AN: This is a bit weird. Sorry. Also, it's a two-shot; the rest is coming soon. My second Dramione attempt; let me know what you think!
"And the rest is rust and stardust."
-Lolita, Vladimir Nabokov
You're sitting in front of me in Potions and I think I hate you.
I always hate you, you know—just so we're clear. But right now your hair is a mop and a cloud and a fucking mess God damn Granger look into a mirror for once and I hate you more than I usually do.
You're annoying. And a know it all. And blocking my view of the board. And if I got you in bed like I wanted to and stuffed my soul into yours I'd be disinherited and out on my ass in ten minutes flat.
My father is not a merciful man. He doesn't have to be. He can afford not to be.
But the point is there's wild brown or chestnut or coffee or whatever fucking color you want to call it taking up too much space in front of my eyes and I'm a Malfoy for fuck's sake and I deserve to be able to see the goddamn board.
And that's the point of this.
The point is not the fact that you, Mudblood, have a whitewhite neck oiled with silvery shadows and metallic whispers of bones.
The point is not that your mouth is candy and your hands (long fingers tapered pretty) are poetry and the bone at the edge of your wrist is fucking breathtaking.
These are not the point at all.
The point is that you're muddy blooded and it's hot in here and you're sitting in front of me and I think I hate you.
Weasley.
Who the fuck is he.
Who knew that gangling (which is Malfoy for bonyawkwardtall) boys with too much nose and hair like a sodding explosion could bend the goddamn universe and get the attention of people like you.
Who suspected that the poor and dim and half blooded would inherit the earth.
At least, that's what the rumors are.
You're sitting across the room now, scribbling fierce, looping notes onto your parchment as Binns drones on into a spiraling infinity. Your legs are slightly crossed and I'm intrigued by the way one sock is scrunched down around your ankle—which is by the way wildly inferior to the ankle of a pure blood, and not even in the same galaxy when it comes to the ankle of a Malfoy.
Even your fucking ankles give away your filthy, filthy blood—they're too thin, with that impudent knobbed bone and that lack of slope. They're up-and-down ankles, they're ruler ankles.
But I suppose Weasley will take whatever ankles he can get. It's not as if he has much choice.
It seems fitting, somehow—the blood traitor and the Mudblood. Of course it's fitting. You, Granger, have always been one to lie down with the dogs— and there are fleas streaked and spotted and spangled like paint all over you.
But still I can't help think that it would be vicious and indecent and shattering to let your sludgy blood mingle with mine, to press hot fast words into your shuddering Mudblood stomach and your cloudy Mudblood hair and your dusty Mudblood ankles.
My God. I think I'm developing a fetish.
"Granger!"
You're turning around, all hair and sun and wide eyes. Potions again, and I still can't see the fucking board.
You're annoyed. It's not becoming.
"What?"
"Tame the mane, will you? At least try and pretend to be kempt."
Your mouth is still candy and I've got a raging sweet tooth. You twist it into something squiggly and stinging and I want to laugh and swear because shit, there's something exciting about you when you're angry.
"We chose our seats, Malfoy. If you're having a problem you're free to move."
"What, and have to be in Weasel's vicinity? No thanks. The air I'm breathing is already tainted enough."
Weasley's neck burns the same flickering shade as his hair.
"Sod off, Malfoy."
His hand gropes its clumsy, clumsy way onto your back, protecting you from the capers and wit and sick, sick eyes of the bad boy.
But there's no one to protect me from the loathing and ire and sad, sad eyes of the good girl, and I can't help but feel a little sick(er) when you turn away.
Weasel has his hand still on your back but you look at him and he takes it off reluctantly and I feel for a moment like I have the world carefully caught in my teeth.
But the point is still that you have too much hair not falling like meteors from the chinks of my pure-blooded piano fingers and I still. Can't. see. The fucking. Board.
I'm leaving Potions now and oh, God, Granger, guess what, I still hate you.
But wait—you're hanging back, a flush of white legs and cheeks in the blackened wash of the dungeons, asking Snape something.
Of course you are. Snape always looks like he wants to ram something into you—whether it's his dick or a ten-foot sword is the only thing up for debate.
But you are a Mudblood and a lion who should be a raven and you approach him anyway.
"Sorry, Professor, I was just wondering…"
I wait, listening to the seismic tips of Snape's reply, knowing it's poisonous and brief even if I can't quite hear it. He must have outdone himself this time, because you leave quickly, head down and heedless white legs wobbling one in front of the other.
And just like that, the hands of the clock grab me by the shoulders and the uneven tap of your shoes on the stone tells me in a giddy, reckless voice to do it, do it now.
"Granger!"
You stop. See who it is. Turn away.
"Malfoy, I really don't have time—"
"Granger, we have fucking eternity, now wait a moment for God's sake."
And now I peel myself with drawling Malfoy elegance off of the stone, becoming three dimensional, smearing on the antique hauteur with a sodding butter knife.
But God damn, you're still going, gathering velocity, and I actually have to sprint a step or two to catch up.
"God, Granger, wait a damn moment, will you? What, has that bloody mop of yours got into your ears?"
It's lucky that your hair is what it is. It makes being witty so much easier.
"Malfoy, leave me al—"
But my fingers are steel and silk and organ music on your shoulder and there are paper moons in my diaphragm that have been festering too long and need to be expelled.
Or something. Sometimes the metaphors that come to me when I'm with you make me wonder.
But anyway.
"Granger, I think you should go out with me."
Ah, now you stop, practically screeching against the cold and echoing stone as your shoulder wrenches from my grasp and you stare at me.
The charming phrase what the fuck is tattooed into the nutmeg freckles pricked over your nose.
"What?"
And here is my cue, my time to slip back into my sarcasm and let it swish around my ankles—which, as I have said before, are immeasurably finer than your own.
Filthy Mudblood.
"As I suspected. I think it's time to invest in a hairbrush."
Your mouth falls open, angrily of course. It's the only way it knows how to fall when we're together.
I'd love to make it fall apart.
"You—"
But I have something more to say and the unfamiliar taste it leaves in my throat tells me it might be the truth.
"Granger, you hate me and I hate you. You're a Gryffindor and I'm a Slytherin. You're good and I'm bad. You care and I don't. You're a Mudblood. I am not. The laws of nature cannot be ignored."
My soul is shivering in the air between us, layered with mockery; you look like you want to shove it up my arse.
I don't give you the time.
"What I'm saying is we're opposites. What I'm saying is we could be like starlight and Armageddon together. What I'm saying is you're one stereotype and I'm another and we could have mindblowing, stereotypical sex.
What I'm saying is that we can be the wildest, tritest thing imaginable."
The rest coming asap! Please please please review!