Title: Debauchery
Author: Rube (rube@whoreofrohan.org)
Rating: R
Summary: Draco didn't have to wonder anymore.
Disclaimer: I don't own these characters and gain no profit from the use of them. This is for fun.
Notes: This is written as a stand-alone piece, but if you want to know the truth, I'm nothing but an unworthy plagiarist. This story is based off of the world that L.E. Martin created, and her stories "Selbstmord" and "Scream Like A Sacrament" (which can both be found on restrictedsection.org).
Draco didn't have to wonder anymore if fucking Hermione Granger meant that he would have to break up with her after they were finished. After he was finished, anyway, finished degrading or using her like the piece of disposable mudblood filth that she was. Hermione was of the poorest breeding and the most idiotic disposition - her house, that is, and her taste in clothing. When she wasn't clad in the Hogwarts-standard gray, pleated skirt and white blouse, the first two buttons casually undone, she was wearing sweaters and cardigans. Muggle clothes.
"You dress like a librarian," he told her once, and fingered the lapel of her navy pullover.
Hermione crossed her legs, frowning, and her stockings might have whistled softly with the movement. "You say that like it's a bad thing," she teased him, or maybe teased herself. Anyone who kept their nose in a book like she did had to know how to make fun of themselves for it, or at least pretend to.
"It's not," was his mild answer.
Draco remembered the in between times, the times he never could find a name for. Someone less inclined to reality might have called it courtship, but Draco was past courtship. Courting Hermione lasted about a week, actually, and all it entailed was a few choice words to her about the book she was reading or the class she was taking. Draco found that it didn't matter what specifically he praised, his words tinged with subtlety and almost-lies, but the little white lies were spread so thin that Hermione couldn't have detected them. He decided from the soft blush of red that coloured her cheeks that no one really cared what Hermione did, behind the good grades.
But now, he wondered. He recalled what it looked like to stare into her eyes and tell her what he thought about them, about her. He could look in the eyes of beauty and call it by its name, but Draco was a connoisseur of beauty, and after a time, beauty became rough around the edges. Hard to define and blurry almost, like old sandpaper. He used to run his fingers and palms over her like he was addicted to the feel of her skin, just like when he was younger and he used to poke and prod at small wounds. Paper cuts, canker sores, and when he was even younger, a loose tooth, irritating the soreness until it was almost too much to handle. Almost.
That sort of almost too much was what he liked about Hermione. She was too much of an opposite; she was all softness and curves, all brown-blonde, confused hair, her aura all muted and gold with hints of red, the insignia in places where her sharp edges should have been. The colours melted down into more curves, into a small breast he could cup into the palm of his hand, into the provocative hip bone she hid under layers and layers of cloth until he could peel her naked.
Draco was angles and white-blond, shock and awe to her gentle charm. He was an angel of pure blood with brilliant wings and she a lowly mortal. Draco liked to think he knew the Bible, because sometimes even wizards need something to believe in.
The Boy Who Lived was not a good enough champion for Draco to believe in. He would rather revert to the semantics of muggle culture and foolishness sooner than write Harry Potter off as a hero. Heroes, by Draco's definition, did not have scuffed knees and messy hair. They did not wear glasses that they broke and went for days on end without fixing, instead piecing them together with stellotape.
"Can't your friend Potter use a spell on those things?" he asked her. "He's a wizard, he should know how."
"Harry likes to pretend, that's all," was what Hermione gave for an answer. He was about to argue the point, to ask her what Potter was trying to pretend and why, and how should she know, when Draco realised that he liked to pretend too.
He liked to pretend that fucking Hermione was getting him somewhere, getting him something, at the very least. Better grades or inside information on Gryffindors or the like. But fucking Hermione was getting him absolutely nothing but a good pull, but weighing the cons against the pros of fucking a mudblood was almost terrifying.
Harry Potter was a half-blood, and looking at him wasn't look at real beauty. Not even like looking at charming beauty, as looking at Hermione was. He was all angles and joints, and he had this incredibly stubborn jaw that looked like it might quaver if he cried. No curves to be seen on Potter, not one, and the colours Draco imagined when he looked at Potter – usually in the strong rays of sun during a Quidditch game, or sometimes during the dank gloom of potions – were always vague, like spilled acrylic paint. Brown, Draco might imagine one day, but then he'd look again and see green the same shade as Potter's eyes. Potter was the Golden Boy of Draco's world, and it showed in his aura, and it was going to be like that whether Draco liked it or not.
Potter caught him looking and gave a funny little grin that looked almost sad. Draco fucked him in the showers, and later again against Potter's locker. He kept fucking Hermione, but he didn't run his hands over her hip bones or brush his long white fingers against the underside of her breasts. He sucked at her nipples and lapped at her clit, but he didn't look into her eyes and tell her exactly what he saw.
Charming beauty can only go so far, Draco realised. There is always someone there to outshine you.
"I don't really want you anymore," and for once, Draco wasn't almost lying.