touching and teasing as much as he could without ruining his pants, and when he finally was all the way down her legs just fell open. And he couldn't not do it.

He could smell it, it smelled sweet. He wanted to taste.

And he did.

And it was wonderful. The gasp of air she pulled in as he licked her clit, and started to pump into her with her fingers and she started to pant and little parts of his name made it past her lips; he was sure she couldn't put a word together if she tried.

And he crooked his finger back and that's when her back arched for him so beautifully and it stayed there for a minute, until her hips jumped when he hit her spot again and she was back on it, riding his finger and he was licking and sucking on her clit and working her for all he was worth. And he could feel it; her muscles were starting to clamp down on him, and then harder and harder until she came with such a shudder he almost thought her muscles were seizing. He lapped up all the juice he could – some made it past him and spilled onto his sheets anyway.

Her eyelids fluttered and she lay there for a moment, unmoving. She was so beautiful, her hair was in a wild abandon across his pillow and her limbs limp; every so often one of her muscles would twitch almost inconspicuously.

Her eyes opened slowly, and she looked up and smiled at him, reaching out to him and he obliged, crawling up into her embrace and kissing her, while her hands slid down his back and started to push off his pants.

Her hands were so tiny and petite, yet when they circled him, he realized how great small hands were, they did such wonderful things. And when she angled him to enter her, he paused, grabbed his wand from his side table, muttered a contraceptive charm (thanks to the mandatory section of 7th year Charms) and then allowed her to guide him in, slowly, as he knew she was tight.

And yes, oh, yes she was tight. He felt it everywhere, and it was great, so great, that when she settled, he pulled out all the way and slowly did it again, he wanted it to happen again and again and she was perfect. Her muscles squeezed him as he pulled out, as if willing him to stay where she was, and when he pushed back in, he felt her breath come out in awhoosh and with that his name.

So he did it again. And again, and again, and she urged him to go faster and more and oh, god, he gave her more, until she was crying his name and scratching at his back, as if trying to keep a hold on to her reality. And her hands tightened into fists on his back as he pumped in and out of her, and her back arched so forcefully he almost lost his balance, and his name left her lips in such a seductive manner that as soon as he felt her tightening around him, his balls tightened up and within three seconds he was grunting, his orgasm pushing through him and around him and out of him and into her.

He collapsed onto her, still within her and thoroughly sated, and she felt like she was about to lose consciousness. And as he pulled out and rolled over, he grabbed a washcloth and wiped her and him, their spot, and she rolled over to him and gave him a smile; she was so happy.

And as he came back to bed, curled up around her and fell asleep right next to her, his breath evening out and becoming deeper, she realized that the fates gave her both her wishes: for once, she felt loved and needed in every way, and realized that even for only this moment, this forbidden treasure was worth it.

Oh, it had been so worth it.