Chapter 2: Revelations
Disclaimer: The Harry Potter series belongs to J.K. Rowling. No copyright infringement intended.
Dedicated to: CaptainSwanFanatic. Girl, you made me want to post this even though the response was a li'l disheartening. Hugs and kisses!
Draco Malfoy's life was a game; a series of cleverly-planned and subtly-executed actions. He was merely a pawn, somebody whose worth equalled his use in this game of hypocrites; a pawn—dispensable and insignificant.
Draco had learnt how to play this game, how to manipulate the odds, from a very young age. At first, it was just that—a game; nothing serious, one of many efforts to make his father be proud of his son. Because all Draco had ever wanted was to make his father proud.
Foolish endeavours.
Lucius Malfoy was an influential wizard—presumptuous, often over-bearing, and a narcissist. He was discreet and cautious, a master strategist. But, a proud father he could never be.
Draco could never be good enough for his father.
This revelation had thrown him to the winds. Life was now a jumble of actions and emotions, of clarity and confusion, of imposing rules and small freedoms.
Swirling black robes and hoods; wisps of blond hair, a warm, motherly smile; stark-white, expressionless masks; the stench of Knockturn Alley; cruel laughter and cruel, red irises; pain, searing through his arm; screams, pleas, guilt, so much guilt, oh god, too much of it, and then—
Twinkling, blue eyes.
"Malfoy?"
Draco looked up, startled.
Warm eyes, dark and concerned.
Concerned.
"Huh?"
Nice. Real suave, Draco.
He shoved the disturbing flashes to the back of his mind, locked and out-of-reach. Clearing his thoughts, Draco restrained his emotions.
Cool and indifferent.
"Yes, Granger. What is it that you want?"
"You seem...I was..."
While the witch in front of him fumbled with her words—the moonlight, cast across one half of her face, accentuating the normally soft features to sharp, harsh angles—Draco observed Hermione Granger.
She was fidgeting, constantly and relentlessly. Her hands were crumpling the folds of her skirt into those small palms, her—was it Vinewood?—wand held loosely between those slender fingers. Sweeping his glance upwards, he noticed her breath quickening, her parted lips exhaling puffs of air into the space between them.
Draco stopped closer towards her.
A draught—surprisingly warm—blew a lock of her hair into her face, whilst ruffling his.
Her eyes.
Her eyes, betraying her restlessness, weren't flitting across the Tower. Oh no, her gaze was steady.
And she's looking right at me.
Bemused, Draco tilted his head to one side.
Do I make her nervous?
Sixth year at Hogwarts was a year of revelations, indeed.
The Warming Charm didn't seem to be working. Hermione trembled, trying—in vain—to control her pulsating heartbeat.
Deep breaths, Hermione, deep breaths.
The rapid reappearance of the palpable tension between them disconcerted her. One moment, she was facing a startled boy, eyes brimming with confusion and so many questions; lost, helplessly lost. And in the next, an emotionless man—screaming indifference from each side, each hardened angle—stood before her.
"What is it that you want?"
Hermione Granger, perhaps for the first time in so many years, had nothing to say. All her words of concern, all her plans of confrontation—everything was lost, scattered to the dark corners of her mind, rendering her speechless at the sudden onslaught of Malfoy's piercing gaze.
She could feel his eyes on her self—her hands, her neck, her lips. She could almost taste his curiosity, his desperation. His need.
Oh, Godric!
All she could do was look right back—unwavering, even when he took a step closer, meeting her gaze with his; steady, even when those frigid orbs flooded with questions again, gleaming with some dark intent that melted her insides.
"Draco...," she whispered, helpless against the overwhelming waves of desire.
He was so close, so bloody close; she could reach out, grab his lapels and pull him towards her.
Her instincts told her Malfoy wouldn't resist.
But she couldn't.
She could not do this, not with this boy, never with him—to hell with the infamous Gryffindor courage.
"Draco...," she repeated, indecision lacing her low voice, as she glanced up at him through her tousled curls.
A hand lifted up, tentative and hesitant, to her face, cupping her cheeks with his cool palms. She trembled, clenching her jaws against her immediate reaction. She felt helplessly vulnerable, her emotions erratic and uncontrollable. She shut her eyes, agitated, fighting the disconcerting sensations churning in the pits of her stomach.
Hermione felt one slight finger nudging her chin gently, urging her to look up, up at him, into his eyes. She shook her head, hoping against hope Malfoy wouldn't ask—
"Look at me, Granger."
Darn it.
Her warm cheeks were now cradled between both of Malfoy's hands, his slender fingers—tangled in her hair, caressing her skin—sending quivers down her back. She could feel him tilting her head up, her face open, susceptible to his ministrations.
Cautiously, her eyes fluttered open. A gasp escaped her lips, her throat feeling patched all of a sudden.
Her face was perfectly aligned with his, their lips perilously close, his eyes dazed—almost drugged—and delving straight into her eyes, her soul.
Doubts assailed her, even as her heart beat so thunderously she was sure he would hear it. Her heart beseeched her to give in to her yearning, spurring her on, while her mind berated her on her absurd and absolutely daft desires—the war between her irrational and illogical sides relentless and persistent.
And then, soft, warm lips brushed against hers.
To Draco, Hermione Granger was an enigma, always had been. As a child, she was a Mudblood witch to be scoffed at, someone who didn't belong. At least, she didn't belong in his childish, bigoted, Pureblood world. She was Granger—the annoying, bushy-haired bookworm who piqued his curiosity, the tomboy aloof from all the other giggling wenches.
Growing up, she was proud—with her nose seemingly stuck up in the air—and snide with him in her vicinity. Yet, she exuded warmth and affection around those two dunderheads; a Gryffindor with Slytherin tendencies.
A paradox.
Nevertheless, here they were, mere inches apart, the haughty witch trembling in his arms.
His gut had clenched at her whispers, those luscious lips murmuring his name, his name, for the first time—void of the usual venom, and laced with promises of sinful passion.
Heady with the warmth seeping languidly into his blood, the magic of mutual desire crackling between them, Draco lost all track of his actions.
Her hooded eyes, shadows dancing across her visage; her clean, sweet scent, redolent of dewy lavenders and blooming lilies, of a lazy afternoon spent sneaking away to a Muggle neighbourhood with Father's House-Elf, Dobby, the aroma of confectionaries wafting through the warm, summer air; her soft, supple skin brushing against his, thawing him—he just wanted to feel, to taste. He wanted her.
With a tenderness that betrayed his indifferent facade, Draco Malfoy—for the second time in his wretched life—followed his heart.
Light, teasing, undeniably insistent, Malfoy's lips moved against hers, again and again and again, until she felt stretched taut, her nerves frayed against the unadulterated waves of pleasure, of warmth, suffusing her lips. She couldn't breathe, couldn't think, her eyes clenched shut—all she wanted was more, more of those delectable—
Malfoy's tongue, sweeping against her sensitive lips, scattered all semblance of reality clinging to her mind. She was lost to her senses—the soft touch of their lips; the possessive grip of his cool hands; the musky scent of the frustrating Slytherin, reminiscent of lush grass and wet earth after days of cloudburst.
Hermione stood up on her toes, mindless with the sense of urgency, the need for more, winding her fingers through his velvety hair—distractedly noting the clatter of her wand falling to the ground. Clutching at him like a man drowning, she bit his lower lip desperately, the shy teasing and light brushes inflaming her body with want.
A wanton growl escaped his throat, his wicked hands brushing against her neck, her chest, to reach her waist and encircle her in those strong, pale arms.
Oblivious to all, Hermione kissed Malfoy with all the fervour and rage hidden in the depths of her heart, with passion that was heartbreaking to behold. With that kiss, she let go of her stranglehold on her emotions, her grief. On her self.
After ages, Hermione Granger felt unfettered, unrestrained. Content.
A shadow flitted across the grounds, robes billowing behind the figure hurrying towards the darkness of the Forbidden Forest. The garb, its hem soaked wet from the waters of the Lake, hung heavily from his frame, hindering the frantic pace. A frown adorning the pale face at the restriction, the wizard's grip on the Chestnut wand tightened.
Locks of ebony stuck to the heated skin, perspiration and rain drops running down his neck, and as a belated Imperius Charm was cast on the dark robes against the drizzle, the lithe form slipped a crystal phial inside his trouser pocket.
Casting a glance back towards the Castle, a sneer unfurling across the face hidden under the up-turned hood, Theodore Nott walked towards the beckoning silence of the Forest, ignoring the sense of foreboding weighing down on his shoulders.
A/N: Read and review, lovely readers, as constructive criticism shall be appreciated. Note of thanks to those who reviewed- Erbanana, apoorv and CaptainSwanFanatic[Hope you like this one, Pix!].
TheWhinyKid