Yeah, yeah, another one-shot. I know—I have too many other stories going, but when I have an idea I just can't help myself. I don't remember exactly where I got this particular idea from, but it's been with me for a while now. I can't stop thinking about it so I'm just going to write it :P
Takes place during 6th Year—includes plot of HBP.
Enjoy!
Hermione Parkinson
Hermione kept her head down, concentrating every cell in her body on the dry toast and jam before her. Beside her Harry and Ron were slightly less ambiguous, their eyes darting to the Slytherin table between bites and clips of hushed, rapid conversation. Her stomach constricted every time Ron's arm would accidentally slip on the polished wooden table and collide with her own. Half the time, of course, he was attempting to get her attention—she would have none of it.
Ten minutes before their first class was to start, Hermione collected her things as quietly as possible and hurried out of the Great Hall before her friends could stop her. In an effort to calm her racing heart, she pulled out her tattered, yet much-loved copy of Hogwarts, A History, taking a seat in the hall just outside the classroom and flipping to the page she'd dog-eared that morning before breakfast, because she always had time to read when waiting for her boys.
She had just come to one of her favorite parts—in the chapter that dealt with the various charms and spells put on the castle to ensure the safety of staff and students—when a dark shadow fell over the page. Without thinking she looked up, immediately sorry when her eyes met with the very person she'd been having migraines over for the past three days. The Slytherin in question, the one she had avoided looking at all morning and who Harry and Ron couldn't stop staring at, turned their nose up at her and swept into the classroom in a rush of robes. Hermione scrambled to her feet, nearly knocking Harry over in the process, who came flying around the corner so fast one would think he was being chased by a dragon. Again.
"Don't start," she warned, stuffing her book back in her bag. "I'm in no mood to deal with this right now. You got that?"
Harry frowned deeply and Ron, who'd shown up halfway through his friend's reprimand, nodded. Whatever it was he got it. Neither of them were about to upset Hermione. Not after what happened, what would happen.
"We," she sighed and shook her head, the left corner of her mouth caught in her teeth. "I am so going to regret this…We'll talk later tonight. When everyone else is in bed, alright?"
They only nodded their agreement, not daring to so much as smile until she turned and entered the room.
"I still can't believe you talked her into it," Ron whispered. "You're gonna owe her big."
"Yeah," Harry sighed, slipping into his seat. "Don't remind me."
"I wish we knew about this room last time," Ron quipped, leaning back into a contented position on an over-stuffed sofa. For them the Room of Requirement had offered, as always, exactly what they needed: comfortable seating, a cozy fire, a tray stacks with chocolate biscuits and a pitcher of cold milk, and, most importantly, a cauldron. The ingredients for their potion had, lamentably, been stolen. They took as little as possible, using every spell under their belts to disguise their forced entry.
"And I wish I didn't have to do all the work like last time," Hermione bit under her breath.
Harry took the hint and plucked the spoon from Hermione's fingers. After all, she was right. The only thing they'd done was come up with the idea. It had been Hermione who figured out a better way to break into Snape's store. Hermione again who covered their tracks. She'd brewed most of the potion, as well as collected any other ingredients that didn't require a trip to Snape's dungeons.
"You don't know what a help this is, Hermione," Harry offered, chancing a small, bashful smile. She only rolled her eyes and leaned back, thankful to not be stirring anymore. "Ok, fine. Yes, you do know what a help it is. And, being as smart as you are—"
"Pssh," she snorted, crossing her arms over her check. Harry chose to ignore this and continued.
"—you also know that you're the only one who can help me."
"I just hope your stupid obsession is over once this is all done. Because if I do this for nothing—"
Harry grabbed her hand with his free one, rubbing the back of it with his thumb.
"Thank you, 'Mione."
"Yeah," she sighed, and when their eyes met she couldn't help but smile. "You're welcome."
22 Days Later:
It took all her strength, her tightened muscles and itching windpipe, to keep from screaming out in shock and horror. Hermione clamped her hands, one on top of the other, over her mouth, which hung open like the back of a garbage truck. Her tea—the third cup since Harry and Ron had left the Gryffindor Tower—soaked crimson into the rug, broken bits of white and blue china the sad remains of her teacup.
"What are you doing!" she gasped, keeping her voice expertly low for how incredibly shaken and terrified she was.
"Someone…was coming…around…the corner," Ron panted, collapsing into the nearest chair.
"I'm so sorry, Hermione," Harry said, biting his lip. "We had no choice."
Hermione took a deep breath. She closed her eyes and counted slowly to ten. And when she opened them again, forced herself to looked at the sofa where the unconscious—spell-induced—figure of an enemy Slytherin lay.
"I—" She raked her fingers through her hair. "Guard the common room with your lives," she finally got out, pointing a rigid and threatening finger at her friends.
"How long do you think you'll be gone?" Ron asked, his eyes glued to the top of the stairs where, any minute, a Gryffindor could come down and discover the horribly illegal business they were up to.
"Hopefully no more than an hour," Hermione said, carefully unknotting the silver and green tie from around the sleeping Slytherin's neck. "It's just past curfew, so students should be getting to bed soon enough." She tied the unfamiliar tie around herself, wrinkling her nose at the colors, at their meaning, and, most especially, at the owner. "If it takes the rest of my life," she sighed, lifting the goblet of potion to her lips, "I will get you back for this, Harry Potter."
Hermione pulled on her cloak—because it was mid-winter and freezing in the castle corridors—tucking her straight, jet-black hair behind her ears and under her hood. She picked Harry's Invisibility Cloak up off the coffee table and made for the door.
"This is never going to work," she groaned as she slipped the second cloak over her shoulders, making everything but her head disappear.
"Just…" Harry trailed off, finding it hard to speak when his best friend since first year was now an exact replica of Pansy Parkinson. "Try not to talk too much," he offered. "You sound too smart for your own good."
"Thanks," she laughed bitterly, and yanked the cloak over her head. "I'll knock six times before I come in so you know it's me, got it?"
Harry and Ron nodded, feeling incredibly odd not being able to see who they were nodding to. Though it was just as well—having to look at two Pansies was worse than a nightmare.
"That better be you, Parkinson," an irritated voice grumbled on the other side of the entrance to the Slytherin dungeons. Moments later the hidden door slid open to reveal the last person Hermione thought she'd be happy to see—Draco Malfoy. "Forgot the damn password. Again." He yanked her into the blessedly empty common room, huffing loudly. "I swear. How do you function? You've been spending too much time with Crabbe and Goyle."
Hermione pressed her lips together with such force she was sure they would turn blue with effort. Pansy must have been really stupid—or mute—to keep from ripping Malfoy's head off every second. How the hell could she stand being his girlfriend with the way he treated her? It almost—almost—made her feel sorry for her.
"Well come on," Malfoy hissed, snatching her so quickly and so roughly by the arm Hermione nearly fell forward, her legs twisting into excruciating positions in an effort to keep up with him. "You can't keep me up tonight," he warned, though, somehow, his voice was playful. She suppressed the urge to vomit, knowing precisely what activity would keep the two of them from sleep. "You know I have to get up early to…you know."
Hermione's heart skipped a beat. What luck! This was going to be easier than she thought.
"How is that coming along, anyway?" she asked, putting on her best Pansy voice. Thankfully—because he was probably used to tuning her out—he didn't recognize anything strange and answer without skipping a beat.
"Brilliantly," he laughed, stopping abruptly outside a closed down. He opened it carelessly and walked into the room, dragging her along behind him, not giving a damn who he woke up in the process. He yanked open the velvety green curtains of his bed, then began to disrobe, much to the horror of the disguised Gryffindor.
Hermione's hand went instinctively, not for her wand, but for the small flask that contained an emergency gulp of Polyjuice Potion just incase she was there longer than anticipated. Knowing she would have to keep taking it for several nights before she got anywhere—arguably the worst necessity of Harry's plan—Hermione had brewed enough that she would undoubtedly have extra.
"What do you have?" Malfoy demanded, advancing upon her. His shirtless chest gleamed ivory in the moonlight and for a minute Hermione couldn't stop staring at him. In his element, he was breathtaking. "Parkinson?"
Thinking fast, she slid the flask into a pocket in her cloak—charmed so only she could get what was inside—and conjured a new flask filled with Firewhiskey, which normally would have been impossible had she not had a bottle to transfer it from in the truck under her bed. It wasn't hers, of course, but confiscated from one of the second years. She thanked Merlin she had forgotten to turn it in that morning.
"Drinking at this hour?" he laughed, taking the flask from her. He flicked off the cap and took a generous swig, not wincing in the least. "And it's not cheap. Nice." He downed another helping, then thrust it back into her hand. "Aren't you going to drink any?" It seemed like a logical enough question. She did, after all, have it on her. Why else would she carry it if not to drink?
Groaning inwardly, Hermione tipped the flask to her lips, curbing every urge to squeeze her eyes shut—or vomit—as the appropriately named fiery liquor scorched tracks down her throat.
"Damn you, Parkinson," Malfoy laughed huskily, closing the gap between them. "That Firewhiskey is going to keep me up for a while now." With agonizing slowness he brushed his fingers up the sides of her arms. He wasn't even touching her skin, for she still wore everything, even her cloak, and yet tiny shocks and chills skated through her veins. He leaned in, eyes ravenous. She dodged him just in time, twirling around and out of his grasp as casually as possible while undoing her cloak. At this he only smirked, as if they played this game all the time—gag!—and came towards her again. This time, she knew, she would have nowhere to go and opted for Plan B: the rest of the Firewhiskey.
Malfoy snaked his arm around her waist, pulling her towards the bed, his other hand crawling up her shirt and getting dangerously close to a place she never thought Draco Malfoy's hand would go. He pushed her roughly—though it was definitely the good kind of rough, if he were not Malfoy, that is—onto the bed, sliding in between her legs as he leaned down and captured her lips. She gasped before she could stop herself. First, and most obviously, because Malfoy was kissing her. And second, because she never, in a billion years, thought he could be good at it.
"Fuck," he swore, standing back up. Hermione propped herself on her elbows to see what had upset him—and if it hadn't been an inanimate object she'd have sent it a Thank You card. "It's late." He snarled in aggravation, then sat on the bed beside her, pulling off his shoes and socks. "I need to sleep."
"I understand," Hermione said, wanting to add, "And if you try to touch me again I'll make sure you're the end of the Malfoy bloodline."
"Come on." He took off his pants—mercifully he left his boxers on—and patted the bed. "Get undressed and get in bed."
"Why don't I sleep in my bed? Since you're getting up so early, I mean."
He pondered this for a minute, then shrugged and turned over, pulling the covers nearly over his head.
" 'Night then," he yawned dryly.
"Good night…"
The trio managed to get Pansy back into her own bed—Hermione obviously having to carry her alone into the girls' dormitory—and safely back to Gryffindor Tower without incident. The whole way no one said a word, the boys making as little eye contact with Hermione as humanly possible.
"If I don't get anything out of him in the next two nights," Hermione hissed through her teeth, halfway up the stairs to her room, "I'm done. Understand?"
"Oh yes."
"Of course."
They were in no position to ask what happened.
"Good," she said stiffly. "Good night."
The capture of Pansy Parkinson went much smoother the second night, the boys being able to stuff her spellbound body into a closet close to the dungeons, making their task much faster and easier. Well, easier for the boys. Hermione, begrudgingly, still had to become the pug faced Slytherin. But, worst of all, she could not get his lips out of her head.
Knowing that the password still wasn't known, Hermione opted for a new plan. Malfoy would catch on sooner or later if she continued to forget it. She started at the end of the corridor, running full tilt towards the Slytherin entrance. When she was nearly there, she kicked up her legs and went flying forward into what she hoped was a carefully planned stunt fall. Unfortunately, however, Hermione wasn't one for athletics and when she landed her ankle gave a sickening crunch.
Before she could stop herself, she screamed out, the pain too much to control. Not a minute later Goyle—or was it Crabbe? She could never tell the two morons apart—came lumbering out then, without a word, went running back in. She was about to call out, when Malfoy stepped into the hall, frowning deeply.
"If I didn't know better," he said with a smirk, kneeling down by her side, "I'd think you didn't want to sleep with me."
With unexpected gentleness he scooped her into his arms, carrying her across the threshold and into the common room. To her delight he set her down on the nearest sofa—instead of bringing her to his room—and sat on the table in front of her, taking his wand out. He mumbled something incoherent, obviously some type of healing spell, his wand gliding slowly back and forth over her wounded ankle. She was about to tell him it wasn't working—which she fully expected, knowing the kind of student Malfoy was—when the throbbing pain vanished and was replaced by a slightly warm, yet very good sensation.
"Where did you learn that?" she asked, sitting up. She hadn't read of any spell that produced that reaction. The healing yes, but the semi-massage afterward?
"Home remedy," he answered with a shrug. "Stand up."
Without thinking she did as she was told, putting as little pressure on her ankle as possible.
"Stop that," he sighed, rolling his eyes. "Step on your foot properly."
Hesitantly she applied more pressure until she was standing the way she normally did. Again she was surprised that it didn't hurt in the least and jumped several times as a test to its strength. If it were at all possible, it felt better than before. She wanted to run laps around the castle.
"Thank you," she said modestly, sitting back down so not to appear like a total nut case.
"What's with you lately, Parkinson?" he asked, leaning back on his hands. "Something's…different."
"I…haven't been sleeping well," she blurted out off the top of her head.
"Well," he laughed. "Whatever it is, keep it up. The new you doesn't talk—saves me a lot of headaches."
She was about to retort at his nasty comment, when he slid off the table to join her on the couch. And it was at that moment she realized what had felt so strange about their common room—it was completely empty.
"How did your…assignment go today?" Hermione asked, not knowing how else to ask a question she was supposed to know the answer to.
"It's proving difficult again," he groaned, sinking low in the cushions, his body turning over until he lay on his back, his head on her lap. She fought everything in her to keep from slapping him, then tentatively put her hand on his head, her fingers twisting through his hair. This seemed to be what he was expecting and he closed his eyes, sighing with satisfaction. "Remember what I told you last time?"
"Yes." No.
"Well I have the same problem again. If I only had more time…" He yawned deeply, stretching his limps in a very feline manner. "Ready for bed?"
She was about to answer, when there came a loud hasty knock at the door. Malfoy sullenly got up to answer it.
"What do you want?"
Hermione was beyond appalled at his rudeness, for the person who wanted to see him so anxiously was Professor Snape.
"We must speak at once, Draco. Put on your robes, we're going to my office."
"I'm going to bed."
He had the door halfway shut, when Snape's arm lashed out and grabbed his wrist.
"Do you honestly want to test my resources?" the older man sneered. "Be in my office in ten minutes or—"
"Fine!" Malfoy yelled, closing the door in his professor's face. "I swear, that man…" he murmured, trailing off. After a moment he seemed to remember Hermione, or rather Pansy, and looked up. "Go on to bed. I'll see you there."
"I can't do it again!" Hermione snapped under her breath at breakfast the following morning.
"But you're so close!" Harry protested. "You said yourself—"
"Yes, and if you listened to what I said you'd have heard what I have to go through to get the damn information. I am not doing it again."
Harry held his tongue and went about picking at his unappetizing meal, his mind swimming with useless plans to figure out what Malfoy was up to.
"Why won't you believe me!" someone screamed a few tables over. All heads in the Great Hall spun around to stare at Pansy Parkinson—the real Pansy Parkinson—who was in the process of berating her longtime boyfriend Draco Malfoy at the Slytherin table. "Something is going on and I'm going to figure it out!" She stormed out, robes flying behind her.
Draco didn't bother to follow her. Hermione wondered where his tenderness from the night before went.
She couldn't help it—she didn't even notice it—but she stared at Draco, long after everyone else had turned away. She realized too late that he'd caught her eyes, and curled his lip into a hideous snarl. Blushing madly, Hermione went back to her breakfast (though it would remain untouched), the image of his lips floating through her mind. Though when she thought of them they were pressed sensually against hers, his fingers wound in her hair.
Before Harry and Ron realized, she was gone.
"This is really getting to her," Ron commented. "She couldn't stop glaring at Malfoy."
He couldn't have been more wrong.
Hermione agreed to go see Malfoy again, but stressed that it was the last night and if they ever tried to get her to do anything remotely like this again then she would curse them back to infancy. They didn't take her threat lightly.
At seven o'clock she dressed in her Slytherin clothes—meaning she put on Pansy's green and silver tie that she hadn't bothered to return—and went down to the dungeons. Pansy was already safely hidden in the same closet as the night before, and when she reached the corridor several other Slytherins were entering the common room. She fell into step easily behind them and slipped inside as if she were one of them. True, she looked exactly like one of them, but it was strange all the same, being accepted without question.
Malfoy was nowhere in sight, but she was in no hurry to find him. Coming so early—which she figured was the best bet seeing as the two other nights ended so badly—she hadn't expected to be alone with him until later. Her flask was hidden expertly on her person and, with that in mind, she took a seat on one of the large black leather sofas beside a raging fire. She mused that hot chocolate would be the perfect thing just now and, as if reading her thoughts, one seemed to appear on the table beside her. She reasoned that it had been a house elf, but decided to drink the cocoa anyway so as not to insult him or her, or make them think they wasted a trip.
Few students were scattered throughout the common room. Some, surprisingly, were doing their homework, either individually or in groups. Others played games like Wizard's Chess, and still others—couples—held each other affectionately, talking in low voices and laughing every now and then. It was almost, she thought, like her own house. The students all did the same things. What was so different about Slytherins, really?
She shook her head angrily. What was she saying? Slytherins were evil, end of story.
As if on cue, Malfoy came swaggering into the house, grinning from ear to ear. He walked all the way through the common room and was nearly to the staircase of the boys' dormitory, when he noticed Hermione and turned back. Without saying a word he took her by the wrist, coaxing her to go with him.
"Drac—" She tried to protest, but he silenced her with a finger to her lips.
Once in his room—which was somehow empty even though she hadn't seen either Crabbe or Goyle or his other roommates downstairs—he laid her slowly on his bed, his mouth leaving a trail of hot kisses down her throat.
"What's gotten into you?" she laughed, giving her best Pansy imitation.
"I had a breakthrough today," he answered without hesitation, smiling genuinely at her. "Panz—" Hermione was nearly shocked into a seizure at the use of a petname, especially since he'd only ever called her Parkinson that she knew of. "—I think I'm going to finish it in time."
"What happened?" she pried farther, thinking that as his girlfriend he would tell her anything and everything. But she was more wrong than she could have guessed. His face darkened immediately and he climbed off her so fast that she wasn't entirely sure he didn't jump back.
"Why aren't you still mad at me?" he snapped, pointing an accusing finger at her. "You haven't looked at me all day and now you're all hugs and kisses."
Hermione cringed noticeably and slid up to sitting position. Not for his yelling, because she understood it now, but at the phrase "hugs and kisses". One, because it was Draco Malfoy and he didn't things even remotely close to that. And two, it was exactly what they had been doing. Her heart drop through the bed to the floor.
"I realized how silly I was being," she said, hoping that would be the end of it and he would give her the information she needed so terribly.
"You're lying!" He came at her so fast she had no time to react. His hands gripped her arms with such strength she wanted to cry out. She held her own, however, and glared daggers at him, feeling a deep trembling in the pit of her stomach. This anger, it was like nothing she'd ever felt before—even with Malfoy. Before she could control herself, she flew back at him, sending them both careening to the floor with a painful thud. They struggled on the floor for a good five minutes, slapping and clawing and even biting at each other. Malfoy won the upper hand, most unfairly as he kneed her in the side, and grabbed her around the neck. She struggled against his power hands but, when his grip weakened and his eyes softened, hers did too. And then they weren't clawing and biting and struggling because they were angry.
With astonishing efficiency, Malfoy tore off Hermione's sweater and button up dress shirt, not losing a single button. She hesitantly allowed their kiss to be broken, relishing in the actions he took neck, his head dipping down in what seemed to be an attempt to devour every inch of skin from her neck to her waistline. His tongue danced around the rim of her heavy wool school skirt as his fingers hooked inside it, inching the fabric down with such caution it was almost virginal.
Merlin, she thought, both her thoughts and vision hasty with his ministrations. I can't believe Draco Malfoy is doing this to me. But then another, equally starling thought occurred to her. Malfoy had most certainly been with Pansy before, and probably many other girls. Hermione, though very interested in boys, had never gone further than what had already transpired between her and Malfoy. In other words, she was a virgin.
"D-Draco," she breathed, pushing his head to the side. "Draco."
He looked up, a haunting yet sexual fire burning in his irises. He opened his mouth to speak, but the instant she knew he was off his guard, she snatched her shirt and sweater off the floor beside her, knocked Malfoy off her, and ran from the room in nothing but her skirt and bra. Fortunately Slytherin House dormitories had side halls, so no one in the common room saw her before she had a chance to hastily put her clothes back on. She flew down the stairs, past every staring face in the common room, and out the door before Malfoy could catch her.
Harry and Ron ran down the hall, their heavy robes weighing them down considerably. Every time they heard a noise, assuming it was a person, they slowed to a walk, only to speed up again seconds later as they rounded another corner.
"Bloody hell!" Ron gasped, holding a stitch in his side.
"Come on!" Harry yelled. "We have to find her!"
They flew around several more corners and down too many flights of stairs to make sense of. Before they knew it, they were near the dungeons, their hearts crushed tight like tin cans, their lungs pumping nothing but noxious fumes.
Harry stopped completely, causing Ron to nearly run into him. He was about to ask what the big deal was, when Pansy Parkinson went running past, missing them completely. Before he had a chance to think, Harry cried out, "Hermione!" He realized his mistake immediately but, to his great relief, she came to a halt, turned, and sighed with a smile.
"What's going on?" she asked as soon as she was close enough.
"It's Pansy," he said, his eyes darting around to make sure no one was coming, for they would certainly be suspicious to see such a strange group.
"What about her?"
"She's gone!" Ron blurted out.
"Gone? What do you mean gone!"
"You know the tracking spell you put on her?"
"Of course."
"We were playing Wizard's Chess," Harry explained, "when the stone you gave us started to glow. I checked the Marauder's Map and she was already nearly to the Slytherin House." He was talking so fast Hermione almost didn't understand him. "You were still in there, so we had to run to find her."
"Did you?"
Harry bit his lip and shook his head.
Hermione closed her eyes and took a deep breath.
"Do you think she saw me?"
"I…don't know."
"Oh no!" Hermione suddenly cried, searching around her as if she'd just dropped something.
"What? What is it?"
"My cloak. I left it there!"
"We can get you a new cloak," Ron suggested simply.
"No! You don't get it," she sighed, her eyes glistening. "There's a flask of Polyjuice Potion in the pocket!"
For close to a month Hermione put Malfoy and everything surrounding him out of mind. She focused harder—if that was at all possible—on her schoolwork, ignoring any and all conversation that even hinted at the blond-haired Slytherin. But, eventually, he began to invade her space in the one way she was powerless to stop him: her dreams.
After nearly two weeks of recurring dreams involving Malfoy and her in various situations and degrees of intimacy, Hermione decided that she needed to see him again. She still had some of the potion left over, so one night, when everyone in the Tower was fast asleep, she borrowed Harry's cloak and went in search of him. She knew entering the Slytherin House was impossible, as was summoning someone to the hidden entrance, for Pansy was already inside. Instead she opted for a more subtle approach, and cast a calling spell, tagging her wordless message with the image of Pansy Parkinson under a tree by the lake. She didn't know if it would work, or if Malfoy would understand the directive and come to her, but she had to try. There was something unfinished, only the thing was she didn't know what.
Pulling the Invisibility Cloak tight around her, she hurried out a secret exit/entrance of the castle, skirting the walls until the lake was in sight. She found the tree she was looking for in a matter of minutes, then went to wait beneath it.
The first five minutes were agonizing, the seconds ticking by with cruel sluggishness. By the time ten minutes came and went she was about ready to give up, figuring Malfoy had awoke, seen his girlfriend obviously beside him, and ignored the call. She stood, brushing herself off, and was about to pull out Harry's cloak, when heavy footfalls sounded in the distance. She listened, her heart in her mouth, her fingers dug into the bark of the tree she held for support.
"Parkinson?" he asked just as moonlight hit his face. He looked tired, though more curious, and stepped daringly close.
"Hi Draco," she said for lack of anything better.
"Who are you?" he demanded, suddenly fierce, his teeth showing his anger.
"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I…I can't tell you."
"Why the hell are you impersonating my girlfriend!"
"I had to." Which was as close to the truth as he was going to get. This, expectedly, didn't satiate him and he lunged at her the way she'd done with him that last night. They fell to the ground, Hermione fighting him off her as if he were a rabid animal.
"Whore!" he yelled, pulling at her hair as if it were some cheap wig when he knew full well that she'd used Polyjuice Potion. "She told me someone was impersonating her and I called her a liar!" Hermione's heart stopped. When had Pansy realized?
"Wait!"
But he wouldn't listen.
"When did she see me!"
"When you ran out," he seethed, his face inches from her. "You ran right by her. She saw you. She came to me. I didn't believe her." His voice was so low, so dangerous that Hermione found herself actually afraid of him for the first time in her life. "I found your precious potion in your cloak, too," he spat. "Trouble with trick pockets is everyone knows about them."
"What are you hiding!" she turned on him. "Where do you keep going!"
His eyes widened for a moment, and then his face broke into a smile.
"Couldn't figure it out, huh?" he laughed, the full weight of his body on top of hers beginning to hurt. She struggled unsuccessfully, completely trapped by his limbs. "You know, if I keep you here long enough you'll change back."
"Not if I get away first," she sneered, butting her head into his. He cried out in pain, holding his forehead and falling off her. She clawed at the ground to right herself, then bolted for the castle, never looking back.
She didn't count the days anymore. She didn't think about Malfoy or his lips or even the illegal Polyjuice Potion that still sat in her wardrobe. When they passed each other in the halls, he with either a look of indifference or that of severe hatred, she looked away, feigning the same emotions she had always had for the boy.
And it worked.
Until, that is, one evening something set her off. She was sitting in the common room doing her homework, with Harry beside her, brooding. She didn't know where Ron was and hadn't seen him since dinner. Around nine the portrait hole opened and in he strolled, his arm slung around the back of Lavender Brown, her eyes alight with laughter.
She didn't even wait for them to sit down—undoubtedly across from her and Harry—before she stormed up to her room, leaving no question as to why she'd gone.
She didn't understand—whenever Ron made her angry she didn't want anything to do with him. But Draco—when he did it she couldn't get enough of the fight. What was wrong with her? She loved Ron, she was sure of it, more than anything in her life. And yet…
Rolling over onto her back, Hermione stared at the canopy over her bed. She had done such a good job at forgetting Malfoy that she'd forgotten the real reason she had wanted to erase him. She loved Draco, too. She had to. She...she couldn't live without him. And for that, she reasoned, she was going straight to hell.
She made up her mind that night; she was going to see him again. She didn't know what she planned on doing, or how safe she would be, considering the fact that he'd threatened to hold her captive until her identity was revealed—but nothing could have stopped her. Not anymore.
It hit her the moment their eyes met across a crowded classroom. She had been thinking of him the whole day and when she saw him the prospect of impersonating Pansy immediately popped into her head. And the second it did she got the strongest sensation that he wanted to speak with her. It didn't take her long to realize that Malfoy was using a spell—he had cast a spell on himself so that whenever the girl (her) thought of him and what she'd done (impersonating Pansy with Polyjuice Potion), the girl (her) would feel a pull to him, almost like a summoning charm.
That evening after dinner she sent Malfoy an owl, asking him to go to the tree again at eleven o'clock that night. She dressed warmly, stuffing an extra flask of potion on her just incase, and left the castle at ten. She wasn't surprised to find him already there, waiting, his back leaning again the tree, head down. He didn't look up until she was within feet of him and, when he did, he grabbed her, kissing her with such passion her knees actually gave out under her the way they did in cheesy romance films.
"Draco," she whispered, pressing her face into his neck.
"Come on," he said, taking her hand. She didn't ask any questions, she knew where he was taking her.
His room was as silent as a tomb, the sleeping forms of his roommates not making a sound. He brought her over to his bed, telling her to climb up. He did the same, then pulled the curtains shut, casting a simple silencing charm around them.
She could barely see him, his face a shadow of itself. But she figured it was just as well—she didn't know how she would have gotten through the night looking her sin dead in the eye.
He removed her clothes with such unbearable slowness she thought for sure he was stalling so the potion wore off. When she tried to unbutton his shirt, he stopped her and did it himself. Even in the dimness of their enclosure, she could still make out his body, perfect in every aspect. Except for the hideous mark that marred the flesh of his forearm. She took the arm in question in her hands, stroking her fingers over the death-black skull, a vicious snake rearing its head from the grimacing skull's mouth. He allowed her to do this for a moment, then yanked his arm away as if he were ashamed of it.
"Don't pretend," he whispered, almost sounding hurt. Though she couldn't be sure. She could never be sure with someone like him. "I know you're not on his side." And he knew she knew exactly who he meant.
"And you?" she ventured bravely, figuring that while she was in hell she might as well secure the most remuneration.
"Everyone has a choice," he said. "I made mine. Whether it was in my benefit or not, it doesn't matter. I have my reasons and I know the consequences and no one will change that."
"I have another question."
He sighed as if he would rather she didn't, but nodded regardless.
"Why are you here with me? You know I'm not Pansy."
"That," he laughed, his voice husky, his warm skin pressed against hers. They were completely undressed now, all that was left was for him to make the move. She would have been more comfortable lying on a bed of nails, "is exactly why I'm here."
She couldn't help it, she gasped. But, just as the air came from her, he leaned in and kissed her, his hands on her face in the tenderest action anyone had ever taken with her. With his eyes, dark and shifting in the shadows, he asked her if she was ready. She nodded, holding her breath.
Gradually, taking every measure not to hurt her any more than necessary, Draco slid inside her. He held her face the entire time, holding her eyes at the same time, his mouth slightly open, having never felt such ecstasy with another person. And this was only the beginning.
"Ok," she breathed, her hands clutching his shoulders as if she hung over an endless precipice.
"Ok?" he asked, making absolutely sure.
"Ok."
He dropped his hands under her back and tightened the muscles of his own. "I think I love you," he said, his voice trembling despite how sturdy he felt, then pulled her to him, pushing himself deeper with every thrust. Sweat coated their skin like a layer of paint, the heat of the drawn curtains making it difficult to breathe. Just when they had both reached their peaks, Hermione cried out, burying her face in his pillows. "What? What happened?"
"I need the potion. Draco, it's on the nightstand," she said in a hurried rush of words he only barely understood.
But instead of reaching for it, he touched the pillow, knowing that only inches from his fingertips was the true face of the woman he now knew he loved, the woman he would, without question, give up everything for. Even that which he had said only moments before could not be changed. For her, he would die.
He was about to tear the pillow away, when she said the only thing that could have stopped him.
"I love you too, Draco."
But she didn't want him to see her, and so he would continue on in the path set for him until she was ready.
He reached outside the curtains and grabbed her flask, placing it in her hand, then slipped outside so she could have privacy. When he felt her soft hand on his shoulder, telling him it was safe, he crawled back in, curling up beside her, his body and mind spent. Never in his life did he believe he could love another, and a faceless girl at that. It was beyond exhausting.
"Will I ever see you?" he asked, his voice rough. He was bitter and she didn't blame him.
"This war is going to change everything," came her answer. He clenched the bed sheets beside him, hidden from her eyes, and anticipated what was to come. "Draco," she sighed, then kissed his cheek. "I can't ask you to turn your life inside out for me. I won't have you die for something so foolish."
"Foolish?" he hissed, taken aback. Hadn't she just said she loved him too?
"Yes, foolish. You can't expect things to be alright just because you want them to. Like I said, the war will change everything. It could change the way either of us feels at this moment. I—"
He pulled her face to his so fast her next words were mumbled into his mouth.
"This is the only real I want," he breathed, pressing his lips to her forehead.
"Seeing me might—"
"I wouldn't care if you were…were Millicent Bulstrode."
"What if I am?"
His face paled.
"Don't worry," she laughed, slapping his chest. "I'm not."
"Who are you?" he whispered, stroking her black hair, wishing he didn't have to stare at Pansy right now.
"I'm the girl you love," she answered. "And for now, that's all I can give you."
She left him that night with a promise. A promise that could only be fulfilled at the end of the war.
Five Years Later:
Draco groaned loudly as he went to answer the door. It was three in the morning, and he'd only just come home ten minutes before, having not seen his house in some years. The war was over as of two hours ago, the dust settling on the bodies of both Voldemort and the great Harry Potter. They had killed each other in the Final Battle, Harry choosing to sacrifice himself in order to save everyone else.
Throughout the entirety of the war Draco had fought with Voldemort alongside the faces of evil from his childhood. Year after year their numbers grew smaller, as his heart grew weaker. He still loved the pseudo-Pansy from his sixth year at Hogwarts, a girl who had been haunting his memories since the night she left him. He thought of going to the light side, or betraying everything that he knew, but whenever that night came to him he knew that nothing was going to make her love him, not after what he'd done to Dumbledore. And so he stayed with those he despised, falling deeper into despair, deeper into hatred.
Draco opened the door, not caring if the person on the other side was there to kill him. His heart jumped in his throat when his eyes fell on a ghost, on Pansy Parkinson. She had died at the hands of his own wretched mother a year into the war. Which could only mean—
"I thought—"
"I wouldn't come?" she asked, smiling at him with Pansy's face. It was a sad smile, a mourning smile. She was both happy and sad at the end of the war; he had guessed right, she was on the light side. Which begged the question of her presence. Surely she couldn't still love him, not after the horrible things he'd done. "I wouldn't have," she admitted, stepping into his foyer. "If not for one thing you did."
"What?" His hand was clutching the doorknob still, and so hard his fingers were white.
"Two hours ago you saved the life of a girl you hated at great risk to your own." Her eyes flickered, seeming to lighten somewhat into a creamy honey color. "That girl…was me."
Draco stumbled back and nearly fell over, if Hermione hadn't reached out and grabbed his wrist, steadying him. Not a moment later her stiff black hair softened, curling and lengthening, its color morphing to a dusky brown.
"When Harry looked at me," she continued, as if she weren't Hermione Granger now, as if nothing had changed, "I knew what he was going to do. And at that moment I wasn't ready to lose my best friend, not when I thought I had nothing to live for without him. But then you…you came out of nowhere. I was running for Harry, crying for him to stop, and you tackled me just before I reached them, just before…he died. You held me down, no matter how hard I struggled, and when it was over…when it was over, you helped me up and said—"
" 'Don't be foolish, Granger'," he recited, his voice hollow and soft, a ring of anticipation behind it. " 'Potter did that for a reason'."
"It hurt me," she continued, and her voice was full of tears now, wet and heavy, "every day to know that no matter what you did I still loved you." She was trembling yet, for the life of him, Draco couldn't muster the strength to hold her. He still couldn't believe it—Hermione Granger? How? Though it made perfect sense in hindsight, his Slytherin mind could not grasp it. "I made my decision years ago to not come here when it was all over, because no matter how much I loved you, I could never be with you, so cold, so heartless…I guess what I'm trying to say is I'm sorry for who I am to you. And it's your choice. But the second I walk out that door I'm gone. This is your only ch—"
"Granger," he interrupted sharply.
"Wh…What?" She wanted to run. He was going to do it. He was going to break her heart. Again. She couldn't bear it. Not again. The pain was too much.
One foot made it across the threshold when his hand caught her elbow. He pulled her back in, holding her at arm's length.
"You were right," he said, his face solemn. A bad sign.
"About what?" She couldn't help it. She looked away. He sighed and placed his hand on her cheek, forcing her to look him in the eye.
"The war," he answered. "It changed everything." His grip tightened on her arm. "Except this." And before the words could register, he captured her lips in the most beautifully painful kiss in her entire life. "I love you, Hermione Granger. I—" He kissed her forehead. "—love—" He kissed the bridge of her nose. "—you."
"I was so sure you'd hate me," she admitted breathlessly, collapsing against him. "I was so sure about everything."
"Well," he laughed, holding her against him as if she would disappear at any moment. He thought he'd lost her once; he wasn't going to let that happen again. "You can't be right about everything."
This one-shot took me a little longer than I anticipated to write, once I started it, but as I got going more and more ideas popped into my head. I knew it was too short to be a full story, so I kept going as a one-shot. I changed so many thing along the way, and most especially the ending, which was originally supposed to end when Hermione leaves him with her promise that last night, with neither of them knowing if they'll be together. I decided at the last minute to add the part after the war. I still don't know if it was the right move—let me know:)
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