Nights.
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Pairing: Draco Malfoy/Hermione Granger.
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Distance, timing, breakdown, fighting/ Silence, this train runs off its tracks.
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She wakes up in the ruffled ruins of blankets and pillows, in the early threads of morning light that seep through her window.
Her head hurts.
Hermione's pulse is pounding against her skull, and she grimaces as she pulls herself up, blinks at the glass and sits up. Bruises have bloomed over her wrists, her jaw, purple and black and tender, and she takes a step back as she looks at herself in the mirror.
Draco.
She longs for his presence, for his mouth against hers, his hands exploring her skin, and their
foreheads touching slightly as she whispers condolences again and again.
Lies.
Hermione shakes her head and splashes her cheeks with water, forces a cup of cold coffee down
her throat before breathing deeply, healing her marks easily with a swift swipe of her wand and gathering her books before heading out the Gryffindor common room, where it is silent and dark and cold, no fires burning, no lights twinkling.
She knows it all too well, the routine of each morning after.
Hermione creeps through the portrait hole, books in hand and her wand a flickering glow in the other, and walks down the staircase slowly, her head throbbing as she steps down carefully, the rush of carpet beneath her revealing nothing.
"Granger," Malfoy says when he sees her, a mess of light brown curls and narrowed caramel slits, smelling of books and parchment and champagne.
"Malfoy," she says back in return, and yesterday night flashes back in her mind again, no matter how she tries to push it back, even though it happens every night and she still wakes up lonely after.
Firewhiskey.
Murmurs.
Whispers in the dark. Drunken conformations.
Draco. Draco. Draco.
She walks past him, and they almost touch for a second, but her pulls away, murmurs don't fucking touch me, mudblood before she tightens her grip on her books and escapes.
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Draco makes way to breakfast, where Pansy and Goyle and Crabbe wait patiently for him, their plates full and Pansy's pug like face scrunched up at him.
"Where were you, Draco?"
The words linger in the air, and he closes his eyes, ignores the headache that temporarily blinds him, ignores the memory of Granger in his mind, of her hot curls against his skin, of her whispering Draco and him whispering Granger as they collided, and how she smelled of fruit and alcohol and familiarity.
"None of your bloody concern, Pansy."
Pansy lowers her head over her toast.
And Draco turns his head to the right, to the Gryffindor table, where Granger is sitting alone, sipping a glass of pumpkin juice as she stares blankly at the distance, at the brilliance of the rising sun before her and waits for Potter and Weasley.
There is something twisting at the bottom of his chest, dark and as bitter as regret, swirling as she meets his eyes for one faltering second of time.
Granger.
He almost wishes it; that the mudblood was here late at night when he slips away to the Room of Requirement and howls, watches as the last sliver of his sanity slips away from reach; wishes she could stroke his head in her lap and whisper beautiful lies to him.
But Draco feels numb, as Potter and Weasley arrive, their eyes narrowed with sleep and she gives them a radiant smile, he doesn't feel anything at all.
And all he knows when her gaze slips over to his, in this one moment that the universe is still, that everything is so fucked up.
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Hermione starts the routine when all the classes are over and she makes her way to her dorm room, lets out a breath of relief and fear.
She walks slowly to the mirror, and with shaking hands, applies ink black eyeliner over her lids, blush, bright red lipstick that paints her lips the colour of blood. Her hands fumble as they reach for her wand, to clean the line of black she has accidentally drawn across her cheek, and with another flick of her wand, her face is clean.
She inhales at the mirror.
She is a stranger.
Hermione gathers her hood from her spread out bed, bottons it up with shaking fingers and tucks her head under the hood, closes her eyes.
And then she is off, her mind wandering as she makes the familiar way to the Room of Requirement, thoughts drifting through her mind; books, potions, Harry.
Draco.
Her heart is pumping, and she should used to be the feeling, the feeling of her arriving and losing herself and becoming someone else, of the world blurring under her fingertips, of the war fading away into the background of the rhythm of the music.
She knows it is wrong, that she will regret it when she wakes up the next morning and feels light-headed, when she slips back into her usual role and Draco becomes a stranger.
But when she enters, the crowd of students swelling and dancing and pulsing with rhythm, she can't stop.
Because for a second, she isn't Hermione Granger, the girl who is smart and proud and brave, she is just another human; real and raw and alive.
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Draco enters the Room of Requirement, and he is met by a roar of laughter and music, dancing and drunken whispers, of wizards and witches swaying to the music that was so loud it pulsed against his temple and his fellow Slytherins, solemn in the corner with half filled glasses.
Someone hands him a glass of something, and he takes it gratefully. Draco looks up to murmur a thanks, and he is staring into the dark green eyes of Theo Nott.
"Careful, mate," he says. "That stuff is fucking strong, I remember waking up wearing nothing next to Moaning Myrtle after drinking that."
Draco's expression is blank.
"Good."
And he drowns the glass in one swallow, the alcohol burning his throat and numbing his senses, and suddenly the edges of his vision are suddenly not as sharp, the objects blurring as he surges forward blindly, and grabs on to the first thing in front of him.
The person spins around, suddenly, a witch wearing a dark blue hood that hides her face, and as she steadies him, inhales. Her hood falls back, revealing long, thick hair that cascades down her shoulders and frames her face in the colour of autumn, and as Draco blinks, the world sets into focus and he realises who it is.
Granger.
"Draco," she breathes, and her face is slightly flushed, radiating off of wine and sugar and her usual scent of books.
"Where have you been?" he says, and suddenly, she is at the corner of another room, against the edge of a hastily made bed, their skin touching.
They are so close, so suffocating close that she forgets to breathe.
She laughs huskily as she brushes a stray strand of blond from Draco's forehead as he exhales softly and presses her shoulder against the wall.
Draco has pinned her against the wall, and he tries, he tries to hold on to these last moments of clarity, as she whispers, "Maybe this is wrong, Malfoy."
He smirks, almost half-heartedly. "So what if it is?"
And they slam into each other, and all Hermione can think is him as he invades her senses and presses his mouth roughly against hers, as their tongues collide and she can taste the firewhiskey he had earlier, warm and stinging against her throat, and for one moment, as he removes her robe and brushes her breasts with his fingers, his tongue slipping between spaces, between her neck and her jaw and her stomach and her pink nipples, that she will regret this, she will regret everything.
But, he is a drug, and as she inhales, she can't fucking stop.
She removes his clothing, and lets her hand wander, to his buttocks and his throbbing erection, and he curses as she does, his hot breath against the softness of her mouth.
Her knickers are down as she grabs on to him, shaking, and his fingers brush the inside of her thigh.
She lets out a moan, and it lingers in his mouth as he presses his lips vigorously to hers, and their scents collide, musk and sugar and firewhiskey.
Her breasts are against his chest, and he move downwards, towards her wet entrance, and flicks her clit with his pale fingers, Granger whimpering in his arms and shivering slightly, as he explores her wet fold with his tongue, the world fading away into the background as he does, blurring away into a rush of colour and sound and music.
With a frantic jerk of his hips, he has entered her, and she hisses at the sensation of feeling whole and empty and filled, of pleasure racking her body as she digs her fingernails into his arms and he whispers You're so fucking tight, Granger.
Waves pass through her as he thrusts through her, electricity and sparks and the room seems to fade to black as she feels the feeling rise, rise slowly to the surface as the last shreds of her control shatter into nothingness.
And she chokes out a cry as finally he pulses inside of her and warmness spread from deep inside of her, making her clench and vibrate with pleasure and pain, the universe slowing in its orbit, stopping completely.
He is intoxicating.
Draco searches for his release, and he finds it while she clings onto his skin and he curses under his breath and comes, frantically and desperately in her arms, pressing his lips to her jaw as a growl ripples through him and rises to the surface.
And never has she felt so good, and whole and empty and intoxicated and wasted, never has she felt reckless as his mouth crashes against her again and her throat burns, her heart thumping painfully against her ribcage as he thrusts again and she lets out a whispered moan.
The world outside does not exist, only that of sleepless nights and friction and desperation, murmurs in the dark and firewhiskey that makes him forget outside.
Though,after, he knows he will go, he will leave Granger and the scent of fruit and firewhiskey and books, and go back.
He will go back to Slytherin, the cold nest of familiarity and stare at the blackness of the sky alone, shivering and regretting everything.
But, for now, Draco stays as she goes limp in her arms and he pushes a curl that is stuck to her cheek with sweat or tears, whispers to her as she shivers.
beautiful lies.
He murmurs an apology, as the buzz, and the hum, the vibrate of his breath that is caught in his chest is gone, and the room is still and cold and it's all so fucking familiar and not at the same time.
The door clicks open with the push of his hand, and he stands for a second, left in this one second of soberness.
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"I," she's saying in her dreams, whispering, murmuring, and there's something convulsing in her chest, and it stings and burns. "Maybe in another world….I could…"
Maybe in another world, I could've loved you.
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She opens her eyes, blinks.
A pale shadow at the doorway turns sharply and something in her whispers let him go, let him leave but still she hesitates, even after all this time.
Hermione drags her fingers along her cheek and her eyes, and she looks down to a smear of pink and black and red. She opens her mouth, to say something, but her voice is a hint of a whisper as she speaks and her lungs burn in her chest.
"Please, Draco. Stay."
She doesn't know how to feel now, as he looks at her with emotionless eyes and says nothing, and she wills herself to be still as he gives her a last faltering look.
Hermione mouths the words again, and she doesn't know why, why suddenly tears are pooling at the edges of her eyes and her cheeks are a messed up piece of art, of smeared makeup.
She should fucking hate him.
And then, a slight crack and he is gone, and Hermione is left staring at the shadows and gathering her things, wiping off her makeup and gathering her clothes, her throat tight and her mouth dry.
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Hermione wakes up in the Gryffindor dorm room, and there are bruises along her arms, along her cheeks, a long thread of black that runs from her jaw.
She picks up the books, flicks her wand so the bruises are gone, drowns down a glass of water to heal her headache and sits in silence before walking out the door.
She knows what will happen; Malfoy will whisper mudblood and she'll shake her head, walk away to breakfast as if nothing has happened, even if everything has, and in the night, they'll be starting the cycle again.
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Draco discovers she is dead when his father whispers it accidently to him one day as they watch Bellatrix torture another crowd of mudbloods.
"The mudblood you went to school with, Draco, is dead," he says, and his father's voice is calm, so fucking calm.
His blood freezes.
And he rushes to his room, looks at himself in the mirror, pale and thin and borderline insane, and the first thing slips out of his hand when he remembers Granger standing over him, smiling slightly, her curls stuck to her skin. The thing falls and shatters to the ground in a million pieces, and he can't move, he can't breathe, because she is fucking dead and he is nothing now.
Nothing.
He is silent as he destroys everything in his room, the mirror falling to the ground with a sickening crack, his bed a mess of fabric and feather and his own blood, his desk now two broken pieces of splintered wood. The images come to his mind all at once, and he is suffocated by her, by her scent, by firewhiskey, and the memories are hitting him with full force now, of smeared lipstick and mascara, dark blue hoods and nails that cut into his skin and desperation and friction and panic, whispers in the dark, sugar and wine.
Everything hurts, and the world blurs, and Draco is left grabbing the shard of mirror until it cuts his skin and blood seeps out of his palm, and still, he is paralyzed because everything fucking hurts.
He slams the mirror down and it breaks, and he looks at his room, at glass and splintered wood, and suddenly a thought rises within him.
Draco raises his wand, and flames erupt around his room, and he watches from the corner, sweating, watches as everything fucking burn and turn to ashes.
Ashes.
His lungs retract, and he is staring at the floor with his mouth closed and his wand clutched tightly in his fingers, because Granger is fucking dead and he is sure that he never loved her, never liked her, he doesn't know, but still, something in him breaks that he knows that will never be fixed.
I could've loved you she said the last time he saw her, when the war was nearing and she smoothed back his hair, her brown eyes glistening. I could've loved you, Malfoy.
No, was all he replied, staring at the distance at Potter and Weasley and nothing, his throat burning as he opened his mouth to speak, Not like this, mudblood.
Draco watches the flames fade, watches himself like a shadow, and he knows that time will not heal anything, and he is numb.
And he whispers Granger Granger Granger like a prayer as he stands still, as if it could change the fact that she is dead and her body is cold; whispers her name as if he could still feel her nails against his skin, her body pressed against his.
He knows time will not heal this.
His room is destroyed, and for the first time, Draco Malfoy stands in the ruins of it and howls.
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And time is taking its sweet time erasing you. /And you've got your demons, and, darling, they all look like me.
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fin.
a.n: so I've been gone for a loong time! But, for those who remember me, I've published this ansty oneshot, and I hope you enjoy! a new multi chap coming soon