Disclaimer: Everything belongs to the wondrous J.K. Rowling.
Author's note: Alright, let's get down to business. This fic is slightly AU. I wrote it on a whim and it's a one shot. The premise for the story was: "What would happen if Hermione was the one to follow Draco?". There are a lot of fics out there where Draco redeems himself, becomes good and falls in love with Hermione. Don't get me wrong, I love those and read them. But I wanted to try something new and have Herm fall in love with Draco – the bad Draco. So, basically, create a bad, evil Herm. I thought Draco'd like that. Well, I hope you enjoy and remember the circumstances. Hermione's turned to the Dark Side.
Pairing: Draco/Hermione
Rating: R for sexual content, foul languages and just plain evilness. Smut.
Summary: Hermione joins Draco on the side she's always fought against – but someone's jealous of the new couple.
"Would you prefer if I shook my hips like so?
Do you want me to trail my tongue down your chest?
Trace sensitive areas with my fingers?
Would you prefer if I brushed past you?
Do you want me to tease your need?
Overlook your burning desire for sweet release?"
Things Tend To Change
It could only be described as her first Dark Revel and unquestionably far from her last. Her ascension, or rather fall, to darkness had merely just begun. Wrapped warmly in dark green robes, a smirk graced her pale face as she considered where she found herself. Gods, she was going to get one hell of a kick out of the following years of her life. Whoever said the edge was dangerous had sorely lied. She couldn't bloody wait to make the proverbial dive.
A dark figure came to stand behind her, his presence chilling her pleasurably. In the dimly lit entrance hall, he was recognizable solely by his platinum hair, the rest of his body basking in the shadows he loved so dearly. "You ready, sweets?" he muttered against her ear, trailing his tongue softly along its profile. She nodded, a low whimper escaping her parted lips despite her parched throat. They would undeniably be sharing a truly engaging evening once they returned to his room.
Draco hooked his arm in hers and stirred her gingerly in the direction of his father. Standing tall and proud near the doorway of the ballroom, ever the traditional Malfoy, Lucius cast a skeptical glance at his son's choice of company. A mudblood attending a Dark Ball? Accursed mongrelizing of their pureblood lineage is what she would cause. But he was smart enough not to deny his heir's decision. After all, he needed to grow accustomed to her... existence, he supposed, because if all went well they'd be married by the summer.
Draco halted a few inches from his father, their similar robes reflecting seductively in the candlelight. The lighting had improved and she noticed Draco had let his hair natural as she'd requested early that week. He was a great deal more handsome than his father, she concluded smugly, draping her arm around his waist.
"Miss Granger, I would have hardly envisioned seeing someone such as you at one of our gatherings." Lucius' voice was neutral thought his eyes carried a glint of malice.
"Things tend to change, Mr. Malfoy," she extended her hand boldly. Her dark orbs gazing intensely into his gray ones as he shook it. So unlike those of his son, she surmised. "I have reason to trust this side may never prevail in the long run. I'm sure you're very familiar with the good versus evil theory. It's clearly no cliché. Still, it appears I've found my place among you." She smiled warmly, a nasty resentment lingered behind it. "In fact, I'll let you in on a little secret: I detest Mr. Potter."
"Broke your heart, beautiful?" he asked snidely, a Malfoy grin plastered irritatingly on his handsome face. His choice of beautiful evidently intended to bother her.
"On the contrary, Sir. I broke his when he realized my place was alongside Draco." Some memories were best left between her and Draco. Still, it had never killed anyone to be a tease. "Pity you were not present. The whole ordeal was quite a hoot!" she laughed musically.
Lucius leaned forward, a flicker in his eyes. His graceful fingers closed themselves around her chin smoothly. Hermione knew better than to pull away. People's impressions were being fashioned tonight and like Draco had advised: she had best do everything they wanted. Cold steely pools locked on black coffee ones – both calculating, challenging. "It appears that Miss Granger has changed. For the greater good I assume," he muttered his mouth hovering dangerously near hers. She honored his comment with a smirk, playing along with his advances.
Hermione felt the younger Malfoy tense slightly, his father obviously traipsing on his territory. Draco slipped his hand past her lower back , showing his claim over her, and she held in a shudder of desire, casually swatting it off. Their so-called fire had been burning strong of late; did he want her to jump on him in front of his father? She shot him a questioning glance and from the sly look he gave her, she concluded he most probably did.
Well then, love, shall we even out the score? "Mister Malfoy, do be careful, your dear son's getting jealous," she said sweetly eliciting a laugh from Lucius.
Shortly, with an unmistakable hint of annoyance, Draco said: "I'm glad you two are getting along so well, but we should be going, father. After all, you do have other guests to attend to." And with that he escorted a highly amused Hermione deeper into the ballroom. His cheeks were tinted a light pink and he faked perfect indifference to her remark. Truthfully he was more annoyed with his father's blatant flirting than with Hermione's boldness. The man had a fucking wife, damn it! Tightening his hold around her slender figure, he decided to he cleared his head and enjoy the rest of the evening as much as possible.
The marble floor was old fashioned, black and white chessboard, and the decor meshed flawlessly with it. All vintage and utterly mesmerizing in their own ways. The one decoration that caught Hermione's eye, however, was the band. Mounted on a stage, it held every instrument she'd dare to dream of. Big Band at its best: from the trumpets to the orchestra's wizards dressed in formal white tuxedoes.
"1930s? I would have never expected your father to be a fan," she commented as they approached a vacant table in a secluded corner. Lucius Malfoy was quite a puzzle to figure out. Loath of all muggles, yet captivated by their fashions. It definitely wasn't the first time she'd seen muggle art and furnishings in the Manor.
"My father enjoys class, Hermione. The 30s – for him – were the apogee of it."
"The 20s, though, they're a better version of the 30s. Anyways, the economy had crashed in the 30..." she tailed off, gazing at him.
"All muggle. No roarin' twenties for us wizards because our economic recession was in full force," he looked at her intently and raised an eyebrow incredulously, "You of all people should know about this. Hermione Granger: the one person who can stay awake through Professor Binns classes."
She smiled ruefully; her cheeks tinged a soft red. "Yes well, Draco, at least I –"
"You look absolutely stunning!" a girlish giggle reached their ears, cutting her off brusquely. Pansy. She wore a flattering dark blue robe which showed a rather large amount of her chest and her hair had once again been highlighted blonde. Sadly, her tackiness came close to overthrowing her beauty.
"Draco or I?" Hermione uttered cheekily, grinning widely.
Pansy was pensive for an instant. "It's hard to say." She gave one last giggle and scampered off, stopping stylishly when she came upon Blaise. Her partner in crime. The couple turned and waved to Draco and Hermione, who had, by this time, sat down at their table and were deeply engrossed in each other. They waved back sloppily, too busy to care. Overlooking the fact that she had been friends with Harry and Ron for six years, Pansy and Hermione had become, to some extent, good acquaintances. It was surprising, Hermione had to admit, but she had her share of fun with the daddy's girl. She wouldn't complain yet...
The evening progressed eventfully. She'd gotten the chance to speak with many people, each influential in their domain. Hermione was certain Voldemort had recruited a significant amount more Death Eaters this time round. Her eyebrow rose delicately at the thought of Voldemort. "The man of the hour doesn't even make his much anticipated appearance?" she inquired out of the corner of her mouth, not wanting to draw any attention.
"I reckon he's much anticipated solely for a small amount of the people present." They shared a laugh. "He's probably busy plotting something against Potter."
"Honestly, his demise will be effortless as this rate. If I were him, I'd give up on the boy-who-lived..."
"... and think about the bigger picture. I know, Herm, but we aren't in his inner circle yet. I suggest you refrain from making those type of statements until we get there. Voldemort has eyes and ears everywhere. If he suspects our plans, we'll be executed before we can pronounce the killing curse."
The prospect of finally taking the Dark Lord's throne was thrilling. It was no secret among the Death Eaters that they all wanted it. Draco, for his part, couldn't wait to see the wizarding world's reaction when mudblood Granger and the Malfoy heir achieved every one of their surreptitious aspiration.
The band began to play again. Opting for a dance instead of another round of drinks, they made their way leisurely toward the dance floor. They stopped on their way to brown-nose with a couple of important people who fell in love, so to speak, with Hermione's wit and self-confidence. The rest of the evening went by rapidly, without the slightest problem.
It was late, moments before they were going to retire, when everything went downhill. Pansy sauntered over, reminding Hermione amazingly of a cat, and offered her a drink. One, she said, that tasted so good it would change her life. Her throat – fairly parched from their exhilarated dancing – allowed no room for skepticisms and Hermione appreciatively accepted it, downing it in one shot. It tasted bitter with a hint of alcohol she couldn't quite identify. It reminded her of an old turn of the century picture. Vaguely familiar nonetheless new, almost as though it were spiked but perfectly masked. Hermione frowned, the taste of the liquid striking a chord. It felt as though she were imbibing someone's essence ...
Shaking her head, she preferred not to dwell on the drink (of sorts) at the moment.
Saying their appropriate farewells and thank yous, they made their way to his room. She was still growing accustomed to the Manor's many floors and twisting corridors. One wrong turn and you ended up in a place you didn't necessarily want to be. Draco had come to terms with that notion at a young age. Hermione, for her part, hadn't been so lucky and had unfortunately subjected to such magick tricks.
"I'm going to take a quick shower," Draco informed her, stripping his robes and unbuttoning the silk shirt he wore under it.
Feeling uncomfortably turned on by his undressing she urged him to hurry up, claiming she needed the shower as well. When he was finally out of sight, she fell onto the bed with a sigh of relief. Her forehead was incredibly hot as was the rest of her body. Feverish as though she were in the throws of passion. Breathing deeply in order to regulate her short breath, she fanned her face with her hands. "Oof..." she whispered thinking it was best she change into her pajamas.
Her passion cooled down whilst she changed. Instead, she felt uncharacteristically agitated as she took off her shoes, deep green to match her dress robes and needlessly high. Two months ago she wouldn't have been able to walk in them. Now, she'd probably outrun Draco. Her eyes narrowed. Draco Malfoy: Slytherin Prince. Draco Malfoy: the young man who'd teased for so many years. Her feverish passion shifted dangerously to unmatched irate anger.
Draco exited the bathroom, dripping still with a towel wrapped around his waist. "Its ready for you, Hermione."
She stared at him from her place on the floor, her robes in a heap next to her. She hadn't bothered putting on her pajamas; vested only in her undergarments: blood red, low-cut and lacy. Her mind was foggy.
"Come here, Draco," she commanded huskily, drawing him near with a seductive finger movement. Seeing him, his taunt muscled stomach, wet hair, piercing eyes, it was enough to alleviate all anger. She stretched out on the carpet, placing her hand on her hip. Her draining anger hastily being replaced by yet another bout of lust. She felt significantly winded by the sudden change in emotion.
Draco dropped to his knees in front of her, unable to tear his eyes from her prone frame. "What are you playing at?" he asked distrustfully. As much as he wished to appease the growing tension within him, to let go of all proper sense, he realized she was acting far too odd to be his Hermione.
She nipped at his nose, giggling. "Mmmmm. You smell good, Drake." Her gaze trailed his chest appreciatively. Every reserve she'd previously had about his past actions were lost on her strangely sex-driven cravings.
He glowered. "Since when do you call me Drake?" Only one person called him Drake... and it certainly wasn't Hermione.
"You don't like it?" she asked innocently, pouting. Her hands began to roam his face and then down, skimming audaciously low. Draco bated his breath, his body aching for release – horrifically against his will. It always seemed to be the case, your body tuning out your better judgment when it was best to listen to it.
"This isn't you." He fixed her unnervingly. Hermione was being too shameless, too... Pansy? Their passion was dark, heated; not girlish, slutty. Her hands traveled further and he jumped up swiftly before she could reach his towel. She glared at him and stood up, swaying her hips as she walked to his bed.
"Don't you want me, Draco?" His name rolled off her tongue enticingly. Falling onto his dark comforter without due consideration, she languidly positioned herself on the pillows: spread-eagle. "Come here," she demanded, her cheeks flushed. Her hands meandered her stomach as she thought of him.
Draco stayed firmly where he stood, averting his gaze. "No." He was being rude, straightforward, but whoever this new Hermione was, she ached for his touch too much to concern herself with his antics.
She let out a whimper of restlessness. "I need you." Her breath hitched as she thought of him.
"No you don't. You're not yourself at the moment."
His room went cold all of a sudden. Her eyes thinned. She detested every fiber of his being. The resentment was exceptionally excruciating and her eyes watered transforming all at once into sobs. She didn't understand his unwavering coldness. Was she not good enough for him? From lust, to anger to depression. Draco was no fool, something was not right.
"Fuck you!" she screamed loud enough to wake the dead. It wasn't the first time he was glad Hermione had installed sound-proofing charms in his room. "You're a bloody git."
She was trying to get a rise out of him and he'd be damned if she did. "Shut up, Hermione," he advised, unsettlingly unruffled. He articulated her name awkwardly, not entirely sure what to call the Harpy laying on his bed.
"Fuck! Fuck you! Stop being a fucking git, Malfoy!" she threw a pillow at him with an aim that caught him off guard. Still, his reflexes were rapid and he absorbed the shock of the collision gracefully with him hands. Draco's temper was leaving him. "I should have realized you'd never change with me. Same old fuck, Malfoy."
He stared at her contemptuously. "Could you go one sentence without saying that word, Granger?" Angered by her earlier outburst of his family name, he reverted back to the days of old name calling and hatred. She was not the only person in this room who knew how to be a bitch.
She shot him white hot daggers. Her misery leaving cooling trails off dark mascara down her defined cheekbones. "Fuck, fuck, fuck," she repeated persistently. Her dark lips formed the syllable obstinately.
He marched over to the bed menacingly and she rose to meet him unperturbed by his attitude. "I told you to shut up. You're not yourself." He wanted to strike her down, smack some goddamn sense into here, but for now he wisely contented himself by grabbing her shoulders roughly.
"Don't you dare hurt me!" she screamed. "You have no right!" Then, lashed out, striking his cheek solidly. A wet, disturbing feeling pricked the corner of his gray eyes. Hermione didn't slap like that.
She laughed. An odd feeling of satisfaction burst forth and she couldn't think of anything but hitting him again, harder, harsher. The damn git deserved every moment of it. He had ignored her for too many years. Her hand flew and struck his other cheek. Draco cast a long suffering glance at the floor. Slivers of lamplight cast dramatic circles on his peculiar silver hair.
"Who the fuck are you?" he queried. Eyes glued to the floor he felt a rustle of air followed by the unmistakable sound of an unclasping bra.
"Hermione. Who else?" her voice was laced with well-hidden mendaciousness.
He looked at the body he would forever be able to discern even in negligible lighting. So beautiful, so tempting, so delectable, so Hermione... The last bit of clothes that concealed her fell delicately to the floor leaving her at his complete mercy. She truly resembled Hermione in uncountable ways save for her mannerism.
She threw her arms around his neck leaving him no choice but to hold her waist. Her gaze was smoldering and deep. "Kiss me," she breathed. Peppermint chocolate wafted to his nose. He closed his eyes and exhaled deeply. Everything about her was intense; overpowering him.
Kidding himself into believing she was acting strange because she was tired, he threw all caution to the wind and kissed her fervently. Her moans echoed in the silent room. The darkness encompassed them as the tension dissipated somewhat. Crumbling to the floor like a lopsided sandcastle under his weight, she wrapped her legs around his back. "Fuck!" she gasped as she sucked her collarbone.
"Shut up," he said through gritted teeth, "don't talk." He couldn't bare to hear her velvety voice, fake in every way.
Her eyes gleamed maliciously and she rolled over him. So many years of scorn were finally culminating in what she'd wished for since day one. Unhurriedly, alluringly, teasing she kissed her way down his torso. Ripping of his towel – exposing him completely, she wrapped her lips around his tip. She eased her way down. Tantalizing. Horrifically slow. Draco let out an involuntary groan. "Holy hell..." She stopped her torture exactly when required going back to his lips aggressively. "Me?" she said desperately.
"Fuck no." He flipped her over. Kissing her roughly whilst he moved her ankles to rest on his shoulders. She moaned and dug her nails in his back urgently. Now. She desired him now. He took heed and did as he was asked. Yielding to a decidedly sinful pleasure.
Their passion cooled rapidly as they moved simultaneously. Her hips bucked to meet his thrust proficiently. The tension the air had cracked with beforehand no longer burned. To some extent Draco was glad. He let out louder groans the closer he got to ultimate pleasure. Finally, he felt the tightness is his groin lessen and perceived her moans and wriggling as a sign that she had peaked as well.
Rolling away from her, he allowed them time to assuage their panting . His face blazed. Out of shame or because he was actually hot, he didn't dare fathom. What he knew was that his fears were confirmed when the woman next to him propped herself up on her elbow and spoke.
"What's Hermione to say when she finds out you slept with another girl?" she laughed wickedly
Draco played the role of a fool flawlessly. "What the bloody hell are you going on about?" he inquired coolly. By now he wrapped his towel around his waist.
"Don't act dumb, you know very well what was going on. But if you want me to clarify, Hermione was temporarily invalid during our little escapade. You've just slept with Pansy Parkinson, Draco Malfoy."
The gloating was too much for Draco. His anger wasn't something to set off. Slapping her unsympathetically he saw her eyes dampen. "Fuck you. Get the hell away," he swore vehemently. "Bloody bitch. You have to ruin every freaking thing that's remotely good in my life."
"Ah, ah, ah," she wiggled a finger. "You knew it wasn't Hermione. You knew I had her body and you still slept with me. It was you who ruined everything."
Draco turned a dark red. Looking at Hermione, Pansy, whoever she was, proved to be more agonizing then he'd thought possible. "Fuck you." He was virtually murderous as he entered his bathroom. The incessant sounds of her laughter pursuing him hauntingly.
She had hit the nail on its head with perfect aim... He had spoiled things far more then Pansy's absurd stunt. Technicalities wouldn't be able to save him on this occasion. Suffice only for Hermione to know and... his mind trailed off. Fuck.
Later, when he'd gathered adequate courage to face his mess, he was beyond flabbergasted to find Hermione staring at him curiously from under the covers.
"That was a long shower, Draco. Didn't you remember I needed it?" She gave him a withering look.
"Pardon?" He stared at her dumfounded.
"Draco? What's wrong?" She approached him, stretching languorously. "You seem... off."
His hand came to rest on her cheek and he cracked a genuine smile. His heart lighter. "How long have I been in the shower?" he asked a jesting edge to his voice.
She clucked her tongue, thoroughly unhappy. "Half an hour. Honestly, you take more time then me."
He smiled triumphantly and kissed her forehead. "It could be worse. I could be my father." Hermione smiled and made her way to the bathroom. Clothed and oblivious.
She didn't remember... and she never had to know.
The End.
Author's final note: Just a little reminder: review, please!!! Oh, and I hope you enjoyed it, if you have any questions just ask them.