Draco didn't think of Granger again until several days later, after running into Creepy Creevey. While passing from Charms to Transfiguration, he came across the younger Gryffindor loitering in the hall. Creevey was preoccupied with both his camera and a group of gossiping girls standing a few feet away.

"Creevey," Draco called out. A flash went off as the mousey kid turned, startled, to face a rather annoyed Draco. "What are you up to, this time?"

Creevey grinned sheepishly. "Oh, hello Malfoy. I was just...erm..."

Draco nodded at the camera. "Thought you were banned from using that blasted thing."

"This one's Muggle," Creevey exclaimed, as though that freed him of the consequences.

"I see," Draco sneered. "You've been taking those disgusting pictures again, haven't you?"

The younger boy looked down and scratched his arm. "This time I've been asking for permission."

Draco snorted. "That's a step up." He extended his arm. "Hand them over, Creevey. All of them."

Creevey sighed before reaching into his robes. He made no attempt to look Draco in the eye as he pulled out a folded manila envelope.

"And the negatives, as well." Draco paused. "Or are Muggles too stupid to consider making anything other than prints?"

At that, Creevey blanched. Grumbling, he swung his bag out and dug through his clutter. He came up with two tiny canisters and hesitated. Draco snatched them from him.

"Fifty points from Gryffindor," he said. "Now get lost."

Creevey scampered off, clutching his Muggle camera tightly to his chest. Draco deposited the negatives into his trouser pockets. He peered down at the envelope, turning it over in his hand.

Professor McGonagall rounded the counter and spotted Creevey running away from Malfoy. "Was Mister Creevey misusing his camera privileges, once more?"

Draco nodded, sliding the envelope into his robe's pocket. "I reprimanded him as needed, docked points from the Gryffindor house, and after your class, I'll be on my way to see Filch with the confiscated pictures."

"Good for you, Mister Malfoy," Professor McGonagall said as they walked into her classroom. "I was hesitant at first when Severus recommended you as a prefect, but I have to say you've really surprised us all."

"Thanks, Professor," Draco said, flashing her his best smile. As soon as she walked away, he smirked to himself and headed for his seat.

Instead of going to Filch after class as promised, Draco went straight to the dungeons. He whispered the password and entered into the common room. Blaise lounged lazily on the couch; whether he was studying or reading another love letter, Draco couldn't tell. He plopped over on the seat next to Blaise. His friend raised an eyebrow, silently irritated.

"Just confiscated the newest batch of photos from Creevey," Draco said smugly.

Blaise smirked. "Wicked. Anything worthwhile?"

"Haven't taken a look," Draco answered. "Hosting the auction an hour after dinner. Spread the word."

Draco arrived later than usual to the Slytherin table for dinner. Most of his friends and classmates were finished with their meal, leaving him free to sit by himself. Casually, he glanced around the nearly empty Great Hall before taking out Creevey's envelope.

Rummaging through the photographs without guilt nor a second thought, Draco considered Creevey's subjects with a hint of amusement. There was a mixture of normal pictures, the moving kind Draco was used to seeing, as well as several Muggle photographs. He felt strange, looking at the eerily still images. It was an interesting paradox: somehow, the ones where the girls weren't moving captivated him even more. How could Muggle pictures hold an enhancement that the magical pictures lacked? Even Pansy looked snoggable when she was frozen in time, unable to talk or sneer or bat her eyelashes at him.

Draco stopped shuffling when he saw a picture of a girl he didn't want to recognize. Her back was to Creevey's camera, but he'd recognize that bushy hair, anywhere. Then someone must have gotten her attention—she swung her frizzy hair back and turned to face the camera. Draco's breath caught in his throat. He watched as the Gryffindor closed her eyes and shook her hair. Those brown strands were everywhere, and he was surprised to find he didn't mind.

She tugged on her Gryffindor tie at the knot, and as the silk loosened Draco caught himself staring at her cleavage. As if she could feel his eyes, Granger looked directly into the camera with a sultry smile and wink. Her friends laughed as she turned back to them, dropping the playful act.

Draco blinked. Was that really the stuffy, snobby, future librarian spinster he argued with only a few days ago? He had never seen that side of her, before. He wondered if she was like this often. Thinking of Granger posing, modeling, and having any sort of sexual appeal unnerved him. Somehow, between her dirty blood and her haughty intelligence, Draco had missed a simple fact: Granger was actually a girl.

From the corner of his eye, Draco noticed someone approaching him. He unhurriedly packed the rest of the pictures into its envelope just as a young Slytherin stopped at his side.

"What do you want?" Draco asked, and not kindly.

"Just wondering when the auction's starting," the kid said.

"As soon as I finish my meal."

The boy looked down at Draco's plate. "But you haven't even started."

Draco sent him a glare that made him flee from the table. Satisfied, Draco picked up his fork and began to eat, trying—without success—to erase Granger's photograph from his memory.

When he finished dinner, he made his way to the dungeons. The envelope thudded softly against his chest with each step, reminding him of their presence. After a moment's hesitation, he reached for them once more.

The first picture to greet him was that same one of Granger. Suddenly anxious, he placed the rest of the photographs back into his robes. Upon noticing the empty corridor, Draco quickly and without thinking shoved the photograph of Granger into his trouser's back pocket, intending to keep it for himself.

Nothing could justify his ebbing guilt and shame; not of finding the Mudblood attractive, but of actually acting on those impulses. There was a difference between murdering a man in your mind and murdering a man in reality. Draco knew of the line he just crossed with the Mudblood and tried to logically explain himself. He tried repeating all the reasons he hated her to himself. She was smart—too smart. Uptight. Pompous. Interestingly enough, all those qualities were characteristics she had in common with him. Qualities, some would argue, that only belonged to pure-bloods.

As Draco neared the common room entrance, he pushed all thoughts of Granger aside. It was time to make a killing—and not because he needed the money, but because the skill came so naturally.

"Gentlemen," Draco announced to the room full of mostly male Slytherin students. Their eyes watched him as he made his way to the center of the common room. "I give you Creepy McCreevey's fruits of labor."

With a flick of his wand, Creevey's photographs levitated out of the envelope and scattered gracefully onto the table. Vince, Greg, and several other students began to enthusiastically shift through them. Blaise looked on coolly with subdued interest. Even Theodore decided to make an appearance—albeit in the back, away from all the action.

"How much for this one?" that same younger Slytherin from the Great Hall asked. He was holding up a rather unflattering image of a random Hufflepuff girl.

Draco stroked his chin, brushing across his nearly invisible peach fuzz. "What are your intentions?"

The student looked down at the photograph in his hand, speaking more to it than to Draco. "This'll be great blackmail," he said, the slightest hint of excitement along the edges of his words. "She'll have to do what I tell her after she sees this."

Draco and a few of the others chuckled. "Four galleons, sixteen sickles, and...eleven knuts, then."

The boy frantically began searching his pockets. With a flick of his wrist, Draco levitated the photograph out of the Slytherin's hand and paraded it in front for all the boys to see. When no one tried to outbid the price, the younger boy gave Draco his money, quickly making his way back to the dorms with the picture of the Hufflepuff trapped in his grasp.

"Alright then," Draco called. "Who's next?"

A roar of yells, whistles, commands flooded the common room. Hands plowed at the photographs as though they were plundered treasure. With fingers pointed every which way, several Slytherins pushed against each other to call out their bids and claim their favorites. As the hour slowly passed, more and more photographs began to trickle away, leaving with their new owners.

Draco was not surprised to find the majority of leftovers were candid shots of Potter. It was then that Theodore approached him.

"Come to feed off the scraps, then?" Draco joked without malice.

His friend grinned. Draco didn't have to be a Slytherin to see the true intentions lying beneath Theodore's devious smile. "There were none of Granger."

It didn't come out as a question. Draco shrugged, turning his back on Theodore. He waved away the remaining Slytherins as they hovered over the photographs like flies among carrion. "Maybe Creevey got bored of chasing the Mudblood."

"Creevey's got a crush on her," Theodore elaborated. "Yet she's not in this batch."

"Maybe he's not as creepy as we thought," Draco suggested as he organized the photos into a pile. He gingerly placed them back into the envelope. "Maybe he was smart this time. Decided to keep her pinned up to his wall, instead of lugging the evidence around all day."

Theodore considered him carefully. Draco closed the envelope and folded the slack side over. "Maybe," Theodore said, obviously unconvinced. "Maybe not."

Draco left for his prefect patrol with Tracey shortly afterwards. Throughout the hour, his hands casually drifted to his back trouser pocket, checking to make sure the picture of Granger was still there. On occasion, he would reach inside and caress the edges of her photograph, as if it were a good luck charm.

He found his thoughts once again drifting to the Mudblood. A rationale for why he couldn't keep her at bay came to him as he remembered various conversations between the adults at those social gatherings he was constantly forced to attend. Every pure-blood agreed: those without magic in their blood were supposed to be dirty. It was all too natural for them, really. Draco thought back to the Forbidden Forest and how comfortable Granger was among the soil, the uncivilized half-giant, the animals, the ugly, dreadful, less useful plants.

But Mudbloods were not only dirty in blood. They were dirty in other ways, too. Their men were treacherous. Their women loose and deviant. No standards, no morals, no class. Draco grinned to himself, absent-mindedly thumbing Granger's photograph. He wasn't doing anything wrong. It wasn't his fault a Mudblood had this effect on him, as sick as she was.

His roommates were asleep when he returned from his shift. Draco closed the door behind him and took in a deep, quiet breath. His hand fingered the tip of his wand as he found his way in the dark to his bed, careful not to wake anyone. In the darkness, he stripped out of his uniform and hopped under his covers, tightly clutching his wand and Creevey's photograph.

His eyes wandered across the room, unsure of what he was looking for. He felt his face, then his entire body, rise in temperature. Licking his lips, he whispered lumos and the tiniest of lights reflected off Granger's picture. With a flick of his wand, he watched as she levitated conveniently above him at eye level. Draco propped his wand on the table by his bed, directing it at Granger so his hands could remain free.

Draco closed his eyes and tried to gather his thoughts amidst the quiet snoring. It's late, he reasoned to himself. No one will know. Just get it over with.

Opening his eyes, Draco snuck his hand beneath the sheets. His gaze gravitated from the ceiling toward Granger's picture. Granger and her thick hair, Granger and her bouncing tits. Granger and the look in her eyes that shouldn't be in any Mudblood's eyes, really. What right did she have to be this proud?

He curved his hand around his member somewhat lightly at first, as if testing the waters. Draco tried to remember the last time this happened. It must have been last year, but he couldn't remember for certain. His best memory involving wanking was after the Yule Ball in fourth year. His self-discipline had defeated him—maybe that was because of the Firewhisky. Despite all the pure-blood restrictions whispering in his head, he had managed to hide in a bathroom stall, leaning against the wall, thinking of Pansy and his hands around her hips, sliding down to her lower back and following the curve of her body. During their dance, her breath was hot on his neck and her chest pressed against him. Even her pug-face looked attractive enough under the right lighting and with the proper amount of make-up.

Draco's thoughts then reverted quite suddenly back to Granger. He looked at the picture, desperately wishing she were standing. He wanted to know what the rest of her body looked like. He found himself staring at the Mudblood's breasts when she moved, and at her face when she was still. A slight blush crawled upon his face as he let out a silent groan, his left hand grabbing a fistful of his sheets as his other moved up and down rather furiously. There she was with that look in her eyes and his cock throbbed in a familiar yet painfully sinful way.

Granger loosened her tie again and Draco threw his head back against his pillow, the arc of his back lifting off the mattress. Soon he found himself unable to think. All he could see was Granger floating in the darkness, her hair wild and untamed and spilled in every direction, then her breasts, again, and that look, that mischievous and cocky and almost Slytherin grin, as if she knows exactly what he is doing, as if she knows that out there, somewhere, there is a Malfoy who wants to forget about honor and pride, sacrifice and tradition, and just take her as she sits at the table, so smug and full of herself, the little Mudblood bitch.

And with that final thought of her soiled blood, her unworthy heritage, her loose and wanton ways, Draco gasped and all the heat flowed down toward his center before he spasmed. Another jolt, then a third, and he collapsed, sticky and satisfied, shamed yet triumphant. With a quick scourgify, he shifted between his newly cleaned sheets then vanished Granger away, ready to fall into a guilty dreaming sleep full of muddy eyes and hair.


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