Official Information
Title: The Extreme
Author: Enchanted Ink
Disclaimer: Harry Potter indica is the property of J. K. Rowling and the Warner Bros. Association; NOT ME.
Summary: H. A. Granger is in love- with the youngest male Weasley. There is one problem. Ron is no longer an innocent, awkward boy, and she has come to the conclusion that he is after another girl... Her enemy is a master in the art of relationships, and she will do anything for his council.
Rating: PG-13 for possible:
-Language
-Sexual Content
-Violence
-Drugs &/or Alcohol
Extra Info.: Words in italic indicate thought or emphasis on the given term. I am aware of the fact that Draco Malfoy's eyes are usually referred to as blue.
A/N: I AM SO SORRY! I wasn't able to update... Due to problems with the tower... I haven't had the computer for a month. I got this chapter posted as soon as we got it back. I'll try to update this week.
About the story: In this chapter there is a somewhat graphic flashback. I felt it was necessary for the outcome of the story, and I hate sensoring my writing. It's still PG-13, but more strongly so than everything about this story I've written.
In the meantime, thank you very much to:
-Lover del Dragon
-Celebrean
-Pure Sunshine
-wendy
-Shizuka Selphie
-relena 333
-MRS. CPT
-quiet-one145
-lucyferina
-CozzaGirl16
-HPROXMYSOX
-Scarlet Suspense
-thoroughbredchick
-Lara Potter
-Solain Rhyo
-JesterFeign
Thank you all again for reviewing and sharing your support. I appreciate it. After a month of being off track due to technical crap I wondered if I should finish. My motivation was you.
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6
Hermione Granger's favorite aspect of the Common Room of her new quarters was the cozy, quaint fireplace built into the wall. She inhaled, basking in the crisp scent of burning flames, listening to the crackling logs. She came to the sudden conclusion that she was smiling. Because of the fact that she was quite alone on the loveseat centered in front of the hearth, she didn't force herself to forget about the lengthy verbal exchange involving herself and Draco Malfoy.
She didn't want to forget the lengthy verbal exchange involving herself and Draco Malfoy. Never before had anyone been so enthusiastic to hear her adventures.
To Harry, they weren't neccessarily adventures, but excruciating excursions his heritage forced him to hold upon his shoulders. His birthrite.
To Ron, they were wonderful tales he told other girls to win their affection, tools. Because Hermione had encountered them with him, he had never felt the need to discuss them with her.
To Albus Dumbledore, they were obstacles, tests.
To her parents, well... They were oblivious, although that was an understatement, really.
To Viktor Krum, the only other male who had made her feel feminine, her first relationship, he hadn't cared. Period. He had been incredibly self-centered. He was infatuated with himself and that Wonky Feint.
To Draco Malfoy, they were something different.
Hermione had woven wondrous images of a world completely different from the one he obviously lived in. His eyes had transformed into portals, and she knew her imagery was making magic. They had gone to the Hogwarts Kitchen, where they conversed over several cups of tea. She had time to study his face.
It was boyish at intervals, when he heard about basilisks, swords from Godric Gryffindor, and the Time Turner. When he heard about more complicated scenarios, like mixing potions from pure logic, escaped convicts, and absurd predictions from Sybil Trelawny his face grew serious.
His blonde hair, bordering white, tousled at an angle where a few casual strands contrasted against his face, his brown eyes that gleamed with a golden intensity that jarred her, that set of lips that were surprisingly red with an appearance of fragility... She found her stomach stirring madly, and she remembered that most people would call it a case of 'butterflies.' Her breath had come shallow during her miniature autobiography.
She thought about what her behavior with him, and was dumb-founded... Never before had she had a detention... And never before had she deliberately ditched one.
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Draco Malfoy felt as though everything he had encountered that evening was completely surreal. He thought about his own hardships, seeing how pathetic his past was compared to hers. On the outside, she was dull, destined to be the next Madam Pince, her nose always near a novel. Now... Now he couldn't describe anything anymore.
Being Lucious Malfoy's son had its ups and downs. His father was constantly claiming that Narcissa, his wife, was a wench. He called her names continuously, he slapped her around for the most minor of things, and threats were not out of the ordinary.
I love my mother, but I don't like her, he thought, almost wryly. And I'd have the death penalty reinstated for my father. My family is fucked.
His mind moved over many topics, settling once again on Hermione.Granger is gutsy. His mind managed to rewind movements, words, and motions until he came upon the piece of conversing that puzzled him the most.
He remembered her saying, "I have detention. Thank you for tea. Owl me about rescheduling the les-"
"Don't," he interupted.
"Don't what?"
"Don't go to detention." He almost flinched, feeling foolish for fretting so openly. "I mean, you want to be spontaneous, right?" She gave a half nod, not sure of where this was leading. "You shouldn't go to detention. You want Weasley to think you're this enigma, a puzzle he can't solve. You'll attract his attention and he'll be watching you more closely."
So she had stayed. She had believed his lie.
Honestly, he had wanted her companionship. He had wanted her to tell him stories, like Wendy in Peter Pan. He wrinkled his nose.
I always hated that tale, Peter Pan. She grows old, riddled with age, while he's stuck on an unmoving earth, left to be young, naive, and lonely for the rest of his miserable life. Refusing reality. Maybe I wish I could collect foolish fantasies and reject reality.
She was a friend to him now, whether he was a friend to her, and he had precious few of those.
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Hermione recieved a roll of parchment with instructions at breakfast, telling her to attend detention every day for two weeks. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught a glance of another owl landing with the same notice for Ron. He had been sending her odd, searching looks all morning. She knew he was curious. She also new he was filled with admiration for her rebel reasoning.
Draco had rescheduled their next lesson for that night, during dinner. He figured if she became more mysteriously absent, maybe Ron would take the initiative to talk to her, inquire about her agenda. In the meantime, so looked at her plate with a loathing expression. She wanted to pour sweet maple syrup over her short stack of pancakes. She wanted to smother them in whipped cream and strawberries.
Instead, she grabbed a piece of plain toast and thrust herself away from large oak table. She was in her a pair of her grubbies, and she went back to her dormitory. It was Saturday. Her solid weeks of detention did not start until Monday. Returning to her chambers, she changed into a tight tank top and a pair of jogging shorts. Throwing a sweatshirt on, she threw her hair into a sloppy ponytail and made her way to the grounds.
Students strided everywhere, milling under trees with homework, venturing over to the Quidditch Pitch to watch the house practices... But no one was exercising. Hermione gazed at the grounds, trying to find a simple, subtle place she could jog where people wouldn't be gawking at her. Suddenly, a familiar face froze in her line of vision. Grinning, she waved Rubeus Hagrid over.
"'Ello there, 'ermione! Congradulations on Head Girl. Lots fer you ter do."
"Thank you, Hagrid." Hermione couldn't bear to contain her beaming smile.
"You haven't come ter visit me yet. Neither 'as 'arry. Or Ron." An uneasy silence grew between them.
"I'm sorry." She made an effort to sound as genuine as she could. "I have had a lot of new responsibilities lately, I'm afraid. Harry has too. But Ron..." She was surprised and startled when Hagrid nodded.
"He's diff'rent, now, that one. He's forgotten where 'is priorities lie." She looked at him sharply. Sometimes she forgot how knowing the giant was, how genuinely interested he was in all of their wellfare. "I have ter be off now, Poppy'll be expectin' the newes' batch o' rhubarb." Wordlessly she gave him a hug. As he turned to go, she called after him.
"Do you know where I could jog?"
"A skinny thing like you? What do you need joggin' fer?" She shrugged. He pointed toward the Forbidden Forest. "Just behind meh cabin there you'll be seenin' lots o' trees. Go into the fores' about two feet n' you'll be on a path. Follow it ter the right an' then you'll come across a wooden dock. Go through the trees you'll see there n' then you'll see a lake. You can jog 'round it, there's dirt n' all that packed on tha' ground." He winked at her, and she couldn't help letting a small giggle escape her throat.
"Thank you for directions," she said. She was off.
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Hermione felt a sense of exasperation as she trotted down the trail toward her destination. Hagrid took massive, striding steps and to him this path was probably a piece of cake. One of his steps was practically three of Hermione's. She felt like she had achieved much exercise already. Part of her body wanted to turn around and return, but something in her kept on nagging her, dragging her forward.
As the wooden dock slid plainly into view, she heard a faint but audible splash.
One of these days, my curiosity is going to kill me. As she walked through the clearing of trees as instructed, she could not stop her mouth from dropping open into a comical 'oh.' Her sub-concious told her to be quiet, and she was, cautiously stepping over sticks and stones.
And the first thing that came into her field of vision was the sight of Draco Malfoy's naked torso.
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Draco Malfoy was in love with water. He was a passionate person, and when it came to swimming, the mere thought of the sport was enough to make him smile. When he combined it and Quidditch, he felt free, feral excitement. He had just been through intense training, and now his muscles were aching.
As soon as he hit his spot, he quit agonizing over his limp body and stripped down to a pair of swimming trunks he had been wearing underneath his Slytherin robes. Sliding into the lake and slicing through the calmness made instant relaxation come to him. Looking down, he observed his well-worked arms. They were strong, but he noticed a big blue bruise on his shoulder from a stray bludger. Looking at the other arm, he saw tiny scrapes from falling from his broomstick, curtesy of a freak incident with a quaffle to the head. They were fresh. But as his gaze roved down his body, he noticed the scars that would never heal.
Lucious Malfoy was famous for many things; for his long, white, trademark Malfoy hair and his vicious, trademark Malfoy smirk. He was rich and successful, but he was cruel and mean. On top of that, he was never seen without his cain. By his self-confident gait, it was apparent that he didn't need the support it provided, but none-the-less... The handle was an intricate silver serpant with emeralds for eyes. If you looked closely at the fangs, they appeared rusty and ancient.
The rust, however, was blood.
Flashback
He had been three. Three! The mansion had a georgeous garden designed to delight Narcissa Malfoy. Draco decided he liked flowers, and he snuck in without permission and picked all of the blooms that she had worked endlessly to plant herself, with pride and perseverence. He put sloppy ribbons around them, tying them into boquets. Then he brought them into the house, into the parlor where his mother always sat and read romance novels by her favorite author.
As gracefully as a todler could, he bowed and threw them into her lap. She knew immediately where they had come from and horror flashed on her face. "Draco! Did you pick my flowers?" The little blonde boy nodded sweetly and smiled. She was obviously getting worked up, and a tear trickled down his face.
"Mommy?" he asked uncertainly.
"Oh, it's okay, love. I should've told you that they weren't for picking. I love them, though. I'll just have to put them into a vase." As she looked down at her son, she felt a pang when she saw he was still upset. "I really love them. Just don't do it again." She drew him into a hug and wiped his face with her fingers.
"I'm sor-" he went to say, just once more, but the arrival of his father made his sentence screech to a stop. In an instant, fear trickled into Draco's stomach, fear and dread. He noticed his mother's hands, still clasped within his own, become clammy.
"Now, Luc-," she started, and stopped at the sight of his hand in the air, demanding a halt.
"Draco? What did you do now?" Exasperation was obvious. Draco mumbled uncertainly, and his father, endlessly impatient, barked at him. "Speak up, damn it, and tell me what you've done, boy!"
"I picked mommy's flowers."
"Flowers, what?" Lucious asked. Narcissa stood, but he took three steps and pushed her shoulder lightly, but with enough force for her to return to her seat. "Flowers, sir."
"Okay. Sir."
"And how do you address Narcissa?" the man asked.
"Mommy?"
"MOTHER!"
"But-."
"Enough of this. Narcissa, it is time this boy learns his place at Malfoy Manor. He's being a cocky little bastar-" the man was raving, and his wife was trying to contain him without making him more upset. She could see the quivering shoulders of her son behind his back, which was now turned to him.
"Now Lucious, he's only three! We don't want to be hurtful. I don't think you should call him names."
"Well, when I was bloody three I was respectful. I was taught without hesitation by my parents, and now I'm going to teach my son a lesson." She started to cry, with her shoulders heaving and her lips shaking. She threw herself at him, trying to hold him, to make him change his demented decision. He threw her off of him with more force than he had intended, and she landed with a crash on the floor, a concussion on the back of her head by being sliced by the sharp corner of the sewing table. Then Lucious turned back to Draco and retrieved his cane.
"Come here now, and stand by your father for your punishment." Paralyzed with fear, he didn't move, not after seeing his mother's bloody hair. Furious fingers grasped his shoulder and his cane came up with one movement, one moment, is slow motion. Then the sharp fangs pierced his son in the shoulder.
A scream riddled with sobs filled the house.
He was never the same.
He was never whole again.
End Of Flashback
Draco flinched at the memory he had wanted to forget, and forced himself to look at his left shoulder. Two scars in the shape of circles were there, two holes imprinted in his flesh forever. Continuing his silent eye-search, he stopped at all of the marks and marrs on his skin. He suddenly felt very ugly.
He dove underwater, as if he could rinse away his very own history, feeling like he was in a sanctuary of water. As he broke the surface and icy air punctured his lungs, water droplets dripping from his hair, he heard a sound. A sigh, or a gasp. As he cocked his head to the side, he saw the last thing he expected.
Hermione Granger. And she was looking at him.
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