Dying Tonight
"I can be wild!"
"Prove it!"
Hermione Granger and Ginny Weasley stared at each other, thoughts racing through Hermione's mind. What could she do to prove that she could "let her hair down" as McGonagall had said fourth year? Ginny had been right, however, for Hermione had never really lived like other teenagers. Even Harry had had his nights with Ron lately, trying to forget about the War for that short time they could just be Harry and Ron. And that's where they were now.
"I've got it." Hermione went to her room, shutting the door and rummaging through her wardrobe. She frowned. All the dresses she had were long, evening gown-type ones (and she only had two of which), and her skirts were all knee-length, far too conservative for what she was thinking of. Even her tops were all button-down blouses. There was that tank top she wore to bed... but it was just that, for bed. She took the black evening gown from the hanger it was on, and changed into it. It still fit, which was amazing since she'd had it since seventh year, and figured with her latest eating binge (mainly to try and stay awake during the late nights she was to write reports) she would have long outgrown it.
But it was still an evening gown.
Grabbing her wand, Hermione traced a diagonal line across the dress just above her knees, and the skirt of the dress from that point down detached and fell to the floor with a whisper, leaving a short number with a jagged hem that didn't look half bad, as though it had been made with the hem like it was. She then drew a straight line up to the middle of her right thigh, wondering if that was a bit too bold. No matter, Hermione, you've got to loosen up sometime. This was something her parents definitely would never approve of, but that was the point, wasn't it? She pulled on black shoes, and stepped in front of the full-length mirror. The dress's straps fell down her upper arms, lacy and thick, and the neckline of the dress came low, one of the reasons Hermione hadn't worn it more than once; she didn't like baring that much skin. The new short skirt of the dress showed off her long, slender but shapely legs, and the material hugged every curve of her perfectly proportioned, curvy figure. And now... for her hair.
Notorious for being bushy and unmanageable, it had somehow over the years worked its way into shining ringlets, still with some frizz but not so much as to take away from the rest of her features, falling in an elbow-length curtain. With another flick of her wand, she had it in a messy updo, curly tendrils falling down the sides of her face. With some eyeliner and lip gloss, she felt ready, and tucked her wand into a secret pocket of the dress against her right side, all before making her way back out into the living room.
"Come on, Ginny, we're going dancing."
The Golden Galleon was a relatively new club, built in London not quite four years ago, its music a mix of rock-techno, and it was somewhat dark inside. There was a bar, which Hermione vowed to never go to again after trying a shot of Firewhiskey "for the hell of it," and the building had two levels. The lower was the dance floor and bar area, the upper was full of tables and chairs, along two of the walls were sofas, on which couples got to know each other better. Hermione frowned as she looked at them, wondering how they could do such things in public, as if everybody wanted to see. Though, she supposed that's why this was the upstairs area and the downstairs was... well, downstairs.
Making her way down, she soon found herself swept up in the addiction of dancing, and before she knew it she felt an arm go around her waist, pulling her back against a hard body. As their bodies moved against one another, she felt as though she were drowning in this dance, and she knew why people loved to come here. It was like she was pleasantly drunk, losing herself in the seduction of the hands running over her body, tracing her curves, their sweat mingling and his hair tickling her neck as he kissed it, mumbling words she couldn't understand nor cared to.
"Who are you?" she asked over the loud music and crowd around her, but he didn't answer, and a thrill mounted beneath her skin. She liked the mystery but it would bother her all night if she didn't find out, and she turned to see Draco Malfoy, his blonde hair sticking to his face and his eyes the color of molten lead with lust. The old Hermione would have shrieked, pushed him away and/or cursed him, but this new Hermione... she couldn't get enough of it. And damn, he was attractive. Before she could say anything, his mouth was covering hers, and she was kissing him back with fervor, her hands entwining in his damp hair, her body aching and pressing against his. His arms went around her waist, and suddenly she found herself in a room silent and without the heat of the bodies around, and instead radiating off the both of them.
And she was falling, falling as his fingers took the hairgrips from her wild curls so they tumbled down her shoulders, falling as she slipped off the dress and forgot about her wand and all the values she'd set herself up to follow her whole life. She was transformed, she was fallen, she was giving in to him. And she could never go back, nor did she want to. This delicious game of lust was so addicting that she knew why people did it, and it was in the moment they stumbled to the bed, still locked in a passionate kiss, that she forgot about all scorn she would get by everyone who would know she slept with Draco Malfoy, infamous for being a Death Eater, following in the footsteps of his dear father. She didn't care that she was a Muggle-born, a mere Mudblood, while he -- a pureblood with a bloodline tracing back all the way to the Middle Ages -- had insulted her for that heritage her entire life at Hogwarts. She was in a haze, a dark, beautiful haze that even logic and reasoning couldn't worm into here.
Hermione Granger had a dark side. She hated that it had taken her this long to find it. She didn't know what would happen after this night, but she knew that she loved it while it lasted. She hated the thought of tomorrow, the thought of Monday even more, for going back to work would not give her the sort of strange pleasure it had before. Books held no ecstasy such as this, this entwining of legs and arms and mingling of sweat and skin and heated whispers, some random kisses here and there.
Whatever did happen, Hermione knew she would never be the same. And she didn't mind.
Take me under
I'm giving in to you
I'm dying tonight
I'm giving in to you
Watch me crumble
I'm giving in to you
I'm crying tonight
I'm giving in to you...
FIN
A/N: I might have a sequel, I might not... it depends on how much you all like this story. Song used at the end and title belong to Adema.