Hermione didn't go to classes that morning — actually, education was the last thing on her mind. She'd gone to the Principle's office, knocked and found it empty aside from a somehow knowing, sympathetic look from the headmaster.
"Mr Malfoy left more than half an hour ago," he'd told her.
By the time Hermione found herself in the schoolyard, after travelling through corridor after corridor, warring with the bleakness of her mind and the unfeeling grasp around her heart, the sky was dull and overcast.
Maybe it might rain, or storm — how fitting. Hermione almost welcomed the bellowing crack of echoing thunder, jumping and shivering a little as a lone drop of rain fell and hit her on the cheek.
She stood there, waiting for the torrent of water to shroud out her miserable expression, because maybe if it did start to pour down, she'd be able to turn around and go back inside — apologise to her teacher for her lateness, and sit down and pretend nothing was amiss, pretend she didn't just have her heart wrenched out and then clumsily stuffed back inside her chest.
It didn't rain though, not one drop more than the one sliding down her face, yet the air still carried faint traces of glorious freshness, like the smell of wet cement. So she took a step, and then another, and began her search — her search for Draco, for the boy who still held her heart.
He wasn't behind any buildings, or lurking in any of the places she might imagine him to be in. There wasn't a chance he'd be in class, he'd go to the quietest place, a place considerably lacking in company. The school was quite a big place, and for a moment Hermione was overwhelmed with hopelessness, before suddenly the ringing memory of a rumour swam through her head — the rumour that any student seen loitering in the bell tower would be immediately expelled.
The bell tower. A lead-like feeling filled her insides. Incredibly high up, secluded, of course that'd be the place where Draco was most likely to be — but the idea of going up there, all those steps and ladders, made her want to run away and hide.
She couldn't, though — she wouldn't. Because if there was anything that was more important than pathetic petty fears like heights, it was this. This exciting, passionate desire between her and Draco which was so close to being broken it frightened her. Frightened her more than any tower ever could.
Draco tipped his head back, the sound of the pelting rain on the tower's turreted tin roof drowning out every unwanted thought from his mind. If only he could sit there forever, one leg outstretched and the other drawn up — the bitter tang of tobacco heating the forlorn chill which lingered in his chest. Maybe he'd die up there, peacefully, with only the rain to comfort him, and when the storm passed someone would come up, to ring the bell most likely, and find a dead body. And no one would even care. His father wouldn't. Hermione wouldn't — not after what had just happened, what she'd just found out.
Draco wanted to scream, but instead he only slammed the back of his already throbbing head against the brick wall, exhaling smoke in one angry, vengeful breath. Anger was an emotion which he had trouble dealing with right now — there was too much of it, filling him up from the inside and nearly suffocating him. Or maybe that was just the smoke. He didn't care. Not right now. He couldn't even find an outlet for his rage, couldn't decide whether it needed to be directed at himself, Pansy, or Weasley.
Suddenly, through the heavy beating of the rain, he could distinguish footsteps coming closer, getting louder with each step. They were too light to be the caretaker's — Filch, who's dream it was to catch Draco in the bell tower and have him expelled — and softness was a tread which most commonly belonged to Theo. He didn't want to see his friend right now. He wanted to be alone. So when the footfalls became the loudest, echoing onto the landing and indicating their owner was just about to show themselves, Draco grunted, "Fuck off, Theo."
There was a pause, the steps halted, and Draco, ready to yell something even more sinister, crushed the end of his cigarette on the wooden panels beside him — pretending it was Theo's head.
But it wasn't Theo. It was Hermione. Flushed, red eyes, drenched hair. She was out of breath, distressed, her lips parted and her lashes thick with the weight of water droplets. Beautiful Hermione, and she'd been looking for him, climbing a tall tower and facing her fear of heights, crying — because of him.
Before either of them could say anything, Draco had rushed to his feet. He swayed, dizzy, his head injury burning, but forgotten, because then Hermione looked at him, her eyes overflowing with confusion, with betrayal and hurt, and Draco wanted more than anything to pull her into his arms — to never let go. The desire was unbearable, so he clenched his knuckles, still cracked with dried blood, and turned away, leaning his arms on the railings, trying more than anything to get lost in the thousands of unyielding streaks of rain.
"You should leave." His voice was thick, hoarse. He had to grip the rail to resist the urge to turn to her.
He heard her feet shuffle against the wood, heard her take a shaky breath, and then in a whisper, small enough that it was nearly muffled by the rain, she asked, "Is it true?"
Draco's fists clenched. Unclenched. Clenched. No, it's not. He could say that — wanted to say that, because if he did he might salvage the falling remains of what made up their future. It would be a mere half future, however, built on the uneven slopes of lies and deceit. He couldn't do that to Hermione. Yes, it is true — he could speak the truth, try and mould it into a shape that made him out to be the misunderstood, the misguided, the man willing to be redeemed.
But he was Draco Malfoy, and all he said was a hybrid of the inbetween. "True enough."
A beat. "How true?"
The rain cast grey shadows across the school grounds, blurring the lines of what seemed real. Draco wished he could blend into it, become one with the rain, but all he could do was take a gulp of its freshness, shrug and pretend like he was okay. "Does it matter?"
And then he heard it, a whimper, and he spun around just in time to catch the tremble of her lip, the tear hastily smudged away, before she was glaring at him defiantly. "Yes. Yes — it does matter! Draco — everything matters — between you and me everything matters. It needs to matter. Why —why don't you see that?"
Push. Shove. It was what Draco was used to doing. It was why he'd been able to keep relationships purely physical — it was why meeting Hermione Granger had been the stripping of his soul, and the idea of being completely vulnerable, completely barren, scared him. Almost as much as losing her scared him. But he'd already done that, hadn't he? So what did anything matter — what was the loss of the person most dear to him?
"Go." Saying it to the ground was easier, but haunting, because even though he didn't witness the flash of hurt in her eyes, he still knew it was there.
"Draco —"
"Don't —" he held out his hand, withdrew it when he realised it was trembling, "—don't come near me."
"Draco — you don't want this... please don't push me away—"
"SHUT UP! Don't you get it? Don't you fucking see that I'm a worthless piece of shit — that I hurt you — again and again —that I lied to you — that even when I loved you I still fucked Pans—"
Heavy, soft, soaked and sweet — she slammed into him, her lips on his, prying, seeking, begging. And god, he must be a masochist, because even though it hurt, tore him apart to think that this —this must be the last time, the last goodbye — it felt like the sun had just chased the storm away; like the heat in his body had been rekindled.
It was everything that their last kiss hadn't been — rushed, angry, full of teeth and tongues in the transience of dominance — with fingers clawing into flesh, pulling hair from scalps, tearing into eachother until the definition between two people became blurred.
Draco knew he should stop, knew he should push her away and shout at her, end this once and for all, but suddenly her hands were sliding down — down his back, down his ass and into his pockets —digging out his wallet?
She broke away from him — her face sad yet devious as she flipped open the wallet, and Draco would have questioned her, would have sought answers, until she pulled out what she was looking for — a flattened square of foil, a condom that had been in there for so long its existence had become forgotten.
They were both breathing hard, their exhales mingling into the heavy onslaught of the rain, and when their eyes met Draco's were confused, and hers were tormented — their deep toffee colour simmering in sorrow.
"Did you — did you keep them in here for Pansy?" She asked softly, her eyelids flittering closed, as if telling herself she had to hear his answer, even if it would break her in two.
His eyes hardened. What was he meant to tell her — that Pansy had used birth control tablets?
"No."
Her eyes wavered as they traced his face, but her only answer was a grim nod, and then Draco had to take a step back, because Hermione was lowering her stockings, sliding her panties off beneath her skirt, shuffling them down until they sat stretched and caught around her knees.
Any words Draco could have said died in his throat — lodged in his windpipe, and his heart throbbed painfully, as if he were about to be carried to the last brink of his sanity. "W…what—"
"Y-you said you loved me. So — so fuck me, Draco."
Draco froze, everything seemed to slow down — to stop as suddenly as if he'd fallen asleep. He stood as if struck, his face bruised and swollen, his mouth dry, his blood pounding, and there was Hermione, her cheeks red and her eyes bloodshot, her chest heaving with the indignation and the embarrassment that flogged her with her word choice.
And for the life of him, Draco didn't know what to do — didn't want to know what to do. Because she was right — he had said it — it'd slipped out in his need for her to see his ugly side. So, why, then, was she still here?
Hermione only got bolder, dropped her hands to the hem of her skirt and hitched it up — exposing her creamy skin, her mouth watering thighs, and the delicate patch of dark curls which Draco had never gotten to kiss.
"F-fuck me like you'd fuck Pansy."
Hermione shivered under the attack of the cold air and Draco's heated, calculating look. It was almost reproachful, the way his eyes were slits as he looked at her, but there was something more, something incredibly hungry and depraved in the way he stared — and that was what gave Hermione the courage to keep going, to say the vulgar words which tasted like poison in her mouth.
"F-fuck me like you'd fuck Pansy."
She didn't know what she was doing, all she knew was that when Draco had said he loved her, when it had sprang from his lips like an accident, like it could never be anything but the truth, something inside of her cracked — cracked with the inexplicable need to test him, to separate his words from his actions. Because if it were true, she might forgive him, if it were true, then everything that had been said and done, everything that had caused pain — she could look past it. If he loved her, he wouldn't do what she'd asked — wouldn't treat her like Pansy.
So, why, then, did a tiny, feral, repressed part of her, want him to do it? Why didn't she object when suddenly he was there, right in front of her, something demonic and starving turning his grey eyes to a near black? When he ripped the condom from her hand, and tossed it over the side rails, out into the rain, why didn't she question him? Why wasn't she scared by the way he looked at her, as if he wouldn't leave an inch of her uncovered, devoured, tasted, dirtied? Why wasn't she disgusted by the way he claimed her mouth, by the way he tasted like smoke and blood and something bitter, something addictive?
Why didn't she protest when he turned her around and shoved her up against the bricks, when he pinned her hands above her head and wedged a knee between her thighs?
She should be fighting him, telling him it was over, because he was about to fuck her just like he'd fucked Pansy — without love, without meaning — and she didn't even care. Maybe it was because some jealous, insane part of her wanted to be everything he'd already had — everything he'd already had but better — and she was about to prove herself — to show him that she could accept every side of him, every dark crevice and tainted thought that made up his soul.
She didn't listen to the voice in her head that told her Draco wouldn't do this if he really did love her, she only moaned as she heard the unbuckling of his belt, the unzipping of his trousers, and then he was there — hot and hard and right at her entrance. She didn't listen to the thoughts that made her question why he'd thrown the condom away, that she was about to have unprotected sex, or how this was only her second time and she was still raw and aching from the last — but then all of that didn't matter, because with one sharp, precise push, he was inside of her.
It hurt, it burnt, but it felt so right — so full and hot and — she whimpered, heard Draco growl, and then his hands were on her hips, gripping so tightly it was as if he knew they'd bruise — wanted them to bruise. It wasn't enough, she couldn't feel his chest against her back, couldn't feel his breath in her ear or stirring her hair — they were joined, yet so far apart, and all she could do was grope at the brick wall in front of her face, groan as her cheek scratched against the uneven surface and pant as Draco unrelentingly thrust into her — again and again — but then it all dissolved, fell to pieces, because then he pulled out, slackened his hold on her flesh, and Hermione felt warm liquid soak her bum and the back of her thighs.
And then he moved away, and all the cold air which hadn't gotten hold of her, hadn't been known to her as Draco had sheltered her against the wall, came crashing around her — and she gasped. She ached between her thighs, and something in her chest ached too — as if everything was entirely wrong — and then the gasp turned into a sob, because that hadn't been Draco, that hadn't been her Draco, the one she'd made love with two days ago.
Her knees buckled, wobbling under her weight, and it took a lot of effort to simply turn around, to watch as he did up his trousers — to catch the glimmer in the corner of his eyes, the downturn to his lips, and the look of devastation, of self loathing and hate, that he wore when he looked at her.
Then he spoke, and his voice was deadly quiet, like acid, destroying every feeling of reparation which Hermione still hoped for, every chance he ever had of making it up to her — it slipped away into the rain.
"That's how I fuck Pansy."
A/N: Okay okay don't murder me! Everything will resolve itself - pretty soon in fact *O* - they're not all going to stay prats and cowards forever! Sorry if anyone seems too OOC, I try my best but might get a little carried away sometimes DX. I have some big plans ahead for Draco, and Hermione isn't going to lose her head and let herself be manipulated - so don't fear and stay tuned! :)