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Hermione P.O.V

I gently stroke Crookshanks' brown blonde fur, tracing the darker stripes along his back. I get a long, contented purr for my trouble. Idly, I wonder where exactly Harry is, and whether I'll see him before dinner. He is spending time with Ginny again, probably locked away in the room of requirements. They have been gone for just under an hour, which is unusual; generally, they don't risk spending much more than half that time away from the common room in the evenings. I have to admit, I'm jealous of their relationship. Ron and I aren't getting anywhere. I haven't even got solid proof he's interested in me yet. My eyes are drawn to his hair. I adore the colour of his hair – red gold, paler than his sister's. Similar colours dance in the fire, which is responding well to the generous amount of 'Weasley's Wonder Powder' Ron threw into it, the flames flickering in a myriad of unusual colours at varying heights. I turn slightly to watch him, observing his tense posture and the concentration so visible in his eyes. His arm is stretched slightly forward, and between his thumb and forefinger is the tail of Scabbers, his rat. The rat is furiously peddling its legs, desperately trying to run away from the danger it imagines in my cat. Crookshanks turns his head disdainfully, uninterested in the semi-emaciated rodent.

'Ron?' I ask gently. My voice cracks into his attention, and he turns his head quickly to look at me.

'What?' He snaps back. He sees the hurt in my confusion and speaks again, far more gently. 'I'm sorry Hermione.' He doesn't need to re-voice his worry. I know what he is worrying about, because he's been on about it since Harry and Ginny left, but I can't understand why he's so worked up. He speaks again, a bare whisper as he stares back into the spitting hearth. 'They should be back by now.'

'I know. I was thinking the same. Harry's usually really careful when Snape's on patrol.' This isn't actually what's worrying Ron, but I'm hoping he might start ranting about our Most Hated Teacher and give me a break from hearing about his sister's relationship with my other best friend.

'I don't care about patrols!' He raises his voice again. 'I don't give a shit about Snape either; I just want to know what my only bloody sister is doing!' In his frustration, he lets go of Scabbers, and quickly reaches forward to snatch him up again. He roughly strokes the top of the rat's head, but absentmindedly rubs the fur the wrong way. Luckily, the hair there is scrubby, and Ron's pet doesn't seem to notice.

'Ginny can take care of herself, Ron.' I try and keep my voice soft.

'She doesn't know what she's doing. She doesn't. She can't. She isn't ready.'

'She knows that. More importantly, he knows that, Ron.'

'That wouldn't stop him if things...got going.' Ron sounds really bitter.

'Why don't you trust him?'

''Cos I know what it's like to be living in a sixteen year old boy's head, godammit!' We lapse into an uncomfortable silence uncommon for our relationship. I try to break the tense atmosphere by changing the subject.

'I've got a book to pick up from the library. Are you coming?' Hopefully he won't. He really needs time to cool off.

'No.' He turns back to the fire. My subject change has done nothing to lighten the mood. I push the protesting Crookshanks off my legs, and he lands in a disgruntled heap on the floor; which sends poor Scabbers into hyper-drive. I gently take the rat from Ron's grip, securing it in its cage. My fingers brush past Ron's, and I blush, hurriedly turning away. As I leave the common room, I notice the Fat Lady wailing about something again, but I don't bother indulging her melodramatics anymore, and ignore her.

I start by taking the easy route, quickly passing the numerous labs, but stop when I see the huge figures of Crabbe and Goyle up ahead. They are stood still, as if on guard, and in their hands are piles of sticky cakes. Malfoy doesn't appear to be there, though I don't doubt that he's close, maybe skulking behind the massive forms of his bodyguards. It's getting late, and I can't be bothered to put up with any of his usual crap, so I turn left up a small staircase, intending to loop around the Slytherins.

The stairs are of dark wood, each tread worn smooth by the numerous feet that have passed up and down it. It is old enough to be tired of changing, and it only mutters a defeated creak as I make my way up, having committed to the position it is in already. No one really comes up here; even Filch doesn't bother lingering in the dismal lighting. It is not really an unpleasant area, being tastefully decorated with paintings, but it lacks the vibrant life of the rest of the school, and people are not attracted to it. Students prefer to take the more lively passageways. There used to be rumours that the dead air was literally dead air. That someone died down here. A girl, they say, with wavy brown hair. Mind you, it is always a girl in rumours like those. I shudder, and walk slightly faster than before. Not usually a superstitious person, the knowledge of Voldemort's return to power has recently been making me edgy.

He can't get into the castle, Hermione.

I desperately remind myself. Butthe rumours still say it was Tom Riddle who killed a girl down here. And it is putting me seriously on edge.

A young, mud-blood girl, just like you.

I start to wish Ron had come with me, and miss his warm presence and solid body. The passage is long, and I can almost hear crying echoing faintly through it

Calm down. You're being stupid.

Voldemort HATES mud-bloods, everyone knows that. There is no one to stop him up here. You're on your own.

And then screaming, grunting, moaning. I start to walk even faster now, verging on the edge of a run, but the noises fail to cease, and if anything increase in volume. They remain slightly muffled but get louder as I run, as best I can with a satchel, down the passage, before peaking as I pass a solid, densely grained storeroom door. Stopping short, I hear a voice, although I can't tell if this is in response to the sound of my shoes or not. They are soft soled and pretty quiet. My heart runs wild; I try and convince myself I'm imagining things, that the rumours are simply rumours, and nothing else. I calm down as I hear two student voices behind the door. I know Voldemort's voice in all forms, and I can be sure it isn't his, it's too low, and too...attractive? But whose is it?

'Shut up, stupid bitch! Someone will hear!' I have strain to hear the words, and my heart beats faster. I can't make out whose voice it is...I need to hear it properly...but I'm sure I recognise it. Quiet sobs start up again from another person in the room; a girl, crying. I start to walk away at steady pace, desperate to know what is happening in the room. The girl sounds distressed. I hear a scream of pain, followed by the rough grunts again, and I freeze.

It is the girl in pain, I'm absolutely sure now. And I'm also very sure that it is the boy causing her pain.

'That wouldn't stop him if things got going.'

No.

It can't be, surely?

And yet what better place for their room of requirements?

I can't, won't believe it. But I have to check, because I am so worked up, I cannot walk away from this door without knowing what is going on behind it.

But it won't be. I know him better than that.

'That wouldn't stop him if things got going.'

I slip out of my shoes and steal back along the passage. The handle is a simple, average handle, but my shaking hands find it almost impossible to open. Making as little noise as possible, I manage to get the handle down, and push the door, which is not locked. No one comes up here. It doesn't need to be.

What will I do to stop him, if it is who I think it is? Pull him away? Will that cause her more pain? Hexes boil into my mind like lava.

Breathe, Hermione. Keep control.

The door gives, and swings inwards silently to reveal a dilapidated storeroom. Cobwebs mask the forgotten furniture, but the gentle yellow light is strong enough for me to clearly distinguish the two figures.

And I'm right in my assumption. But I can't be. I can't be.

Yet I am. Ginny, pinned on the floor, by that boy, whose back is toward me, her eyes screwed up, screaming as best as she can with a crude gag tied across her mouth, crying. Her bra has been pulled down around her ribs, and she wears nothing else that I can see. Her legs are spread over the boy's shoulders, and I can tell she is in terrible pain from the way her fists clench. Her arms are being held above her head to prevent her from striking out, and they look weak and fragile. It doesn't take me long to figure that she is gaining some kind of deranged pleasure too though; from the way she half moves her body with his. She is desperately trying to stop this reaction, but I can tell she is finding it impossible. And that, more than anything, is what would terrify me most were I in her position. It would horrify me that, despite the fear, revulsion and pain, my body couldn't help but yearn for release. I know it would tear me apart. For a few seconds, I stand and shake, horrified. Neither of them has noticed me yet.

'Stop!' A strangled half cry scrapes up my throat as I voice the words Ginny is desperate to say. She opens her eyes and sees me, and they are over flowing with gratefulness for my presence in such quantities that for a moment, I am shot through with pity. Then I swing into motion, because the boy turns round.

Potter. Harry Bastard Potter.

And that is when I see his face properly. It isn't Harry. Firstly, I am relieved. And then, I am so furious, I scream like an animal.

Malfoy. Draco Bastard Malfoy.

Malfoy P.O.V

It's the mud-blood Granger girl. How the hell she found us is a mystery to me. My father is not going to be pleased if he hears about this. I wonder quickly what to do, and move the hand gripping Weasely's thigh down to the wand shoved jauntily into my trousers. Ruddy purple bruise marks flush across the ginger's pale skin, as if in tribute to the in memory of my presence. It's quite attractive, her skin, actually. In fact, the girl is rather pretty. Not that I'm interested. She's a Weasley. More to the point, I'm a Malfoy. But she is pretty. She isn't a carrot ginger like her thick brothers, but a deeper russet red, like browning autumn leaves. But of course, I'm not interested. Granger screams madly, a sound no pure-blood would ever be capable of, or wish to be, and I catch a slight movement as her hand too goes to her wand. It's probably cheap. Fury is making her bold, but her movements are hindered by the weight of her emotions. Her eyes are writhing with rage, as though live serpents twist in their depths. My own dexterity is evenly matched with hers in dimness, but not because I'm angry. I never let my emotions influence my behaviour. No, it is because my concentration is currently split between the little virgin red-head I'm shagging, and the stupid brunette in the doorway who is putting my education at risk.

'Get out!' I hiss. I need to threaten her. Easy; threats are second nature to me. 'Get out, and I won't tell my father!' I watch her face and wait for her to leave.

'You wouldn't tell him anyway. What would he say if he found out that his perfect pureblood clone gets his kicks from raping Weasleys?' She spits back.

'Rape now, is it?' I sneer. She looks taken aback.

'What? Of course it's rape! Get away from her, Malfoy. I don't know what you're playing at, but when Ron finds out...'

'He'll be puking slugs for yet another hour I suppose.' I refer snidely back to our second year at Hogwarts when Weasley's wand had back fired his 'eat slugs' spell. He probably doesn't know how to use any good hexes.

'I'll...I'll tell Dumbledore! You'll be expelled!' She takes another step closer.

'My father will kill him if he expels me.' Ginny, who has made no part in our exchange so far, speaks up weakly.

'Please! Stop!' She whimpers. She sounds so pitiful. I look down at her with a disdainful Malfoy smirk written across my face, but fail to keep the expression fixed when I see how weak and young she looks. Her pale skin is dirty and scratched, and her hair is matted with tangles. There are bruises on her wrists, arms, thighs, and breasts from my hands, and from the numerous bumps into the walls and furniture. Excessive crying has left her eyes red, and the brown irises swim and blur behind even more tears. I turn away; I can't let her get to me. I've already had my release, so I pull out of her quickly, and re-zip my trousers. A small amount of blood seeps across her legs, which remain open when I shove them away from my shoulders. She doesn't even have the strength to cover her dignity, although I don't suppose she has any now. For a second, I feel like covering her with my cloak or something...but instead, I shake my head roughly, regaining control. You're getting soft, Draco... I tell myself tersely. I can't show weakness. So, just to let us all know who is in control, I do one more thing to hurt Ginny Weasley. Really hurt her - strip her of self value and display to her the betrayal of body to mind. I graze a thumb across her nipples, and watch her reduce into a sobbing wreck as she feels them harden. Then I stand quickly, keeping the smile on my face as best I can, and turn on my heel, billowing out of the room. At the end of the passage, I stop and listen.

'Oh God, Hermione,' sobs Ginny, her voice trembling terribly, 'I'm ruined. What...what will H-Harry s-say. I hate us both s-so m-much. What will my b-b-brothers say?' She wails. 'I've n-never felt so terrible in my whole life.' Her voice cracks. 'H-Hermione, it hurts so much. Everything hurts.' Weasley screams into Granger's shoulder, her body wracked with tears. I hear Granger comforting her. 'I f-feel like garbage.'

Funny. I think. I don't feel all that hot either.

But nobody needs to know.

Thanks for reading! This was quite hard to write actually, so reviews would be welcome. Hopefully I'll write the next chapter sometime this week, but I'm really busy at the moment.