A/N Hey just wanted to say a huge thanx for all the reviews I got – mesmer, lupin lover, Frozen Darkness, Chillkat, ebonyblack, Jessica, Angie, UNKNOWN, anne, Thalion '81- have never got so many for one chapter b4 made me v.v. happy!
Sorry 4 any confusion in the last chapter hope this one is better and u like it. If u read till the end u guys know what to do...... v. obvious winking
Disclaimer: JK Rowling for characters and The White Stripes for lyrics and inspiration (bold and italic)
You make me feel a little older
Like a full grown woman might
But when you're gone I grow colder
In the cold, cold night
In the cold, cold night
After meeting him, Hermione had gone straight home. It wasn't really a home, just a place the ministry had given her, a house close enough to get to the battlefield in case there was an emergency. With this being their main aim, comfort was never really an issue. The house was small, cramped, and smelt vaguely of dust. Hermione had gone straight to her room. She never went to any of the other rooms; they were too bare, so unlike her own house. The bedroom was the only place that had any similarities to her old life, the one that she sorely missed. The bright pink walls were a bit much in the early mornings, but it was rare to see such a cheerful colour. She only seemed to see black and dull red now. The time was 1.30, and he still hadn't arrived. She never knew when he would turn up. That's why she always got ready for bed. He would come, when he came.
She rubbed the pad against her face: under her eyes, across her forehead, along her jaw. She applied so much pressure that the skin actually blanched slightly. She always did this. She wanted it all to go away: the bits of dirt that came home with her from the war, the blood, and the mud trapped in her pores. She pulled the cotton wool away from her face and examined it. Black. She threw it in the bin, easily, as if it was no longer of significance, tossed to the side, to be forgotten soon. If only everything else was that easy. Her gaze slid to the wooden frame that was a permanent fixture on her dressing table. Three smiling faces looked back at her, their arms eagerly waving from side to side. She could feel the pricking feeling of tears piercing the back of her eyeball, wanting nothing more than to be set free. But she was determined to deny them. Shaking fingers placed the picture downwards, so she no longer had to look at those overly happy people again. They didn't exist any more.
She picked up another pad and started the cleansing routine again; however, every so often she could feel herself glancing at the wooden frame, regret weighing heavy on her mind. And so half an hour passed as she moved from one side of her room to another making all the normal preparations for bed. She switched off the light in her bathroom, and on her way to bed she stared at her reflection in the mirror. Tangles of dull, bushy, brown hair reached past her shoulders, covering the top part of her piglet pyjamas - an old favourite. She had lost a bit of weight; however, she was still on the curvy side, the slight bump of her tummy stretching out the elastic of her pyjama bottoms. Yet her face had still maintained its childhood roundness, her cheeks still full, stained with a red blush that never seemed to go away. She wasn't pretty. She knew it. She always did. But she had hoped that when she got older she would finally grow up, maybe not quite the extreme of the ugly duckling to the beautiful swan transformation, but some changes would have been appreciated. She shrugged her shoulders half-heartedly. Oh well! She turned around with the intention of getting into bed when she saw him.
She gasped in surprise.
"I'm sorry. I let myself in," he apologised quickly when he saw the familiar darkening of her brown eyes that came with the start of a reprimand, a memory from his youth.
"It's alright," she said maybe a bit to briskly. It was still awkward, seeing him on her bed. He seemed so comfortable, perched on the side, despite the girly frills that trimmed the duvet. She stood stiffly in front of him, her arms pressed to her side. She didn't know what to do with them. A sense of inadequacy filled up inside of her. She never knew what to do. How to start it. He was always the gentleman and made the first move, saving her from the embarrassment. And tonight was no different. Her eyes remained fixed on the floor. She wasn't meant to be feeling insecure like a child, for God's sake she was an adult, but she invariably did. She heard him sigh, and in a matter of seconds he had moved to stand in front of her. Her gaze still downcast, she noted how he had already taken his shoes off. He had quite small feet for his size and the second toe was ever so slightly larger than the first. She smiled at the discrepancy. But her thoughts on his feet were instantly brought to a halt when another part of his body entered the sphere of her vision.
His fingers began to slide along the cotton of her nightshirt, gently undoing each button they came across. With each action, his cool fingers would brush against her bare stomach for a few unbearable milliseconds, before they continued upwards. She couldn't help but press her flesh against him, wanting those sensations to last that little bit longer. He was now at her breasts, and her breath caught in her throat as he tenderly grazed along the boundary where her bra met her skin. She could feel her lungs burning inside her, their need for air getting desperate. But she couldn't, not while she felt that the skin under his fingers was going to begin melting away slowly, and painfully. Finally, he stopped his wandering and proceeded with his original purpose of getting the shirt off her body. It fell on the floor, pooling near her feet in a messy pile. But she wasn't bothered; she could finally breathe. It came out more like a sigh, one of relief or pleasure. She didn't know nor did she care for he was now slipping those beautifully graceful hands down the band of her trousers.
He skimmed past the material of underwear, more concerned with feeling the soft skin of her hips. He gently tickled the area, knowing exactly how she would react. She leaned herself more fully against him, her legs buckling slightly under her. She was starting to breathe harder, the heat from her mouth caressing the curve of his neck causing him to shudder involuntarily. He couldn't explain how she made him feel like this. But she did it so well that he couldn't give her up. Every night she would find him, offer herself to him without saying so in actual words, but the invitation was always clearly there, hanging in the air. And he would watch as she walked away from him, his mind torn in two warring halves, one urging him to follow her, while the other reminded him of who she was. It wasn't because she was simply a Muggle, or because she was the best friend of the "greatest wizard alive", but because she was everything his family, his friends had despised. Going to her felt like the ultimate betrayal, twisting a knife in the back of their corpses. Yet each night, here he was. His hands were now pulling her pyjama bottoms down so it joined the other pointless garment on the floor. He was weak; he knew it. He was kissing the slope of her tummy, the sweet taste of her tingling the buds of his tongue. Her hands had entangled themselves in his hair, stroking the strands between her fingertips, rubbing his scalp. As he dipped his tongue into her navel, the fingers in his hair bent into a fist, tightening her grip as she let out a low, soft moan. She began to pull him up, and he obliged standing up to once more face her. She didn't give him anytime before her lips were upon his.
Ginger. He always tasted of ginger. Strange. It was probably good she liked the taste of it, and she pushed her lips harder against his, her tongue stroking against his lower lip demanding entrance. He gave in immediately.
Kissing him was becoming so natural now. Never in a million years did she think she would be saying that about Draco Malfoy, but it was true. Of course she had had kisses in the past, the unintentional bashing of teeth that came with first kiss and the adventurous wandering of hands that came with second, third, fourth and so on attempts. But never had she been able to kiss without thinking, able to switch her mind off completely and just enjoy the whole experience. In the past, she was continually planning her next moves during the act, fearing that she would do something wrong. Yet with Draco, she never had to do that. Her hands would just slide up over his shoulders, up his neck, in his hair on their own. Her teeth would just playfully nip his lower lip at certain times with no command from her. She wasn't scared of deciding what to do next, like she did when she was a child…Perhaps she was finally growing up.
'You make me feel a little older'
Together they shuffled towards the bed, dancing around the discarded clothes and the dressing table stool. Her body sunk into the soft mattress as he pushed her onto it gently. Blonde strands began tickling her face with short, silky touches. It stopped and then started again. She couldn't help but laugh, the noise bubbled up her throat and into his mouth. He stopped kissing her and looked curiously down at her. She returned it with an apologetic look in response.
"Your hair. It was tickling my face." She brushed her fingers against the offenders, the action supporting her excuse.
He smiled back, before starting to delicately press kisses on the regions of her face that had been victim of his unruly hair. Reflexively she arched her body up to meet his and became acutely aware of the fact that while she was in a state of near nakedness he was still wearing nearly all his clothes. Slipping her hands under his jumper she traced the fine scars that slashed his pale skin. With each touch she could feel him tremble next to her, and his lips, which were now on her neck, started to suck more violently at her flesh. It felt like there was a flame held right there, warming her from the outside in. She suddenly got frantic, her clumsy hands forcing the top above his head and then trying desperately to undo the zip of his trousers, pushing it down his legs with her feet. She needed it now. Needed that burning feeling consuming her, the feeling that the kiss on the neck only hinted at.
He got the idea and was soon just as eager. He pulled off the last barriers that separated them from what they had wanted all night. And as they moved together, her legs wrapped around his waist, her hands pressing hard on his back, they closed their eyes. It was getting faster and harder, and each got sucked into the whirlwind of heat and pleasure that rocked every nerve, every cell in their body. For those few minutes they forgot everything: their dead friends, the war that threatened to kill off the remaining people in their pathetic lives, and even the fear that they would be the next ones in the coffin. They weren't leaders or soldiers for that short period of time. They were just two adults: a man and a woman enjoying the only pure thing left in the tainted world they lived in.
'Like a full grown woman might'
She tugged on her duvet, trying to get the remaining material free from its position tucked under the mattress. It came away with an 'oomph' and she proceeded in enfolding it around her, gathering the edges under her legs, her arms. She curled up on her side of the bed. She looked at the empty space next to her forlornly; she didn't need such a big bed. It just made her feel even more alone than she already did. He had left soon after they had climaxed. He always did that. They managed to excuse away the sex on the simple desire for a quick fix of heat, but staying in each other's arms was something too intimate for either of them. That wasn't just warmth; it hiked up their behaviour to another level occupied by lovers and couples. They could never be either of them, there was too much baggage weighing down both their hearts. He couldn't betray his dead parents; she, her dead friend and the other one who just acted like such.
Yet that didn't stop her from wishing he was still here.
'But when you're gone I grow colder'
Every time he left, a chill seemed to seep into her bedroom causing the hairs of her neck to stand up to attention and her teeth to clash uncontrollably in her mouth. She buried her face in her pillow and screwed up her eyes so tightly her muscles hurt. She needed to sleep. Tomorrow was going to be another long day. But try as she might, it never came. An exasperated sigh burst from her lips.
Why did this happen every time he left? She got up, and with the duvet still wrapped around her, she went to sit on the window seat in the opposite side of the room.
It wasn't as if she loved him. Or even cared for him.
But how could she explain the grief and sense of rejection she felt when he exited her bed?
Or how she'd spend the rest of the night praying that it was already the next day and that he was back with her again?
'Come to me again'
Or how she would look at the lists that were pinned on the headquarters notice board at the end of each day, scared that his name would be among the dead. And how as she scanned the paper her heart would actually swell with fright, but then when she knew he was safe, it would deflate with relief.
She leaned her head against the pane of glass by her side. The coldness numbing any sensation the skin of her forehead could possibly feel, but it had no affect on the confusion that muddled her brain into a mess.
Why did she have to complicate things? She was always making the situation more complex than it need be. Like when a routine war procedure spiralled into the death of Ron. It was her fault. She had been the one to say that it would be better if only the two of them launched the surprise attack, saying that more - the planned number- would be too many and decrease their chances of success. She had been so sure of herself. So confident in her abilities as a war strategist, for hadn't she been the brain behind all their adventures at school. It had seemed to be so obviously perfect to her.
But it hadn't been, she'd underestimated the capabilities of the enemy and they had had their own tricks hidden beneath their sleeves. One Death Eater had rapidly grown to two and then to three. So many. They couldn't handle it by themselves. And by the time Harry and the rest got there it had been too late, Ron was dead and she was on the brink of it. They had rescued her in the nick of time. There were times that she wished that she had died, not Ron. It would have made sense. God must have one illogical take on what goes on in life, she thought bitterly. Yeah, that's right, try and blame him. The easy way out, her inner voice would say.
'In the cold, cold night'
But in reality it was her blunder, no one else's. That's why it was so hard for her to see his photograph. She killed him. He was in effect grinning madly at his murderer, and it made her sick to the core. She found herself staring at the picture frame. She walked over to it and returned it to its rightful position.
"I'm sorry, Ron."
He was giving the Hermione next to him a peck on the cheek.
"I'm so sorry, Ron," she said again. She dropped to her knees, entreating for his forgiveness.
'In the cold, cold night'
And as she cried she knew that whatever the feelings she had for him, she never wanted to lose Draco like she had lost Ron.
End Chapter 2
A/N As always love reviews so please send them if u've read till here! Cheers!
(that was my first attempt at sumthin smutish. Was it alrite or did it completely suck?)
