I don't own Harry Potter. What were you expecting, a funny statement?_
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He had hit her with a Goodness Spell. It was Draco's own little twisted invention. He loved the irony so. The fact that the good in you was causing you pain, that your own decency was your downfall, that the power of the spell and the pain it inflicted on you was equal only to the level of morality you had. He had setting out to do it, knowing what it could and would do, and loving the perverseness and the irony. What Draco didn't know was that it was fatal, to Harry Potter. One might think it ineffective on He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, but so long as there was true life within one's body, there was goodness and there was darkness, and there was no denying that at one time the Dark Lord had been alive. He had taken almost as many lives with his bare hands than as his wand.
If one thought about it, Harry had given Draco another reason to hate him because if Harry had never killed the Dark Lord, his mother would still be alive. It raised the level of hatred that Draco harbored for him, and therefore it raised level of overall hatred.
He dragged her out of the pitch back, ice-cold water like she had some disease that could be transmitted to him. He could see she wasn't breathing, and if he hadn't have wanted a special first homicide, then he wouldn't have cared. He had nothing left to do a Revival Spell with. And there was no way on the Dark Lord's dead earth that he was performing muggle CPR.
So Draco stomped his right Salem Short-Snout dragon hide boot heel into Hermione's stomach. She came to after about six or seven stomps, spitting crimson blood that was the darkest burgundy in the small bit of light from the stars. It hardly contrasted with the black of the grass, the black of the sky, and the black of the water. It was all ebony. The only things that stopped the areas from being one world where neither sky or ground or lake existed were the great gray brick walls of Hogwarts and the illuminated towers.
Draco wasn't worried about the internal bleeding either. Draco knew that she was a good witch despite her being a mudblood. So did Draco's father and Draco had the scars to prove it. He was not allowed to be second best and the fact that it was a mudblood that was beating him only added to the intensity of the hits. Lucius knew not the meaning of mercy, may it be his heir or otherwise.
At least those hits had meanings though, because sometimes, when Lucius was in an especially foul mood, he would use Draco's body as a way to release tension, he would hit him and hit him and hit him. Those were the worst beatings, when there was no legitimate reason for beating him, simply because the hurt wasn't just physical, it was emotional. Once upon a time Draco could deny that what his father thought of him mattered to him. Now though, Lucius had gone too far, he had taken the ONE person that Draco loved. She was his mother, his rock, his stability, his air, and his life. Oh but he had taken the whole fucking cake when he hit her.
If Draco could have spontaneously combusted, he would have. As it was, he almost did, and as Draco stood there looking at the mudblood filth, it hit him. Why the hell was he still listening to the man who had taken away his reason to live? And so Draco decided, on the spot, to rebel. He was going to do the thing that his father forbid the most, he was going to kill what Azkaban could not, his father's pride. He was going to poison the Malfoy family name, and what better way to start than with this girl. Opportunity was not knocking at his door but half-conscious at his feet, and its name was Hermione Granger.
He had hit her with a Goodness Spell. It was Draco's own little twisted invention. He loved the irony so. The fact that the good in you was causing you pain, that your own decency was your downfall, that the power of the spell and the pain it inflicted on you was equal only to the level of morality you had. He had setting out to do it, knowing what it could and would do, and loving the perverseness and the irony. What Draco didn't know was that it was fatal, to Harry Potter. One might think it ineffective on He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, but so long as there was true life within one's body, there was goodness and there was darkness, and there was no denying that at one time the Dark Lord had been alive. He had taken almost as many lives with his bare hands than as his wand.
If one thought about it, Harry had given Draco another reason to hate him because if Harry had never killed the Dark Lord, his mother would still be alive. It raised the level of hatred that Draco harbored for him, and therefore it raised level of overall hatred.
He dragged her out of the pitch back, ice-cold water like she had some disease that could be transmitted to him. He could see she wasn't breathing, and if he hadn't have wanted a special first homicide, then he wouldn't have cared. He had nothing left to do a Revival Spell with. And there was no way on the Dark Lord's dead earth that he was performing muggle CPR.
So Draco stomped his right Salem Short-Snout dragon hide boot heel into Hermione's stomach. She came to after about six or seven stomps, spitting crimson blood that was the darkest burgundy in the small bit of light from the stars. It hardly contrasted with the black of the grass, the black of the sky, and the black of the water. It was all ebony. The only things that stopped the areas from being one world where neither sky or ground or lake existed were the great gray brick walls of Hogwarts and the illuminated towers.
Draco wasn't worried about the internal bleeding either. Draco knew that she was a good witch despite her being a mudblood. So did Draco's father and Draco had the scars to prove it. He was not allowed to be second best and the fact that it was a mudblood that was beating him only added to the intensity of the hits. Lucius knew not the meaning of mercy, may it be his heir or otherwise.
At least those hits had meanings though, because sometimes, when Lucius was in an especially foul mood, he would use Draco's body as a way to release tension, he would hit him and hit him and hit him. Those were the worst beatings, when there was no legitimate reason for beating him, simply because the hurt wasn't just physical, it was emotional. Once upon a time Draco could deny that what his father thought of him mattered to him. Now though, Lucius had gone too far, he had taken the ONE person that Draco loved. She was his mother, his rock, his stability, his air, and his life. Oh but he had taken the whole fucking cake when he hit her.
If Draco could have spontaneously combusted, he would have. As it was, he almost did, and as Draco stood there looking at the mudblood filth, it hit him. Why the hell was he still listening to the man who had taken away his reason to live? And so Draco decided, on the spot, to rebel. He was going to do the thing that his father forbid the most, he was going to kill what Azkaban could not, his father's pride. He was going to poison the Malfoy family name, and what better way to start than with this girl. Opportunity was not knocking at his door but half-conscious at his feet, and its name was Hermione Granger.