Keep Your Friends Close, a harry potter fanfic

In what can only be called desperation his mouth crushes against mine, furious and cold and wretched all at once. For a second I do nothing, wondering if he knew no other way to silence me. Slowly, a shaking hand untangles from my hair and presses to my cheek with an uncertainty that stuns me, and for once I really don't know what to do –

– because those lips are moving now, fitting against mine with an awful perfection and asking silent questions that I don't know how to answer but oh, Merlin; my eyes close with a finality and I clumsily kiss him back.

An icy tongue flickers out and sweeps along my lower lip and I shiver, misplaced in the moment of clarity. The stone wall behind me arches low over my head, cold seeping into my robes and skin with an eager cruelty. All too soon I am gone once more and the chill doesn't matter, because his body is flush against mine and I can't help my hands pushing past his robes and losing themselves in the black and green.

With a hiss he slips a hand around my waist, tightening his grasp as my fingers pull him closer, till crimson and emerald touch with the faintest of sounds –

A pause as we gasp for breath, my forehead leaning against his chest. I can hear his heartbeat; I can feel the blood pushing through his heart: around and in and out, around and in and out, over and over; veins and arteries like snakes through skin. Because I know that's what he is – a snake, someone not to be trusted, an enemy – yet he's so close and I know he's closer than he should be.

And there it is in the screams of my mind, flashing around and around like a lighthouse; that Muggle saying (our saying):

keep your friends close

but your enemies –

I inhale against his chest, feeling the cotton threads of his jumper tickle my nose. That's where this started, isn't it? That stupid conversation I had with Ginny at breakfast. It feels like hours, days, weeks ago but it can't be more than minutes before that I walked from the hall. She asked me about Muggle phrases, I remember, she asked me to give an example of one, and I –

I said, "Keep your friends close, but your enemies closer."

Ginny stared at me for a long moment, eyes tightening in confusion over her forkful of fried egg. I laughed a little at the look. "Come on," she replied, exasperated. "Be serious! That doesn't even make sense."

"I think you'll find that it's a well-known phrase in the Muggle society.' I told her. 'In fact, if you'd done the Muggle Studies homework last week…" – at this, I threw Ginny a glare which she guiltily avoided – "… then perhaps you wouldn't have to ask. Especially," I added, "since you're only asking because you have to do said homework for after breakfast."

Slumping on the table, Ginny groaned. "Give me a break, Hermione! I was up all night writing all those bloody letters to Mum and Harry and Ron and…"

'Homework is given for a reason, Ginny!" I scolded, ignoring her. "Professor Nolan said phrases are important for a complete understanding of the Muggle mind. In fact, in my essay, I included an in-depth analysis of the reasons for such thought and –"

"Hermione!"

I sniffed at the younger girl, taking the proffered parchment and quill. "I suppose I could scribble a little something," I said, huffing at her hopeful look.

"I owe you," Ginny replied seriously, ruining it slightly by grinning and standing suddenly. "I have to go post all those letters, so I'll see you before class, yeah?"

Before I could protest she was gone, walking briskly from the Hall. I couldn't stop staring for a few minutes, still seeing her long hair disappearing around the edge of the oak doors. Months after the War, I could still see her fury, passion raging red amongst the ice green curses. It was hard to forget someone having such an ugly kind of beauty. It was hard to forget anything really; Fred's jokes ('ear, 'ear) and Lupin's chocolate, Tonks' pink hair and Dumbledore's half-moon glasses… and no matter what I did, I couldn't forget that voice ("page three hundred and ninety-four, mr. potter.")

I sighed, pulling a strand of frizzed hair to sit behind my ear and getting ready to work.

keep your friends close, but your enemies –

your enemies-

enemies –

My enemies. My gaze was pulled from the parchment and to the corner of the room, settling on a lone figure seated at the Slytherin table. Back straight from years of habit, Draco Malfoy sat with a hint of broken pride. As if sensing my look, those ice-gray eyes snapped up to meet mine with a piercing intensity, cool and arrogant even after everything… but after everything, I could tell that it was an act. After everything, I could tell that his hands were resting on his lap because he hasn't been able to stop them from shaking since (his father) and (his mother–!) After everything, I could tell that his lip was ragged from the bitemarks and he favoured his right arm because his left was in agony, and I didn't know whether it was because of the Mark or due to the Fiendfyre. And after everything…

After everything, I could still feel a surge of anger as those shards of ice stare right back at me, I could still hear that hiss of "Mudblood!" and feel her curse cutting into my arm, my arm, and pain pain pain –

I stood abruptly, sweeping the parchment and quill into my robe pockets before moving quickly from the Hall. I couldn't stand looking at him, seeing that pitiful arrogance peel itself into a smirk, because that surge of heat teetered between fury and –

"Granger," he said loudly from behind me, only moments later in the corridor. I felt five points of sharp pressure on my shoulder and realised that he had reached out, hand clinging to my robes.

With a sharp inhalation I whirled around, scowling up at the wizard. It wasn't so obvious from the other side of the Great Hall, but as he towered over me it was painfully clear that Malfoy was no longer a boy. His pale, almost white features were strong with pride, eyes still sharp as glass. How can something so broken - so shattered – still stand at all? My thoughts urged me to speak, to let something slip into the heavy silence coiling around us, anything, because I could still feel his fingers, piercing my shoulder with their burning chill –

"Get off, Malfoy," I snapped, jerking my shoulder away from his touch.

Malfoy sneered at me, tightening his hold and stepping closer. "Why?" he asked. "Scared of me, Mudblood?"

Like lightning my hand flashed out and up, because I'd been waiting for that, waiting for that stupid little word to slip from his mouth like poison from a snake. A crack split the air, but Malfoy barely flinched, silent even as pink slowly stained his cheek. "You – you –" I struggled, too furious to find words.

"Did it feel as good that time, Granger?" he hissed, and before I could reply his free hand grasped my other shoulder and slammed me into an alcove by our left, my back curving against the freezing stone. Malfoy stared at me for a long second as I struggled against his hold, my hands scrabbling over his in vain. "You and Potter, and that weasel," he said bitterly, "you always had it easy, didn't you?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," I spat in reply.

"I'm talking about this stupid school!" Malfoy shouted, banging me against the wall to emphasise his point, one hand curling into my hair viciously. "Always humiliating me, always laughing and happy – always bloody being better."

"You're pathetic!" He recoiled slightly at this, but I continued, too furious to stop. "You think you're the only one who lost people in the War, who lost family –"

In what could only be called desperation his mouth crushed against mine, furious and cold and wretched all at once. For a second I did nothing, wondering if he knew no other way to silence me. Slowly, a shaking hand untangled from my hair and pressed to my cheek with an uncertainty that stunned me, and for once I really didn't know what to do –

Because –

He's kissing me again, hand slipping from my cheek to my hair, wary of the unruly curls. To my surprise, as his tongue brushes against mine delicately, I can taste oranges - sweet and bitter without warning. Malfoy's hand interrupts my thought as it slides from my hip to my chest, covering my right breast and squeezing. My fingers clench against him, grasping his jumper and pulling him even closer against my body. He exhales shakily and I feel him pressing into my stomach, hard despite our mingling anger.

"Granger," Malfoy mutters past my mouth roughly, "I need you."

I close my eyes as he lets out a frustrated hiss, shifting against my belly. By no means am I a virgin – during the War, Ron and I tried, but then he couldn't, not anymore, not after - (oh, Fred) – but I don't sleep around. In spite of this I can feel my neck flushing and thighs parting slightly, heat swelling in my core at his words. Perhaps it's because hatred is a passion only a step from love, perhaps because his hands are tracing my breasts, but I can't help catching his lips with mine once more and pulling my hands down his chest to his stomach, running a finger along the waistband of black trousers.

Malfoy stifles a groan and snatches at my blouse, untucking it from my skirt. I watch as he tries to unfasten the white shirt, hands shaking fiercely, before eyebrows push together in annoyance and with a jerk the Slytherin pulls it open, buttons falling to the floor with faint clicking noises. The act sets me in motion and I pull his shirt from his trousers, reaching up underneath the layers to brush against his stomach and hips with trembling fingers; in return he pushes past my white blouse to unclasp my bra.

"Merlin," I breathe. The word is muffled against him as I try not to be overwhelmed by those wandering hands, touching and trailing invisible patterns on my skin.

My hands dip suddenly and I am tracing his hip bones, fingers slipping inside his waistband and thumbs spreading across his lower belly to touch in the middle, rubbing up and down the line of coarse hair there – I peek downwards momentarily. The hair is dark, more brown than blonde, and for some reason I am amused. I glance back to Malfoy just in time to catch his sneer crushing itself to my mouth, tongue sliding against mine almost immediately.

A hand curls around my thigh and yanks it up. I clutch his shoulders instinctively for balance, letting out a quiet cry into his mouth; deciding to pull back for a moment, Malfoy looks at me with a half-smile – more a lopsided smirk than anything. Absently, fingers rub circles against the bottom of my thigh before sliding along and up to trace the curve of my bottom. His smile falters as I flush slightly, and I don't miss his eyelids lowering as he leans closer to me.

"It's Draco," he says suddenly, fingers moving again, to –

"Oh," I gasp, tightening my hold on his shoulders. A sharp shock of pleasure shoots from those fingers and to my core, as he strokes my heat through my underwear.

Eyes of ice regard me. "Draco," he repeats.

I struggle to think past those bloody fingers, breathing fast. With great effort I meet his shards. "I know your name, Malfoy," I tell him.

"I want you to use it," he hisses. His rhythm increases, those grey shards of glass staring me down.

"Draco," I manage through grit teeth.

His eyes slip shut and he presses his cool forehead to mine as he moves his hand, fingers sliding up past my waistband and down again to stop against my damp arousal. "Again."

I press myself closer to his hand and let out a quiet noise, squeezing my eyes shut in frustration. "Draco!"

He thrusts two fingers inside me with no warning, thumb working my nub expertly. A sharp intake of air follows as Malfoy lets out a groan, exploring me whilst moving in and out. I lean my head against the cool stone. I can feel heat settling heavily below my stomach, the arch of my feet tingling in a familiar way that indicates an oncoming orgasm; just as the heat twists Draco withdraws his fingers and I lose the climax in my disappointment.

"You –" I begin to snap at him in my anger, but he silences me with a kiss and a frustrated thrust against my stomach.

Blinking, I feel a stab of guilt as he makes his problem clear to me. I waste no time in delving into his trousers, one hand working his belt off while the other wraps around his rigid flesh. "Oh, fuck," he gasps into my mouth, before moving to my ear and nipping the lobe eagerly as I stroke his hardness, concentrating past the haze of pleasure. After a few moments Draco pushes me away, shivering slightly. His hand slides to tighten around my thigh and he pulls it up like my other to hook around his waist; my back and hands curve to the stone wall to hold myself up.

White fingers stretch to my skirt, pushing the fabric up. The quiet is stained with the sound of breathing; Malfoy moves his lips against mine carefully as he pulls his member free from the constraints of his trousers and presses it against my arousal. A lazy wave of heat rolls from my core and up through my stomach, tingling sharply in my lips and breasts. I can feel every shift of fabric against my flesh, but all I can think of is the feeling of Draco against me – slowly pushing past my wet folds to stop against my entrance with maddening care. Just as I begin to consider thrusting forward and doing it myself, the Slytherin speaks.

"You're still a mudblood," he says. His voice is not hateful, but tired.

I look up to meet his eyes, sharp and dull at the same startling time. His lips are tight against each other, colour leeched from them. Somehow I can't find it within myself to resent him for those words, because after all, that's how he was raised – taught to have a glacial hatred of muggle-borns and their kind; taught to be a pureblood; to be tirelessly proud of his emerald feathers – and looking at him now I can see that underneath grey eyes are dark crescents which whisper of sleepless nights.

I've yet to find a book which can tell me why Draco Malfoy is here, why he tastes of oranges and why I don't run down that corridor now without looking back. I don't understand why I'm not pushing him away – and I don't think he understands either, because he's hesitating now, looking warily at my right hand.

I open my mouth, unsure of what I'm about to say (I don't know what you say to that). I want to tell him that he doesn't need to think about that anymore, but a suggestion like that would only anger him. I want to tell him that yes, I am, and it'll never change, not even for a Malfoy. What good would saying that do?

But I settle for less-than-perfect words – because in the end, we're less than perfect people, stained with war and murder and loss. I know what people like us need.

"But you're not alone anymore," I tell him.

Draco doesn't sneer. Instead his lips curve into a tiny shadow of a smile, which I glimpse for only a moment before he kisses me with icy warmth. I've almost forgotten his erection pressing against my slick heat, but as he pulls his mouth back from mine to trail his lips down my neck, I sense him push against my entrance once more. The Slytherin thrusts forward suddenly and I gasp, feeling his length bury itself inside me.

For a second he stops, breathing against my neck with tightly shut eyes and that tiny smile still painting his lips. "Hermione," Draco murmurs. At the sound of my name I sigh, quietly overwhelmed (by what, I don't know).

"Draco." I bite his earlobe playfully when he doesn't reply and he lets out a moan, tightening his hold against my hips. Frustrated at the lack of movement I wriggle and he seems to take the hint.

Inhaling sharply, those white fingers curl around my hips with renewed vigour and pull me up and back. I groan as he repeats the movement slowly, glaring at his breathless laugh. I can't take much more before aching with need. My eyes flicker shut and I push myself down to meet his next thrust.

"Yes," Draco hisses.

I lean forward to capture his mouth in a deep kiss as I rock back and forth again. It doesn't surprise me when he copies my movement, pressing me against the stone – I barely notice the cold now – and flicking his tongue over mine. It's all too easy to pull him closer and close my eyes when he bites at my lip. The heat is becoming almost unbearable; I can feel myself losing every part of me but one as the climax approaches – because it comes as no surprise that despite that little smile, Draco is no gentle lover, and his thrusts are rough and fast.

His moans are quiet but his laboured breathing less so. For a moment, grey eyes slide open to look at me, to flash up and down and smile, and then they close and Draco holds his breath and rolls his hips upwards, and oh oh oh –

I cry out and clutch at him, unravelled and undone and quite mad with pleasure. He slams his hips forward and stills, groaning and burying his face in my hair.

"Hermione." he whispers into my skin and his breath heats right through bone and blood. I shake against the wall and feel something unknown tremor in my chest; white dances in front of my eyes and I am barely aware that his seed is spilling hot inside me.

It feels like an age before I can breathe again. "Draco," I gasp against him, against that nakedness. His arms pull me up – I feel his loss acutely – and down to the cold stone ground, where they coil around my body for only a second before sliding away with the hiss of skin on skin.

He half-turns away and starts to button up his shirt, eyes peeking at me while he does so. Dazedly and with a heart still pounding from post-sex, I flatten down my skirt and pick up the shirt, which is ripped slightly and the buttons have all rolled out of sight. I hear a snicker from his direction and scowl at the blouse, dropping it to reach for my bra instead. Once I have it on, I hear Draco clear his throat and something cool and heavy drape over my shoulders. I look down.

It's his shirt. It is far too big and could probably pass for a dress, but I smile at the gesture and reach for the Slytherin. He bends to concede to the kiss and then hastily straightens, pulling his robes tighter (although it does nothing to hide the rather blatant lack of a shirt) and then looks at me.

I'm caught off-guard by that stare. I am too exposed for a look like that; my chest is still damp with sweat and open-mouthed kisses and my cheeks are still flushed. I'm all too aware of the mess that is my hair and I don't want to think about the state of my underwear. But Draco is just as imperfect – his blonde locks are tousled and his lips are more chapped than usual; high up on the very tips of his cheekbones are flashes of pink. So when he leans closer and kisses me on the corner of my mouth, I don't pull away in embarrassment or even hesitation.

I smile faintly as he turns and strides away with an almost convincing finality.