A/N: Thank you to all who're following this and have let me know your thoughts via a review/comment!

Bend me, break me / Anyway you need me / All I want is you / Bend me, break me / Breaking down is easy / All I want is you / Steal me, deal me, anyway you heal me / Love me, like me, come ahead and fight me / ...I think I'm paranoid / And complicated.

I Think I'm Paranoid, Garbage

Draco waited.

He waited for the Aurors to burst into his dorm in the middle of the night and haul him away.

He waited to be ordered to McGonagall's office – for his own obscene words to be waved in front of his face and to be demanded an explanation for his perversity, for his harassment of Hermione Granger.

He waited for the rumours to start and for the Gryffindor boys to happen upon him when he was walking alone through the halls, or maybe in the boy's toilets, and send a myriad of hexes and curses his way in defence of the Golden Girl of Gryffindor Tower.

But a week went by after sending the letter-that-had-not-meant-to-be-sent and nothing happened. He questioned Eddie Selwyn repeatedly about it: had he actually given the letter to Granger? Was he sure it had been Granger, and not another wild-haired Gryffindor?

In fact, he badgered Eddie so much that the boy had asked Draco to perform Legilimency on him, just to stop Draco bothering him. And so Draco had. He saw Eddie pass Granger the letter where she sat at a table in the library. Saw her look uncertainly at the envelope before cautiously opening it. Saw her lips part slightly, eyes widen and cheeks flush a bright red – in anger, no doubt – as she read it. Saw her take two, three, purposeful deep breaths before grabbing her books and parchment with shaking hands and hurrying from the library.

Witnessing Eddie's memories scourged any doubt from Draco's mind that Granger had, indeed, read the letter. And it made him feel infinitely worse.

Draco contemplated telling Theo and maybe even Blaise about it all, but he was reluctant to admit he'd so right-royally fucked up. 'Don't make yourself vulnerable to others by admitting your faults', his mother had often said. His friends had a vague idea that something was happening between him and Granger – Theo especially – but the letter was a whole other thing.

He still hadn't received a letter from Granger. But then, the task couldn't still be going ahead, surely. The whole thing would be fucked now – there was no way that they would carry on with the intervention. Which meant that at least one good thing would come from all this.

But then, if that was the case, why had nothing happened yet? What in Merlin's name was going on? He watched Granger – across the Great Hall and classrooms, as they passed in the corridors – to try and gauge some understanding from the look on her face. He summoned his courage and even tried to approach her on occasion, but she always avoided his gaze, always stopped when she saw him coming and walked the other way.

It crossed his mind that she might be scared of him, but he quickly dismissed that thought; she'd said right at the beginning of term that she wasn't scared of him and he was certain that was still the case.

He hadn't had a session with Alethea since Granger had got his letter...if Alethea knew about it, she would be sure to write it in her end of term report to the Wizengamot. Even though she seemed like the kind of person that would talk it through with him first, Draco couldn't be sure. 'Don't rely on anybody else's good will', his father had always used to say, 'always expect the worst from people.'

Maybe Alethea and the Wizengamot were going to catch him unawares so that he, his family and their lawyers didn't have the chance to get a defence together. His trial in the summer had been one-sided enough, it was unlikely this would be much different. But surely he had a right to know if his own words would be used against him?

If she did know, Alethea was bound to have written it in his notes, along with a draft of his report. And if he knew what she'd written, that meant he could be prepared.

After a week of stewing on all manner of scenarios, Draco's paranoia had reached what even he knew was irrational levels. But he seemed powerless to wind it back onto a more sane level.

Which is why he found himself, on the Sunday night a week after the letter fiasco had happened, sneaking through the halls of Hogwarts at two in the morning on his way to Alethea's office.

He reached the door and was surprised by the ease at which he was able to unlock it – it only needed a few more complex Alohomora-type spells. The filing cabinets at the back of the room were a little harder to open, but after five minutes of various combinations of unlocking and revealing spells, the cabinet drawer labelled 'G - M' flung open.

His heart felt like it was going to burst from his chest as he started rifling through the bulging files until he finally came to one labeled MALFOY, Draco. His hands shook as he yanked it open. This was surely an expulsion offense, which was quite ironic really considering concern about potentially being expelled – or worse – was the very reason he was there.

He flicked to the last page of notes and scanned Alethea's handwriting. It was just a summary of their last session. He flicked back a few pages, but again all he read were just notes of his previous appointments. Nothing about sexual deviancy, unsolicited attention, or sexual obsession:

Experiencing some identity issues: due to the experiences that have been forced on him, D has a strong belief that there is something 'wrong' with him with regards to being 'dark, evil and power seeking.' ... (Does he know how to be different?)

This has led to a strong sense of self-dislike, where his self image is quite far removed from the person he'd like to be. Typically, this can lead to low self esteem...

The above is compounded by his belief system being powerfully shaken...he shared with me that he no longer believes many of the pureblood supremacist ideas he has grown up with… having your belief system questioned to such an extent can leave one with a fragile sense of self...

...continuing exposure to Astronomy Tower...after some initial hiccups, Draco is doing well with this...

...some friends, although his peer relationships have changed in the last one to two years...

...attachment? Mother - fairly secure attachment, although some cold and detached parenting. Father - possibly insecure attachment - harsh and critical parenting style...

Other correspondence to the Wizengamot was there, including copies of his court report. But no draft of the end of term report. Draco paused, thinking. It seemed Alethea didn't know about the letter, that Granger hadn't told her. And if Alethea didn't know, had Granger told anyone? It hadn't occurred to Draco until now that she would keep totally quiet about it...

Suddenly, Draco heard the dull clicking of slow footsteps in the corridor outside. His heart jumped to his throat and he froze. The footsteps were quiet, but they were definitely getting closer.

He hurriedly rifled through the drawer again, trying to find the right place to put the notes back. As he did, the other files gaped open and he caught glimpses of phrases and words – small snippets of others' misery and pain: ...saw three friends die during Battle...captured by snatchers, kept in incarcerous for five days...still unable to share what they were forced to do under the Imperius Curse…

Draco purposely tried not to read them; he did not want to know who these snapshots of suffering belonged to – he did not deserve to know that – but then his own name caught his eye: Malfoy.

He tensed again, as the footsteps outside reached a crescendo….and released a breath as they carried on in the same steady pace past the door, and down the corridor.

After an agonising minute-long debate in his mind, he pulled the other file from the cabinet. He would only read the passage containing his name – he had a right to read it if it was about him, didn't he? That was all he was going to do, he promised himself.

But when he read the passage, he realised it wasn't actually about him, but about his home:

She is still avoidant of talking about the events that happened at Malfoy Manor in April 1998 in detail...both overt and covert avoidance. However, we have started to talk about talking about it. Hermione has acknowledged that these memories are probably the most traumatic for her…

Draco stared down at the parchment in his hand, reading and re-reading the statement, a dull mix of guilt and regret and fear coiling inside him. He knew he should put the file back in the cabinet, where it belonged, but he found himself leafing through Hermione Granger's file, his eyes skimming a few phrases here and there, not quite daring to read anything in depth:

...trauma - mostly manifesting in dissociation/derealisation. 'Numb', 'flat' mood..

...experienced approx ten terror-turns May - June 1998. Has felt highly anxious on occasion since then but mostly dissociative-type state...

...survivor guilt….

...high sense of responsibility, esp. for others' welfare and safety….high compassion for others and ability to empathise (e.g. S.P.E.W., overachiever/perfectionist). These are all risk factors for compassion fatigue/emotional burnout….

...ruptured attachment parents - memories? Most protective factor/source of coping not available...

Finally, what moral conscience Draco did have fought through to his frontal lobes and he snapped the file shut and shoved it back into the cabinet, along with his own. Ensuring they were in the right place, he carefully closed the drawer, checked to make sure everything was as he'd found it, and quietly left the room.

Draco barely slept that night. His head pounded with one of his migraines – the kind that was accompanied by nausea, and those were the worst kind. The notes from Granger's file kept drifting around his mind's eye, over and over, until he'd practically memorised the few snippets he'd read. He didn't need his alarm to go off the next morning, because he was already awake. In fact, he didn't think he'd actually properly fallen asleep at all.

The next afternoon, typeface appeared in his Binding Book: Hermione Granger has been granted an extension for the third task.

Draco stared at the print, trying to make sense of what it meant. If she had an extension, then that meant the project was still continuing….which confirmed what he'd found out the night before: that Granger might not have actually told anyone after all.

Maybe she was playing with him. Keeping hold of it for leverage. But no, as he'd thought before, about the kiss at the Lake, blackmail didn't seem to be Granger's style...

Fuck. He didn't know anymore. And not knowing was fucking painful. Because, as his father had often said, 'knowledge is power'.

It was another long, agonising week until Draco heard from Granger again. A week when his Binding Book remained quiet, except for a message stating that there would not be any more tasks until after the Christmas holidays, which was some good news at least.

Then, one Friday afternoon, when they were having the first snowfall of winter, Draco's Book warmed his leg, from where it nestled in his pocket.

He retrieved it and hurriedly flicked it open:

HG: I think we should meet? Maybe later this evening?

DM: Okay.

HG: In the usual place?

DM: Fine. 7pm?

HG: Okay.

He had no idea what to expect; he felt totally in the dark about what Granger was thinking or feeling. So, on the one hand, he was eager to see her, to get it over with, because maybe he'd get some answers. But, on the other hand, he was fucking dreading it.

He arrived at the old Divination room at exactly seven o'clock, his hands shoved into his pockets, his senses sharp and his defenses up. She was leaning against the wall and was still wearing her school uniform. Her hair had that tired look it did at the end of the day, like it had fought many battles and lost. Her tie was askew and she had a ladder in her tights, just over her knee and stretching to her left thigh, a hole gaping at its top. Despite himself and the situation he was in, Draco had an inexplicable urge to reach down and touch the skin he could see revealed amongst the black nylon.

She stared at him as he walked in with uncompromising, almost unblinking eyes. Followed his path as he shuffled across the room to stand a couple of metres from her.

His eyes flitted across her face, trying to gauge anything from her expression, but there was nothing. Except maybe a slight wariness about her eyes. His eyes finally locked with hers, and he refused to look away or be cowed, despite the knowledge of the words he'd written hanging in the air between them, despite the shame and regret and embarrassment that leached from those words.

"I got your letter," she stated, somewhat unnecessarily. He immediately tried to read her voice, but her tone was as lifeless as usual, except for maybe a hint of accusation in it.

"I – that wasn't the letter I meant to send. It got muddled –" He faltered, hating the hesitancy he could hear in his own voice. He knew that if there was ever a time to apologise it was now. But again, he'd never been taught how to apologise – 'apologising means admitting your faults, which means exposing your weakness', his father had always said – and so an explanation of sorts seemed to be the best he could muster. "I wrote another one – one that wasn't – one that was more – formal. The one you got, it wasn't meant to be read –"

He had thought about sending her the other letter, but it seemed obsolete now, redundant. He'd hidden it away under a stack of old parchment in his desk drawer.

"Did you mean it?" Her voice was calm but there was a firmness to it too, a kind of challenge.

"What?"

"What you wrote that wasn't meant to be read? Did you mean it?" Her voice grew in conviction as she spoke.

"I had to mean it," he replied softly.

He was more confused than ever about where this was going. She didn't seem angry, but then she clearly wasn't happy either. Well, she was never happy anymore. And with that thought, the words from Alethea's notes came back to his mind, but he pushed them away because they were far too confusing to think about right then. He needed his head to remain clear, because Granger clearly had the upper hand in the situation, had the power, and that was not a place Draco had ever been comfortable being in.

Her hand moved towards her pocket and Draco watched as she took out a worn, folded piece of parchment and held it out to him.

"Read it." Her voice had a steely calm about it; the statement was a command, not a request.

Draco took the parchment and carefully unfolded it. He saw his own handwriting and instantly recognised it as his letter. The paper was worn thin at the edges and was almost coming apart at the folds, as if it had been opened, read and folded up countless times. Which was odd – he thought she would have Reducto'ed or Incendio'ed it straight away. Either that, or kept it as pristine evidence for what a pervert he was and how he needed to get carted off to Azkaban A.S.A.P.

He looked up at her, allowing his confusion to show on his face.

"Read it," Granger repeated. "Out loud."

He hesitated. Was this some kind of punishment? An exercise in humiliation? He wondered why she hadn't got an audience together if so. But fine. He was a Malfoy – he could play this. He'd own it; his mother has often talked to him about how, 'if one acted as if one had the upper hand in the situation, other people will believe it.' He lifted the parchment closer to him and as he did so smelt a musky, oddly familiar scent emitting from it.

"Granger…I'll tell you what I fucking want," he read in a bored, resigned tone, as if the words weren't his, as if he were reading a particulary dry passage from a History of Magic textbook. It was a feeble attempt to distance himself from the raw passion of the sentiments he'd penned. "I want to kiss you until your lips are bruised and swollen."

He couldn't help but pause before continuing. He kept his head bowed over the parchment but darted his eyes up to watch her. He noticed that a flush had come to her cheeks, and that her arms had gone tense at her side. But it wasn't in anger – he'd seen Granger angry enough times and that wasn't it.

He flicked his eyes back down to his Merlin-awful letter again.

"I want to see how wet and dripping your cunt can get," he continued quietly.

As he spoke the words out loud, he couldn't help imagine what he was describing, and was both dismayed and exasperated at the feel of his cock twitching. "I want to taste it. To lick it. To suck it." His voice was becoming oddly husky and he wondered when his mouth had become so dry.

Then he heard it – a quiet but unmistakable sharp intake of breath, and his eyes snapped up to Granger again. He studied her intently. Her cheeks had reddened even more, her lips had parted slightly, her hands had balled into tight fists. An idea – preposterous, ludicrous but ever-so tantalising – sprung to his mind. Could it – could she? He dared to hope – the worn parchment, the musky scent, the fact she hadn't told anyone about the letter – he fitted the pieces together in his mind…

"How many times have you read this?" he asked softly, taking slow steps towards her. He heard her breathing quicken, could see her chest rising and falling rapidly.

"A few." Her reply was one of mumbled reluctance.

He stopped so he was only inches from her. Fuck, he loved being this close to her, seeing the way the individual curls of her hair fell, breathing in her scent – the scent of rose, and something else floral, possibly lavender. When he was this close to her, he could see things that no one else could see, and it felt like a delicious, seductive privilege to be able to do that.

He leaned forward so his mouth was hovering inches from her ear.

"How. Many. Times?" His voice came out a hiss, because he was getting inpatient – with not knowing, with wanting what he suspected to be confirmed.

"I – I can't remember."

He felt his body still, because the words, although vague, were an admission of sorts.

"You've read it so many times you can't remember?" he persisted.

She moved her head slightly back so she could look him in the eyes. She looked defiant but guarded, and he realised that that look was all the confirmation he was going to get.

He leant forward, nipped her hard at her earlobe and was delighted when he heard her let out an involuntary whimper.

"How did it make you feel, Granger? This letter?"

"I –" but she faltered as soon as she started speaking, which caused an unwarranted impatience to rise up in him, prompting his next words to spill from him:

"Granger. Why does this letter smell of cunt?"

She closed her eyes, squeezing them shut and let out a small, strangled noise. He wasn't sure if it was one of protest or desire. Maybe both.

"Did reading his letter make you wet, Granger?" He knew he was being unrelenting with his words, but he couldn't seem to stop himself and she wasn't giving him any reason to do so. If anything, it was quite the opposite.

"Yes." The word was breathed out on an exhale.

"Did you touch yourself when you read this letter?" He kept his mouth close to her ear, sometimes moving it down to her neck, resisting the temptation to gently graze her soft skin with his teeth.

"Yes."

"When you read this letter so many times you can't remember?"

"Yes."

An involuntary, stifled groan escaped him at the thought of Granger becoming undone again and again at the words he'd written. He placed a barely-there kiss onto the curve of her neck.

He'd sensed a shift in power over the last few minutes – sensed the tables turning and that he now somehow had the upper hand over this whole exchange.

She turned her head the few short inches towards him, and he couldn't help but kiss her then, hard and bruising, biting gently on her lower lip. A delightful shudder rocketed through him as he heard – felt – her moan into the kiss, which caused him to pause, to slow down slightly. He desperately wanted to be slow with her – to be tender. But he knew her well enough by now – at least, he knew her body – and he knew that she didn't want tender. She wanted roughness and commands, and obscene words hissed into her ear. And he was desperate to give her what she wanted because an awful feeling had started to kindle in him, a feeling of fear – fear that she would reject him.

The kiss deepened, their mutual desire and hunger evident in how their lips and tongues moved against each other's. Her warm hands stroked down his chest, until one settled on his abdomen, the other moving lower. But he feared he would lose control completely if she did that, so he grabbed hold of her waist and spun her around, placing her hands firmly on the wall in front of her.

"Don't move them," he commanded, and she let out a moan in acknowledgement.

Her grabbed hold of either side of her waist and yanked her pelvis towards him. He leant down stroked a hand up her right thigh, under her skirt. Her breath was coming in short, quick gasps, and he decided to do as she'd asked – finish reading his letter.

"I want you helpless and wanton under me whilst I fuck your prissy little cunt until you can't walk. Do you understand that?" He pressed his erection against her. "Can you feel how hard you make me?"

"Yes." The word was said with quiet conviction. He moaned as she started to rotate her hips ever so slightly, so that she was rubbing his cock gently but wantonly. His knees were weakening and his arms started to tremble. He didn't think he'd been more turned on in his life.

Keeping his left hand on her left hip, anchoring them both in place, he moved his right hand further up her right thigh, to the curve of her arse cheek, pinching and squeezing there. She let out a kind of keening, whimpering noise that made him even harder than he already was, if that were possible.

He leaned towards her again and rasped into her ear, his words measured and deliberate: "I want to see you shuddering and shaking when I make you come so hard you forget your own name."

He slowly moved his hand around to her front, prompting her to step her legs slightly apart – it was a minuscule movement, but no less welcoming because of that. He stroked his fingers in between her legs, along the seam of her underwear. He couldn't help let out an involuntary groan as he felt a warm wetness, even through her knickers and tights. She moved slightly, pressing herself into his fingers, clearly wanting more.

"Malfoy…" she breathed out.

"And all the while, I want to hear you whimper and moan and gasp out my name, begging for more..." He pressed the tip of his finger right at the spot where he thought her clit would be and she let out a small cry. He glided his fingers back and forth one more time, slowly, teasingly, before withdrawing them, grabbing her waist again, and spinning her around to face him. Her cheeks were flushed, her hair was even more unruly than normal, and her eyes were glazed.

It was the most erotic thing he'd ever seen.

"Don't stop," she said. Pleaded.

He moved his arms, wrapped them around her shoulder and pulled her towards him in an embrace, which she reciprocated by circling her arms around his waist, squeezing him tightly to her. She rested her head on his shoulder, her breathing heavy and her chest rising and falling against his. He even thought he could hear her heartbeat.

"I want to hear you begging for more, because you will want more," he finished, his breath hot in her ear.

A/N:

Regarding Hermione's therapy notes, I thought some definitions might be interesting/useful:

Dissociation - from the .uk website: 'If you dissociate, you may feel disconnected from yourself and the world around you. For example, you may feel detached from your body or feel as though the world around you is unreal…. Dissociation is one way the mind copes with too much stress, such as during a traumatic event…. Experiences of dissociation can last for a relatively short time (hours or days) or for much longer (weeks or months).'

Compassion fatigue - from the Wikipedia entry on 'compassion fatigue': 'Compassion fatigue is a condition characterized by emotional and physical exhaustion leading to a diminished ability to empathize or feel compassion for others, often described as the negative cost of caring...People who experience compassion fatigue may exhibit a variety of symptoms including lowered concentration, numbness or feelings of helplessness, irritability, lack of self-satisfaction, withdrawal, aches and pains, or work absenteeism.'

*Re. update schedule*: I am going to really try and post the next chapter on schedule, next Friday, However, several things have come up for me personally, which have shaken things up a bit. Although I have several more chapters written, there may be a slight delay in posting the next chapter just to give myself a breather. However, I definitely plan to update by 22nd - two weeks time.

As always, huge, huge thanks to Frumpologist and scullymurphy for being amazing alphabetas.

Your thoughts and comments are, as ever, loved!