Silence reigned over the room, as the slender form of the Head Girl rested against the closed door. Hermione Granger had just said her farewells to her scruffy haired friend, before taking a moment of quiet repose. Moments later, when the calmness had imbued her, she ambled back into the place which had been her primary refuge in the months gone by. Sparing a momentary look around her private dormitory in search of anything that had been left behind, Hermione reflected on the day's events.
Seamus had spent numerous hours with her, helping her to pack her things. A task which had drained her more than she had thought possible. Despite the residual nostalgia they had managed to duel for an hour or so – the improvement in both was evident by the lack of damage to the room and to them. As she glanced around the space, she couldn't help but feel the melancholy lap at her skin at the thought of leaving this place, this home.
Two days. That was all the time she had left before she would leave this sanctuary for good and enter into the world beyond. A world of fear and of hatred. She did not relish the thought at all. Hermione had been consumed with ideas and thoughts of what loomed perilously close. Yet she had never truly considered how it would all play out: the ensuing consequences. For there would be many.
She knew she was entering into a new phase, a phase in which she would have to act on instinct, without the luxury of time spent assessing, analysing the next move. Her life and so many others depended on her ability to see this through. She felt, as her friends did too, that they just weren't ready. That was the thing about war, she mused. No one ever was really.
Standing in the doorway to her bedroom, she looked around the now desolate space. She ran a slim hand through the tangle of curls that adorned the crown of her head, a sigh of resignation passing her lips. She sat down in the small ornate chair by the dresser, the one she so very rarely used. Except in moments like this, quiet moments of reflection and repose.
It was the first time in many months that she had sat down and truly looked at her reflection. Her features were the same: the upward tilt of her mouth, the straight line of her nose and the curve of her cheekbones. Yet she looked so very different. Her eyes had been darkened by secrets, by fears and anxieties that a girl her age should never have had. Life, she had discovered, was not quite as fair and just as she had once idealised.
She wondered whether Ron and Harry would notice the change the way she did: the subtle and jaded hue to her expression. It had been an exhaustive and exhilarating six months for her and no doubt for them also. She just felt so removed from it all. And truth be told she was scared. Scared of the unknown and impending changes that her life would take. No analysis, no calculation, no books could forecast what lay ahead.
But despite her fears she knew she was braver than she felt in that moment, because despite her admissions of trepidation there had never been any other consideration for her. She would fight by her friends until the end. She knew it and had never doubted it, no matter what other misgivings she may have had in the past. That was not one of them.
And yet there was one thing, one thought that gnawed her right through. Malfoy. Draco. The word tasted foreign on her lips. Hermione knew that without a doubt she would never see him again after she left the cosseted shelter of Hogwarts. Except when in battle. And she only prayed that that would not be the case. She could not have her will tested in such a blatant way.
As absurd and as crazy as it seemed, she knew she wanted to see him just one more time – not that anything good would come from it. Seeing him would hardly help her resolve. But she knew, as surely as she had known anything before, that she needed it. There was no logic and no reason behind the urge. And that, in part, was the basis for her compulsion. She had no idea what hovered on the cusp of her future. All she could focus on was this moment: this strange suspended reality in which she resided. And it was in this place of unreality that she could allow herself to revel in the madness, indulge in secret wants couldn't say aloud. To drown in his gaze just one more time.
It was unhealthy and illogical. But she had lived her life by measures for far too long. As much as she didn't want to acknowledge the possible shortness of her future, it was a possibility she had to face. All she wanted was one untarnished memory to hold onto when she was in that battle. A moment of spontaneity and of life, of youthful recklessness that no one else would see but her.
And when she faced the danger ahead she would have that recollection, that moment when there were no thoughts of other lives and other worries. Only her own. And if she lived beyond this war she would have that secret with her. For she knew now how much she needed it.
Draco Malfoy stood in the small inlet at the southernmost point of the castle, sheltered briefly from the downpour. His body was soaked through with the rain, his pale skin glistened and his fair hair gleamed darker than usual as it clung to his forehead and lower neck. He did not feel the cold though. Not really, anyhow. Adrenaline ran like liquid heat through his blood, keeping the biting chill at bay.
His stiff fingers clenched around the dampened piece of parchment held within their grip. Squaring his jaw, he squeezed his eyes closed before frantically opening them again. The words he knew now by verse, but he had to see them again to be sure.
Malfoy,
The script was shaky and uneven, so unlike the person it belonged to.
It would be a mistake to see you again after everything that has happened. Possibly a very dangerous one. I know that. But I think we need to make this mistake. Or, at least, I do.
No matter that you think you are above it all. I saw through it. You can prove me wrong by ignoring this letter and I will do the same. Or we can find out how this really ends ourselves. It's time for you to make a choice.
Hermione Granger
His heart thrummed with anger at her assumptions and frustration at their accuracy. And sheer surprise at her forthrightness. She had to be stupid to lay herself bare and vulnerable in that way. But if he were being honest, he could not deny the truth in her words. They both knew how it was and how it had been between them – even if they had denied it until this point. They were both lost to this torrent, this deluge of stupidity and compulsion.
He had signed himself over months before. When he had taken his first taste of sin he had known there was no going back. No denial of the Mudblood's effect, however unwanted it may have been. This was closure. Only he knew that going and seeing her again would merely open the floodgates. It seemed that despite his best efforts, he had no immunity to her. Her blood, her skin, her scent, her taste had intoxicated and poisoned him from the start.
It was inevitable that this thing between him and Granger would come to a climax. He knew what he would do: assuage this obsession with a final taste of her poison. He would still fight her when the time came though. He had to. Or he would die in her place. Nobility was not a character trait from which he suffered.
Scrunching the parchment in his fist, he swallowed dryly and thrust the crumbling fibres into one of the pouches of his cloak.
It was now or never.
He had walked the grounds for nearly an hour trying to convince himself of the many reasons why he should not be standing where he was, in front of her door. And there were many indeed. Not least of which was the possibility that this invitation was an ill-concealed trap.
But he found he could not believe that it was. And even if he was wrong, he found he could not stay away. Whatever possibilities lay beyond her door, he knew he was to be forever doomed because of this decision.
He knocked once. The silence was absolute. He did not breathe and his heart paused in urgent response. Then the door opened, slowly, hesitantly. And she stood there, one small hand resting on the broad frame of the door. Relief shone in her eyes at his arrival, and resignation at the same time. She could not mask her thoughts at all.
Though perhaps he recognised them purely as a reflection of his own thoughts. It was not a trap. Yet perhaps he was in more danger because of it. She said nothing but watched him with silent and weary eyes, as though waiting for an attack. When her gaze collided with his he held it.
"This won't end well," he said, his voice low and barely recognisable as his own.
She ducked her head down, shielding her gaze as she nodded. "It was never going to." She whispered the words with a smile of bitter amusement lingering in the corners of her mouth.
She stepped back from the door, wringing her hands for want of something to do. He both pitied and understood her feelings of misplacement. This moment was not and never could be real for either of them. Whatever had caused him to be standing there, welcome in her dorm, was a culmination of so many events that never should have taken place. He never should have touched her that first time. But he did. And he suffered now because of it.
He pushed himself over the threshold and into his own personal hell. Divine and terrible all at once. Closing the door behind him, he took the step to plant himself in front of her. There was a small space between them and they stood like that, breathing shallowly, neither wanting to take the step over the final boundary.
They had been here before, in this moment of indecision and want. But never had it been planned. Never had it been a choice as it now was. As though making her decision, Granger raised her head to look up at him. She seemed so small and breakable in that moment. Her feet bare, her hair a wild mess and her frame slight compared with his own.
She raised a hand and pressed her open palm against him and Draco was sure that she could feel the treacherous beat of his heart pounding beneath the layer of his robes. Breathing in deeply, her scent clouded around him and he ignored his better judgement yet again. Slowly he raised a hand to rest on her shoulder, moving upward to cup her neck and brush through hair that was deceptively soft. But he had already known that. He had succumbed to this weakness before. But not so completely as he would now.
She shivered under his touch and he bundled her closer, his other hand falling to grip the swell of her hip beneath the skirt of her uniform.
She licked her lips in unconscious invitation and he responded in kind. Lowering his head, he traced his hand along the length of her body, his palm grazing the side of her breast as he did so. And then he was cupping her face in a way so gentle he knew his father would cringe to see it. But she was so very fragile to him, and he would not harm her this night, not in this room. That would come another day.
His forehead pressed against hers and he could taste the gentle puffs of air as they escaped her lips. She lifted her lashes to hold his gaze and he felt her fist clench the fabric of his robe. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes dark and expectant. He knew this image would haunt. The moment was tense, laden with the knowledge of what had passed and what now would. And he was but a slave to the feeling.
He kissed her then. Or perhaps she kissed him. He wasn't sure, as it happened so quickly, and the deluge followed thereafter. There was only the touch of her lips beneath his, the taste of her skin and mouth, the sound of her whispers, her breathing. It was his world.
He allowed her to push the cloak off his shoulders and move her hands beneath the damp robes to the heat they avidly sought. She uttered a breathy sort of sound as he pulled her against him and something broke within him, a desperate clawing need to hear that sound again. His hands anchored her frame as her legs wrapped in instinct around him. His whole body seared with the heat of her. Her mouth opened to him and he plundered. It was frustration and heat, exquisite and agonising all at once.
He carried her slight and fevered frame into the room which by rights he never should have seen. He lay her on her bed and stood before her, drinking in the moment, the very image of her. He knew that, though it would haunt him in the quietest of moments, he wanted to recall every flush in the finest of detail.
There was a look of defiance in her gaze, at war with the liquid warmth, and it was the very thing that had drawn him to her from the first. His eyes tracked her nimble fingers as they skittered down the front of her shirt, exposing skin that bloomed a warm pink. His breath hitched.
She stood up then, a mere breath between them. His eyes held hers as his hand reached to brush aside the fabric, falling to rest upon the lace covered swells of her breasts. She looked both chaste and corrupted at once. White against her skin, competing with the flushed colour of her cheeks and the tumult of her unruly hair.
He tracked her expression as his finger brushed a dance across her skin, rubbing the sensitive tip of her nipple. He was rewarded with the catch in her throat, the increasing darkness in her gaze. Her pink tongue reached out to brush along her lip, an unconscious motion which sent a rush through him.
He tasted her then, relishing in the richness of her scent, the cloud that overwhelmed him. They pulled and tugged and fought with the layers of fabric that sat between them, hands seeking warm bare skin with a hunger that was endless. Finally, when she looked at him, her eyes wide but not uncertain, he saw just what she was doing, what she was giving up to him. He couldn't think about the why or the how, only that she'd made a choice which caused a lurch within him. One he could not quite define.
His mouth softened against hers, his hands gentled as they brushed across her unveiled skin.
"I won't break," she said, pulling back fractionally, the fierceness in her eyes again.
He held her gaze, searching something out. She pulled his head towards her and kissed him with that same fierceness. Her hand reached between them, dancing a rhythm across his skin before she held him firmly. He gasped, and saw the satisfied gleam in her gaze. The game never ended.
He pushed her back on to the bed, enjoying the combined look of indignance and anticipation that lit her features in the soft light. When he joined her, he reached for her hands and held them high, victory curving on his lips. His other hand, his mouth, his every breath, moved over her, seeking out her secrets, tasting the very essence of her like the ripest of fruits. The sounds she made rang in his ears. When he raised his head to her once more and released her wrists, she hauled him up, an unasked question on her lips. A sort of plea she wouldn't voice.
His arms shook as he nodded yes and braced himself above her. Her gaze held his in a grip that was unbreakable. A nod. And then he was there, and she was warm and tight, and beyond comprehension. He moved slowly, watching her expression flitter from awe to discomfort to curiosity. She wiggled then, making small torturous movements with her hips as she adjusted. There was a gleam of satisfaction in her eyes as she watched his own face, no doubt clenched with the very great restraint he tried to hold in check.
She quirked a brow and that was all he knew. He moved then, dizzy with thoughts he couldn't hold. Everything was her. Her taste, the way she felt around him, her scent. It was all her. He knew then, just before it took him, that he was more lost than he'd ever previously thought.
It was dark and cold, and yet she craved the chill of wind and reality. She craved the clarity it brought. Her thoughts were strangely silent; they slipped in and out of realisation in gentle laps. Soothing and placating. She knew the torrent would come though. She only willed it to stay at bay for just a few moments longer.
He had gone an hour or so earlier and she felt him leave the bed. Feigning sleep she knew that he had stood for many long moments watching her before he had left. The nature of his thoughts, the expression on his face – the hunger to know these things would haunt her. She wondered how she would face him the next time, a month or so from then. When she would be expected to raise her wand and kill him. She knew she could not do it.
She was valiant; she was strong. But she was only human. Hermione knew that she had given a part of herself to him that night. She knew she should not have, but it was a mistake she had wanted to make. And she could not regret it. She would not.
Glancing beyond the windows to the darkened sky, she gathered her once comforting bed sheets around herself. The room smelled of him and so did she. It was, she feared, a scent that would never wash away.