3 – Closer
Nine Inch Nails
There is a strategic way in which I do things. There are places where I am needed and people that need me. My schedule is always precise and never filled in with scribbles written the same day. But this, this mystery, this is new. This is involuntary. This attraction is dangerous. This feeling of recklessness is consuming me through her saliva.
Is it a sin to kiss an angel? She is like a child. Her messy hair and dusty face and ripped overalls had stirred something – an alien feeling inside me. All I knew was I had to touch her and if she would let me kiss her, I would
just
fall
away.
She lets me, though. She opens her mouth and shows me what I've been missing in my petty muses of life and the amount of hate it had thrown towards me. She is so beautiful, I cry. I'm glad it is dark because I know that George Weasley is watching us from the attic window. I taste the salt of my tears on my lips and break away.
She cups my face in her hands. She looks at me with those wide eyes and I feel like dying. What have I done to deserve her beauty? She takes my hand and leads me to the house. Warmth floods my cold body. She is chocolate – an untouchable chocolate that I long to touch and consume with all my soul. The tears come swiftly. I am dying. I am weak. I am crying because of this goddess that meets me in front of a ghost house and lets me violate her with my mouth.
I am sitting and she is on my lap, kissing away my tears. Her lips are on my cheeks, my eyes, my chin, everywhere but my lips. She drinks my tears and holds me tight to her bosom. I wrap my arms around her thin overalled waist and breathe in her sweet scent. What have I done?
She pets my head and rubs my neck. I slowly drift away. Her fragrance fills my nose and her touch calms me. I press against her hard and never want to leave. What have I done to receive her? What have I ever done?
---
I lift myself up with my hands and look into her eyes. They are so wide – so trusting. She reaches up and lowers me down again. I breathe in her scent. I can't get enough. She traces my ear and brings it to her lips.
"Don't worry," She whispers and I can't stop. I push, push, push until I'm in. I stop because the pain in her eyes cuts through my skin deep into my bones. I feel like an animal, but God help me, I can't stop. She catches my eye and smiles. I move because her eyes are so big and beautiful. I need her. I need to feel her.
"Help me," I choke. She runs a hand up my bare chest. I shudder and close my eyes. "Help me get away from myself." She smiles and arches to me. She feels me from the inside.
"Don't worry," she whispers again. Somehow, I know from this day forward I won't worry anymore. From this day forward, it will just be her and me and this requiem.
---
George Weasley looks at me behind thick black frames. I can't tell if he's angry or if he's just protective. I must admit, though, his manners of warning me are far more subtle and dangerous than his younger brother's red-faced, empty threats. His face is controlled and set and I wonder where the jokester behind this façade is.
"She's worth more than your life," he tells me. I snort.
"As if I don't already know this. She's worth more than both of our pathetic lives combined," I retort. He smirks and I finally see the difference between his twin and him.
"I suppose. It's a shame, isn't it, Malfoy, for a pureblood like me to wish he was a woman and a Muggle." My nostrils flare in anger. Forever, I will be shamed with the image of my father and his pathetic pureblood views.
"It would be a shame, Weasley, if being pureblood really mattered. That era is over." Hermione has finally chosen a more dangerous bodyguard this time around. That Ron just didn't understand the matters of a woman.
"What ever it is you force yourself to believe in, my statement stands strong. You'll be dead before Hermione can shed one tear over your pathetic soul." He turns away. "She's very valuable." He walks with his head high and strong. A true Gryffindor.
"You think I don't know that?" I whisper to myself. She is more valuable to me than any Weasley could ever even fathom.
---
She moves like a dancer. I wonder if she is. I watch between half-lidded eyes as she floats around my bedroom to collect her belongings. She sighs frustrated and I contemplate whether to tell her panties are in my pants pocket.
How incredibly libidinous. She comes to my side and kisses my eyes.
"I'm going to be working for the next week. I doubt I'll have time to see anyone," she says. My eyes open and I look at her. A halo surrounds her head as she smiles sadly down at me. I feel the light penetrating my soul. I turn away and close my eyes.
"They're in my pant's pocket," I state. I feel her place a hand on my shoulder.
"Draco?" Her voice is sad. Please don't cry.
"Your panties. They're in my pocket." I turn over and pretend to fall asleep again. She shuffles away and in time, I hear the door softly close. I turn back onto my back and look at the pristine white ceiling. I think on her words and realize – I have no idea what she does. I stand and dress myself because I'm going to find out if it's the last thing I do.
---
"Hermione Granger, eh?" Blaise smirks up at me, his eyes completely neutral. "So Draco Malfoy is smitten by Harry Potter's sidekick? Whatever is happening to the world today?" I want to smack him.
"What do you know about her, Zabini?" His smirk wipes off his face. He hates his surname possibly more than my father hated Muggles. Such is what happened when the Great War ended at the death of Voldemort.
"Well, Malfoy, what do you want to know? My information is extensive, but one might find her life a bit dull at times," he deadpans. He smoothly whips out a fag and sets it ablaze. The smoke stings my eyes, but two years living in close quarters with men such as Blaise and Miles Bletchley who ironically smoked as if it would save their lives has given him some sort of immunity to the deliciously putrid smell. I smile sardonically. As if I could say the same for my surely blackened lungs.
"What is her occupation? Who does she work with? What has she been up to since Hogwarts? The likes of that," I reply. He puffs a ring and settles down into his chair.
"Are you sure you want to know, Malfoy? The information might frighten you." His smirk mirrors mine. "Hermione Granger is a strange woman. A strange woman indeed."
"Quit stalling and tell me what you know so I can preserve my lungs a bit longer than you," I snap. He laughs and snuffs out his fag.
"Alright alright. Don't say I didn't warn you. She still works with Potter. They started a business together almost immediately after the war. I suppose they didn't want to remember the destruction of the Muggle world. I will get to what it is in a moment, Malfoy," he cuts me off before I can speak. I close my mouth. "She owns an apartment with a Mr. George Weasley First Order of Merlin. His twin is married to some Qudditch player from America."
"I haven't come to you to hear everyone connected to her's life story." I manage to get a word in. He sends me a scathing look.
"Anyway, since the war ended she has only been seen with Potter and George Weasley on a personal level. All other friends – especially Ron Weasley – have become estranged from different...eh...intentions." He smirks and I think back to when Hermione told me George was gay. So Ron was a homophobic? For some reason the thought brings a smile to my face.
"What does she do?" I am beginning to get impatient. I knew going to Blaise would take up more time than necessary. However, he was the best and Malfoys only got the best.
"Are you sure you want to know? Such a sweet girl like Hermione isn't as angelic as everyone thinks." I give him a warning look. "Fine, Draco, I will tell you. But you might not like it." He lights another cigarette and drags. "Our little Hermione Granger is a vampire hunter."
My mouth drops open. I had thought Blaise was joking, but obviously not.
"I suppose she wants to seek revenge on the clan that murdered her parents, but they are already dead. Murdered by her own hands." He takes another drag. "Potter gives her the information, she takes it and makes use of it. A nice combination, I suppose – those two. But one can only kill so much and remain sane. I mean, look at Voldemort.
"Ever since the war ended, she has been on the path to destroy herself. She knows it, Potter knows it. Hell – even the Weasleys know it. They can't stop her. We all know for a fact, don't we? That the thirst for blood can never be quenched until the last drops dead at your feet. Then you turn your wand on yourself and perish with them. A shame, really. It seems as if all the heroes of the war are killing themselves off." He shakes his head and snaps back from the trance he set himself into.
"Well, there you go. Your beloved Hermione Granger kills the undead for a living." He grins ironically and takes the last drag from his cigarette.
Author's Note: please don't expect me to update regularily. I'm horrible at that, but I'm really trying for this story.