9 am
"Hello, class. I am professor Carling and this is the Form of Mind," a charmed chalk wrote his name and name of the class on a blackboard behind him, "We will do a lot of talking during these hours of the week. Hours, which you will be spending with me."
That morning Hermione felt as if she was free-falling, she had cleaned up, she had dressed, packed her satchel and stepped out of the Fat Lady's portrait, her mind still a bit hazy from last night's smoky ventures and not still not quite registering anything happening around her.
She was standing in the classroom that previously had held the classes of Muggle Studies, half present and half completely out of it, while their new professor introduced himself. There were no desks or chairs in the room. It was completely empty if only for the grand black piano that resided in the corner of the room and a teacher's desk, accompanied by a rather small-looking blackboard.
Hermione had been quite baffled when she had learnt that this course expects the students to be only present for the lessons and participate in them as there had been no instructions for any textbooks to read beforehand or any other materials that might have been useful when getting to know what this course is going to include. In terms of learning and knowledge. And the Gryffindor felt disorganized and completely not ready for what was about to be asked from them. How could she possibly know the right answers to the psychological processes of the human brain when the Hogwarts library held nothing of such sorts in its shelves? That is what she at least had expected the course to include. That is what she had deduced from the title of it. Hermione could not be sure as there had been no instructions whatsoever included in the envelope of her Hogwarts letter. Had anyone else read upon any additional material regarding the subject? She could only hope that everyone in the classroom was as blank as Hermione Granger. There is a first for everything.
This was one of the classes the Gryffindors shared with the very not-so-lovable Slytherins. And while it might be interesting to explore how the cold-blooded serpentines would react to this particular course, Hermione wanted and expected to gain a lot from it and sharing it with the sneering and already disgusted-looking company did nothing but scream the contrary to her face. And that thought was quickly approved by Pansy Parkinson gritting her teeth at the young man in front of them, "That mudblood is not getting shit out of me." Mudblood? Was he a muggle-born as well?
Thank Merlin, her remark had been rather silent and directed more towards her friends, whom she had expected to award her wittiness with approving chuckles and so they did. Blaise nudged Draco in his side and they snickered under their noses while Daphne and Millicent covered their mouths to hide their amusement.
Cole Carling was a very tall and very attractive man. He had soft brown curls that locked around his sharp features, while his prominent cheekbones reflected the sunlight in a God-like way. The young professor wore dark green robes that hung loosely on all the right places and hugged his lean body in crevices, that needed to be displayed. It was an astonishing sight. There was no doubt, that every girl in Hogwarts had been melting at the sight of him since his arrival. Add Hermione Granger to the list. An exception was the Slytherin girlfriends, who valued his blood-status higher. Hermione had not been so smitten by an older man, more precisely, a professor, since Gilderoy Lockheart's smile had been plastered all across the Daily Prophet's front page. And that said a lot.
Professor Carling's voice was deep and silky as it echoed against the classroom's walls, and very soothing as if his vocal cords were made to help mend other people's minds, "As Headmistress McGonagall informed you all before, this course is an inspiration from the Muggle world and will ultimately include many elements borrowed from their research of mental health and the maintaining of its stability."
"Maybe that shit would sound better coming from his mouth rather than his ass," Blaise Zabini rolled his eyes while his hands were folded in front of his chest in a fairly protective manner. Crabbe and Goyle looked at one another, exchanging simpering looks between each other. Idiots.
The young professor clasped his hands together and started to pace the room before the students in a slow and relaxed manner, "I personally have always found it true that the Wizarding World has a lot to learn from non-magic-folks, as their way of living and studying to live with emotions, experiences and damages gained from traumatizing events, have shown a lot of progress during this century. They have found ways to savour the negativity and put it forth into something beautiful and admirable or mentally fertile or even physically materializable."
He took a deep breath and indulged into explaining how he as a muggle-born is proud of what he can offer from that part of his world now to his students. Hermione was mesmerized by the way he spoke his mind and the fact that his soul was so down to earth and pure. She had never been ashamed of her roots and her blood-status, but Cole Carling brought more and more pride to the Gryffindor's deflated sense of self-worth. He was a truly brilliant person.
"While there are a lot of approaches to how one could go about with coping methods, during our time together we are going to use mostly techniques like art and talking therapy, as I find them the most helpful in post-war mental health treatments," Cole cleared his throat and with a swift motion of his wand conjured about twenty easels, paired with white cotton canvases, "The aim of art therapy is to manage behaviours, process feelings, reduce stress and anxiety and increase self-esteem. What I want to accentuate is that creating art, no matter how skilled you are at it, can help you acknowledge and recognize feelings that have been lurking deep down in your subconscious, by putting anything and everything that comes to your mind on the blank canvas at your disposal."
Hermione had started to feel uncomfortable by how many awful and sneering comments had been thrown towards their professor in a matter of seconds as he spoke his last introductory sentences. Slytherins really did not carry any shame with them these days, as they spoke everything they had on mind, even when their opinions on the subject were completely invalid. What was the point of backlashing? It was a mandatory course. But maybe that was it, the notorious serpentines just could not show their defeat or surrender for anything. Their arrogance and haughtiness had not been properly abated with the Dark side's loss at the War, Hermione thought to herself. Had they not learnt their mistakes? Though she had noticed that the only Slytherin not disgusted by the class was Theo, who had been attentive during these first ten minutes and he even had seemed genuinely interested in what professor Carling had to say. Hermione had also glanced over to Harry and Ron to see what their facial expressions had to reveal about their stance. While Harry was neutral and nodding at some points that Mr Carling talked about, Ron was as red as a late-summer tomato and mouthing "Crikey" at the wooden formations conjured in the middle of the class.
"Today we are going to be starting with talking therapy, because, as I said, we are going to be expressing our thoughts a lot throughout our time together and I would like to see where we all are, in order to continue on with the course as productively as we possibly could," professor Carling took a few steps forward towards the students who were all standing still at the back of the class, he conjured a toy Hippogriff in his large hands and grinned at them, "Let's begin."
He had arranged them to sit in a circle on the other side of the class, by the door, which was not vacated by the few dozen easels he had conjured previously. The faces of Slytherins' had formed into irreparable scowls, not showing any signs of complying, while the Gryffindors remained somewhat wide-eyed and bewildered. When professor Carling had instructed them to sit down and say anything that was on their minds when the stuffed Hippogriff was placed into their hands, Draco had managed to whisper an almost inaudible, "This class is ridiculous."
Tracey Davis had been the first one to do the honours of holding the fake magical creature in her arms and open up about how strained her relationship with her mother had been since the start of the War. Tracey explained how she would want nothing else but to improve the way she and Mrs Davis got along. Her Slytherin girlfriends put comforting hands on her knees and glared at professor Carling as if they were about to murder him after the class, clearly showing that it was not a subject they approved Tracey of discussing with someone other than them. With someone outside of the secluded Slytherin circle. The serpentines were a very protective crowd. She was followed by Seamus who had misunderstood the task and divulged into discussing his Quidditch practice methods for some Blocking technique which, as Hermione understood, was used to mislead the opposing team's Seeker. Professor Carling had chuckled and explained to Seamus how this activity was supposed to be about discussing the post-war induced negative feelings and aimed more towards expressing their bottled-up emotions. Almost every Slytherin in the class rolled their eyes, while Seamus apologized more times than necessary and turned scarlet.
When it was Pansy Parkinson's turn, her manicured fingers dug deeply into the stuffed toy as if she was trying to suffocate it, "I would feel better if I was not here." She smiled sweetly and threw the Hippogriff in a supercilious way at the young professor, the white plush animal landing perfectly in his lap. The room broke into a wave of chuckles and snickers from the part of the circle that was made up from the wearers of the deep-green tie. Draco, who was sitting cross-legged next to Pansy looked at her in a sort of an adoring way and a proud grin crept upon his features. Hermione found herself staring at the two of them for too long, a flash of jealousy washing over her. A hidden thought at the back of her mind whispered to Hermione "wish that was you, huh", but she shook it off, finding her wandering reveries repellant.
At that remark, Mr Carling sighed and gave a meekly smile to the hard-faced Slytherin girl, and turned to the other side of the class, eyeing a mop of red, "Mr Weasley, how are you feeling today?"
Ron fumbled with the Hippogriff for a few moments until he looked up, his face flushed again, "I— um— well, I am fine. Always could be better, eh?"
"And why is that?" the young professor asked, trying to get something more out of the red-haired boy.
"Umm— I— I have fallen out recently with someone I love," Ron gave Hermione a quick glance and shot his eyes down to look at the stuffed Hippogriff again. The Gryffindor sweetheart raised a questioning brow at her old friend and sighed in disbelief. This was far from appropriate. To raise the topic in a class in order to gain her empathy. And was it recently, though? More like a lifetime ago. Prick.
The white-coloured toy was then passed onto Theo, who had sat himself down beside Hermione, "I know that we are all trying our best here, some show it in a different way and I think that it is fine. To be resentful and angry." He gave Pansy a look to which she responded by furrowing her perfectly shaped eyebrows and scoffing. "I have been both of those things. And many more. While I have had the advantage of turning those emotions into different ones, it all comes down to our own choice. Whether we want it or not."
Hermione looked at the Slytherin talking next to her and was flooded with instant respect and praise towards him. He was speaking nothing but the truth. He really had been one of the few of his house's members to refrain from their notoriously nasty behaviour recently, if not the only one. And he had been the only one so far to say something so profound and engaging.
Theo had noticed the Gryffindor watching and he let his eyes meet hers, as he continued on with his mental findings in a soft and rather silent voice, "We can choose if we want to get better because denying it only will make it more difficult for the people around you who have accepted their own emotions and feelings. I just want to say that your resentment only slows down the process of someone else recovering."
Professor Carling, who had been nodding at almost every sentence Theo had spoken, let the conjured toy disappear with a flick of his wand and then he said, "Well said, Mr Nott. I see we have a lot of potential to work with and some that we are going to turn into prospective progress." He eyed Pansy as the last part of his sentence left his plump lips.
The bulb's shards were gliding across the black marble of her mind, like magnets the pieces slowly attracted one another to mould in their previous form.
Draco, who had been intently watching his childhood friend and Hermione develop their recently ever-growing friendship, laughed maniacally. The Gryffindor's head of erratic curls turned to the pale boy across from her, firstly noticing his blood-shot eyes carrying yesterday's carouse and his bruised neck. The love kisses which he had received from Pansy were laid erratically on his alluring skin. He had not bothered to cover them up, contrary to Hermione. His face went completely blank when he saw that Hermione was eyeing him with an incredulous expression plastered across her petite facade. "Cut the bullshit, Nott," Draco sneered, the upper half of his nose scrunching into a nauseated way, "That sly snake will go great lengths for some pipe cleaning."
Every Slytherin in the room, including the limp bodies of Crabbe and Goyle who had seemed to be falling into a slumber, burst into laughter. A genuine one. What had Draco meant by pipe cleaning? Hermione had never heard of a word combination like that. She will have to ask Hannah, but whatever it was, it definitely was something regarding the relationship between her and Theo, as Daphne Greengrass added in between her unremitting chuckling, "I doubt anyone would go near her filthy chamber of secrets." More roars of frantic howling erupted because of the pretty Slytherin's comment.
Hermione let her eyes go over everyone in the class and even Neville seemed to have understood the joke Draco had asserted, as his scarlet skin glowed in embarrassment. Harry gulped, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down. Ron had puffed his cheeks with enough air to last him for a year. Lavender and Parvati were whispering in each other's ears while stealing glances of Hermione's perplexed expression and chuckling in an annoying manner. Was the oblivious Gryffindor sweetheart really the only one not let in on the joke? But she could not care less about it. Hermione had grown to be numb towards the insignificant tittle-tattles that have followed her around since she could remember herself.
Mr Carling loudly cleared his throat, in an attempt of getting his students' attention, "Keep your hallway gossip to yourself, Mr Malfoy. We will continue with our talking in the next lessons, now everyone, please, choose your easel," he stood up and motioned the class to do the same, "As I mentioned earlier, it does not matter if you have done this before, if you are good at it or not, just try to capture something that has been on your mind or simply let your emotions overtake your brush strokes."
Mr Carling conjured a set of acrylic paints and a variety of brushes for each of the students. Most of the wizards and witches looked dumbfounded. They had never worked on a painting or seen how it is done, and it showed. Some of them picked up the brushes that came in different sizes and widths and looked at them in the way a muggle would examine the eerie-looking and aggressive Monster Book of Monsters.
Hermione had chosen a position that allowed her to view the grand piano from her point of view and that gave her just enough good lighting to work on her canvas as best as she could. She was determined to let this course help her, to ready herself for a change so needed, as Theo had said.
Speaking of Theo, he had once again taken the position to stand next to her. She smiled at the realization.
"If you do not mind me asking," Hermione started as she dipped one of the petite brushes repeatedly into the navy acrylic paint, "how did you overcome it all?"
Theo looked at her with his soft forest-green eyes and answered, "At one point, I just did not see the alcohol or the drugs numbing me. I somehow became tolerant to all of it and the over-flood of emotions just washed over even when I was absolutely shit-faced. And dealing with that pain is worse when you are wasted."
Hermione nodded at the Slytherin and found herself shocked at the realization of how right he once again was. Not that the substances she was abusing were starting to let her thoughts in, but that every single person in this room doing so would eventually come to the same point that Theo had reached. Sooner or later. And that they would go through it too. The only question was, as Theo had stated, we can choose to let ourselves recover and if we do, it ultimately makes it an easier and faster process.
"You are right, Theo," Hermione looked at him, her pained eyes glistening with sympathy and acknowledgement.
"I know I am, Golden girl," he gave her a boyish smirk, "I wonder why you have not figured it out yet."
That was a rather great question. And Hermione knew the answer to it, she just would not express it aloud for anyone to hear it. It was that she was not quite ready to take the chance, to buy her one-way ticket to wellness. Not yet. While she knew that Theo spoke nothing but the truth, her stubbornness said that Hermione should experience it on her own. To feel it on her own skin. The realization that nothing external will help with what she had been working on to endure it all. That is the only way she would know for sure, that she was, in fact, ready to recover. It needs to come from the Gryffindor's inner world. You cannot simply learn from someone else's mistakes. You have to encounter it on your own, even when it seems feeble-minded and unnecessary.
The Form of Mind classroom was pleasantly bright and full of the shimmering shadows the golden September sun took part in casting. Hermione's chosen spot had paid off incredibly to her advantage as the large windows that enveloped the whole classroom behind her and before her, cast a great amount of direct sunlight. It was a somewhat warming and delightful feeling. Something she could get behind. Something that made her mind steer clear from the type of torturous episodes she had had to undergo yesterday.
The two of them chatted all throughout the remains of the two-hour-long lesson, they laughed and divulged into discussing anything and everything that came to their minds. They kept it simple, of course, not one of them wanting to weigh down the lightness of their delightful exchange. Theo had also informed the wide-eyed girl about what Draco had meant by his awful remark and Hermione could not believe that the aristocratic boy, who's mother was none other than Narcissa Malfoy, would say something so disrespectful during a lesson. He and his mother were each other's complete opposites. And while Narcissa deserved all the respect in the world, Draco was definitely a mirror image of his father in a way, Hermione thought. Though she had found herself in the crossfire every single time she tried to come to terms about what her definite opinion on the white-haired boy was. It was as if her perception of him changed every passing day. From left to right and back again.
As regarding whether Hermione thought that Theo was truly attempting to participate in some pipe cleaning with the Gryffindor sweetheart, she knew that it was just not the case. Draco had falsely presumed that Theo's reflections had been fabricated in order to seduce Hermione, which is just one of the most absurd things she had ever heard coming from the pale serpentine's lips. On the off-chance of him being right, Hermione was not so sure she would not accept the invitation. And what was it to him anyway? Had Theo stolen one of his Friday's sluts and this was his petty revenge?
Mr Carling had been circling the class and examining what the students have drawn so far, his facial expression shifting from utter disappointment to nodding his head in understanding, a proud smile decorating his facade. He had to instruct some of them on how to properly use a painting brush and explain what the colours were for. There were a lot of annoyed glances shot towards the young professor when he turned down the idea of using magic to fasten the process. He had to explain elaborately to Crabbe and Goyle that the fact that they are painting using their hands and their hands only was how the art therapy worked. But when he had stopped to check Pansy's progress, he sighed in exasperation, "Care to elaborate, Ms Parkinson?"
Pansy, who was standing between Draco and Blaise, flashed a wide, toothy grin, "Oh, this? This is you, professor. You see? And that is me. I think I have done a pretty great job of expressing my deepest inner desires."
"Very well, if those are your most pressing emotions at the moment," he gave a weak shake of his head, visibly irritated by what Pansy had painted, and looked over to Draco's canvas. The young professor hummed and drummed his fingers on top of the blond Slytherin's easel. He then leaned in to say something to his student and stood up saying, "This is very good, Mr Malfoy."
Draco snorted audibly at Mr Carling's approval and rolled his eyes. Was he not able to take a compliment or was this just his usual response to every muggle-born Wizard or Witch? What an ass, Hermione noted to herself as she watched secretively, her eyes looming above the canvas before her. Draco had not paid any attention to the Gryffindor today when just last night he had not been able to keep his dark and inviting eyes off of her. Not that she was complaining, but his behaviour has been less than explainable and in Hermione's opinion every mystery needed to be solved. This just was not one of the easy ones to crack. But at the same time, she could not help her fascination with him, it was as if some external force was shoving her towards him. How would his pale, aristocratic skin feel under her touch? Would it be ice-cold like his external display of emotions or would it be warm and welcoming? But she fought the pull vigorously. Hermione would not give in to the temptation, however, she had to know and she had to see what was so good about his painting. Had he visualized his and Pansy's public rendezvous and show of affection on the Astronomy tower? A pang of jealousy. Again. What was it with her? It was as if Hermione had no control over her desires whatsoever. All she wanted to do right now was to march over to him and grip his collar, while he shoved her into a wall or anywhere really. And maybe grabbed her dishevelled curtain of locks in his long and tempting fingers. What? She obliterated all of her abominable daydreamings. Was that a part of the presumed curse that bound them? It had to be, as there was no way these feelings towards the cold Slytherin prince were real and truly coming from her. Sane Hermione would never look at him that way.
She was dipping a large brush into the green pot of sticky substance in her palette of colours and brushing it onto her canvas in wide strokes, adding the last set of touches to her almost finished artwork. Hermione took it all in once she had finished expressing one of her most recent reflections of life onto the now coated cotton textile. She had drawn a simple representation of Hagrid's old shack, the way it had looked before it was demolished. It had a smoking chimney, a warm light which shone through the irregularly shaped windows. The small home was enveloped by the forthcoming tall, deep-green trees from the Forbidden Forest and at the top of their apexes, a deep-blue shade of sky surrounded the image. Surely, this was not one of Hermione's greatest works, as she had taken a few art classes during the summers away from Hogwarts. She had found them quite relaxing and a great way to take a break from magic and do something with her own hands. Her parents had even hung a few pictures in their small kitchen back at home, a few sophisticated paintings showing bouquets of flowers decorated the wall behind their dining table.
Mr Carling had stopped at Dean's side to examine and chat about what his work encaptured for a few minutes, he then walked over to stand behind Ron, a few remarks of "You are a natural" and "I see what you meant with this" echoing the hollow classroom. Hermione was doubting she was seeing the exchange clearly, had Ron really done a good job? He had always been one of the worst and most awkward at expressing his feelings. What had he possibly smeared onto his canvas, that could finally tell the world what that thick brain of his holds? But at the end of the day, she came to understand that this class was not something one could excel at, it was more about how you took part in it and if what you did with your time during it, seemed to be aiding towards changes. The Form of Mind course was aimed towards opening up to yourself and letting your emotions out, even if not discussed or spoken loudly, drawing and putting them down into colours that you saw appropriate was a huge leap towards a sort of release, she had concluded.
Hermione had not noticed when, but the young professor had approached her and Theo. "Mr Nott, this is remarkable," he looked down at Theo's painting from where he was standing and nodded his head once again in appreciation as he had done with the larger portion of their class, "Pegasus is one of the most admirable constellations indeed. Why did you choose this particular one, if I might ask?"
The bushy-haired Gryffindor took a few steps back to take in what Theo had painted during the class and it was a rather impressive image of the Pegasus constellation, the stars glimmering in silver and the sky behind it a beautiful shade of cobalt that contrasted nicely as a background behind the bright speckles of the majestic creature's illustration in the dark night. "I have always found comfort in the message it sends. As we know, the Pegasus as a symbol represents clear spring water, something I aid to become someday. A part of the nature that comes from wonderful and marvellous sources. Pure and free from the fictitious jail the War has put us all in. I know I am not quite there yet, but maybe in the future."
"That is an astounding message, Theo," Hermione acknowledged, putting a light and comforting hand on his shoulder. And in response, he looked at her over his shoulder and smiled reassuringly. He was such a sweet human being, Hermione could not help but notice. She knew then that he definitely had more than a standing chance to justify his and his family's past with the new outlook on life he had gained.
Mr Carling had noticed their sweet exchange and smiled at the two of them, "I have to agree with Ms Granger, Theodore. You are on the right path. Keep up the excellent work."
The young professor's eyes then landed onto Hermione's work and he gave her a curious look that said he now wanted to hear how the image she had painted reflected onto her self-communion. "Um— this is— I decided upon painting an old friend's house. I wanted to capture some of my favourite memories and a part of them have been experienced right there. I— I visit the site sometimes. To reminisce about the good and the positive in life. To cling to the memories in a way. It helps to look forward to the next day."
"Great. You two have found a different approach to the task I had assigned to the class," the attractive man walked away from Hermione and Theo and stood in front of the students, addressing them, "While most chose to represent their sorrows through rather dark colours, you can always choose to show a more positive outlook whether it be on your past or future." He then took a breath and collected his thoughts, continuing, "Keep in mind, that there is not only one way to participate in this course. There are no correct answers in how one should display their sentiments. Painting is a great way to express your emotions without words, process complex feelings and find relief."
"None of which we did today," Crabbe snorted and looked for approval at Draco, someone who he presumably looked up to. The blond Slytherin paid him with a mocking glare in return as if saying that his ample companion was not even close to a good enough jest.
"I find that we have made some good progress today. While we unquestionably have a long way to go, I look forward to getting to know all of you and help in whatever way possible. Class dismissed," professor Carling turned his back on the students, proceeding towards his desk to collect his belongings.
"Oh, yes," Daphne Greengrass flicked her glorious chestnut hair over her shoulder and scowled, "You could start by trying to be less of a waste of time, magic and potential, Cole."
It had been intended to be a silent remark, shared between the party of Slytherin girls, but the young professor had heard it nonetheless, "Ms Greengrass, I would hate to argue, but I find detention classes to be more of a waste. If you are up for it, Mr Filch would be delighted to accompany you."
Milicent pushed her girlfriends through the large entry door and gave professor Carling a condescending smile, "We will be fine, thank you."
Everyone seemed to be clearing out of the classroom fairly quickly, leaving Hermione and a handful of others still fumbling with their belongings. She moved to exit the room when she acknowledged that the only ones vacating it was her and Draco Malfoy. Hermione contemplated for a moment whether she should act on this moment of privacy. On the one hand, she was not sure about what her intentions were and if she could act logically with that powerful tug pulling her body towards his direction. On the other hand, Hermione felt as if this was one of the only chances she would have in a while to confront him.
She wanted to apologize for yesterday. For hurting him. She would swear she had forgotten all about their bondage. She wanted to ask him about what he was doing regarding the subject. Was he researching? What had he found out already? Did he know how to lift whatever magic fused them together? There were too many questions generating in her mind and she did not know where to even start.
She closed the classroom's doors and silently neared the pale Slytherin, the Gryffindor bravery leading her, and stood just behind him as he was leaning down to put the remainder of his scattered belongings into his black dragon leather briefcase. One of which was an old and worn-out looking thick book enclosed in ashy-blue colour. It was then when she had the chance to examine his painting and she exhaled sharply at the sight. If Draco's canvas had been worked through with so much meticulous detail, then how whatever Ron had scribbled onto the white cotton with his large and clumsy hands be of a natural? Before her eyes, a glorious image of the Malfoy Manor was presented, a dark gloom surrounding upon the vertexes of its high towers. Draco had managed to capture the large edifice in all of its astonishing details, his brushwork was unmatchable as it was so detailed and elegant. Did he really have to excel at everything? Hermione wanted desperately to ask him what it represented for him. Did he resent it? Did he see it as an epitome of the bad and evil? Or did he just miss it? And his mother.
When her curious gaze wandered over to the vivid image next to Draco's, Hermione gaped in incredulity. Pansy had painted herself strangling professor Carling, as he gasped for air. She had charmed the painting to move. And the word "Mudblood" in maroon lettering was scratched above the two of them. Pansy seemed like a delightful young lady.
Hermione had not even noticed Draco standing up from the position he was in before, not until he annoyedly cleared his throat, "Was your last visit to my home not enough for you, Granger? Want to repeat it?"
She let the words sink in and then turned to him in disbelief, shaking her head, "What? Do not be ridiculous, Malfoy."
"You look like shit, Granger. Better clean up before spreading your legs for Nott," he gave one of his infamous sneers towards the bewildered girl before him and bumped her forcefully with his shoulder, as he brushed past her.
Her eyes were dry and glistening, her lips compressed, her cheeks sunken. And her hair was, in fact, dishevelled and soaked with the now dried sweat of her neck, from her attempts to perfect the painting, but as she steadied herself from the impact of his shove, Hermione turned on her heel to follow him striding out of the classroom, "I do not intend on doing anything of such sort."
"Sorry, Granger, forgot how much of a prude you are," he threw the insulting words over his shoulder, quickening his pace.
"So now I am a prude? Will I ever meet the middle where I am just?"
Draco stopped in his tracks just before the door and turned his tall body to face her, sighing, "What do you want from me?"
Hermione noted the way his shiny, white hair was again in its wavy form, draping around the chiselled lines of his aristocratic profile. He was undoubtedly a breathtakingly handsome man and she took a minute to herself to take him all in, maybe a bit too long before she answered, "Tell me how are you taking care of it. Tell me how your stupid little tattoo is helping our situation?"
Draco leaned over her, his height covering her small body, and snarled at Hermione, "As I said previously, it is none of your fucking business, Granger."
Hermione gulped audibly, slightly intimidated by him and his towering figure. "It is. We both are affected by this, so that makes it my business too, Malfoy," she hissed, trying to sound as menacing as she could, but it seemed like a losing game, his pinewood cologne invading her nostrils and putting a compelling cast on her brain.
"We?" he muttered and chuckled deeply, shaking his head. Draco then took a step towards her as if there had been any more distance to close between the two and grabbed both of her wrists in his hands, gripping tightly, before letting his expensive briefcase tumble onto the floor, "Let me get this clear for you. There is no us in this."
He rotated their bodies, making it so Hermione's back was facing the doors now and he shoved her forcibly against the wood of the entryway, hurting her. She winced and squeezed her eyes shut in response to the contact. "Get it through your thick skull," he breathed down on her, his exhales landing delicately onto her forehead. Her heart started to race. Was she scared of him? Or was she possibly enjoying this closure? She could not tell.
"There is me. Taking care of it. There is you. Minding your own business," his dark pools of grey were glistening with silver, as she had ignited the pit of anger in him.
Hermione felt almost paralyzed under his touch. Why was he being so rough? She mustered the pathetic amount of strength she had and tried to push Draco off of her, but he was so much stronger in comparison to her. He held her in the same stance and shoved her even further into the door. "You are hurting me," Hermione breathed against his mouth.
"Do you think I care?" Draco spat, his wavy locks resting upon Hermione's flushed skin on her face, "Do not mistake me for that ginger tumour. Or Nott for that matter."
Hermione tried to free her hands from his grasp or to wiggle out of his hold, but it was no use, "Stop. Please." He had trapped her and she would just have to listen to Draco lashing out on her. Hermione sensed that all of the fury radiating from him had not been raised solely from her approaching him. No. There was something else bothering him.
"Do you think I enjoy this? Do you think I want to be connected to you?" he continued, his breath was warm against her skin and it smelled deliciously of peppermint. Draco pressed his strong body against hers and she yelped at the contact. What was he playing at?
"Do you think I want to have Mudblood written on my arm and every one of your little ugly scratches all over my body? Do you think I enjoy receiving that Tuesday afternoon dose of self-harming?" Draco squeezed her left arm, where the scars of her yesterday's abuse had taken place, "Do you think I enjoy the pain?"
The literal shitfall of his thoughts was enclosing the small space between them and his deep voice fell more and more silent with each word passing out of his rosy lips, "Well, guess again, Granger, I do not." He released one of her wrists and put his hand to rest next to her head, his new stance allowing him to push his heaving muscular chest even deeper into hers, "Does that even come as surprise to that know-it-all brain of yours?"
Draco leaned in even closer to her and pressed his lips against her earlobe, while his blonde locks tickled her nose. She shivered in response to the newly accommodated connection of their frames and something in her lower abdomen fluttered in excitement, but that was only her body's response to the cold Slytherin. Her brain screamed to fight, to kick and to run far far away.
"Do you think I want to feel the way I do towards you? Do you think I am not doing everything I can to get your plump little lips out of my mind?" his tongue grazed slowly against the cartilage of her ear. Hermione turned her head away from him, breaking the contact, as she had never felt more assaulted and dirtier by someone's actions. Though her attempts were useless as Draco let his forehead rest against her temple, brushing the brown erratic curls away from her reddened face, and his hot breath projected onto her cheeks.
"Or your large brown eyes that seem to hold the world in their hands and every answer to any question at their disposal?" Draco's cold fingers then found their way to her chin and he turned her face so he could stare deeply into the set of her almond shapes.
"And that untamed bush you call hair?" Draco's slender fingers located Hermione's scalp and tugged her hair at its roots.
"And your perky breasts, hiding underneath all of this prig layering of fabric you have going on here?" his large hand ran over her chest, groping Hermione's petite body. Goosebumps had covered the skin underneath the white shirt she was wearing as his fingertips seemed to leave paths of flame on whichever spot they landed on.
"Oh, and your surprisingly full hips that scream invitations in my ears to squeeze them all across this fucking classroom?" he let go of her other hand too as the sentence left his mouth and he gripped her sides, pressing his scrotum into Hermione's stomach while allowing his forehead to gently lay on hers. She rested her shaking hands on his firm chest and sighed in pleasure. Her body was yearning towards him. She wanted more.
Was he complimenting her appearance or just objectifying and derogating her?
They stood there for a time that felt more like hours than seconds. He pressed into her. His breath wrapping around her. His scent intoxicating her. His words lingering in the air. It felt like an out-of-reality moment, where everything else around them seemed to stop dead in its tracks. And them being the only two beings alive just slowly breathing each other in.
His touch was coarse and needy, however, somewhat gentle against her flushed skin. Was this how he was with every girl? Was this how he held Pansy? No, she erased the silly thought. She was nothing like them. As Draco had declared beforehand, he loathes their bondage and she does too. But does she? She could not tell, her mind was spiralling, her thoughts swarming like bees looking for their pollen. Hermione had served as an emotional release for the visibly nervously strained Slytherin, who had not found the relief he had needed during this lesson. The need and want to pull his head towards hers and press her lips against his was polluting her consciousness. He had just physically and verbally abused her, but her traitorous body yearned to be under his touch again. But that was not her. It felt like a definite exterior force. Magically inclined.
Draco peeled his body away from Hermione and took two large steps backwards distancing himself. Something in her stomach ached at the loss of contact. "I know you feel it too, Granger," he panted, clearly out of his breath as well as her. His face was decorated by a tinge of pink, his lips were swollen from biting them and his wavy hair had fallen out of their scrupulous form they were in beforehand. His expression slowly evaporated from bewildered to angry and annoyed once again. There even was a flash of fear washing over his cold facade, as if he had just acknowledged what he had done and said. He shook his head and let his hand brush over his face in exasperation and incredulity.
Hermione felt his enticing smell lingering on her robes. She inhaled like a lunatic. The atmosphere in the room was heavy and hot, even suffocating. Hermione had to get out. But she craved for more, however, that was out of the question. She had hated their interaction, but at the same time, some sick part of her brain was shouting to lunge forward and beg him for more. Pathetic, Hermione noted. His questions ringed in her ears, as she repeated and digested them over and over again. They were like magnets of opposing poles. He was as affected by her as she was by him. The realization should have felt like a relief to Hermione, but it did not. It only complicated matters.
He straightened out his robes and his voice, barely a whisper, echoed the last words of their tempting exchange, in the hollow room, "That is why we have to stay away from each other."
At once, the weak magnet lost its force and the fragments shattered into more pieces in contact with the stone-hard surface of her thoughts.
Hermione swallowed hard, picked up her ochre satchel from the floor and turned on her heel, opening the doors of the Form of Mind classroom and sprinting into whatever direction her legs led her to.
11.15 am
A/N: Thank you for the amazing reviews! Keep them coming in. I'd love to see your opinions, as we're approaching the next portion of the story.