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BETA READER: silverbluewords

THE FOURTH WAVE

Hermione sniffled in confusion as Malfoy stormed off. She swatted away the last of her tears, all the while wondering what had caused him to react so vehemently to her admissions. Honestly, what had gotten into her? His words had never meant much to her before. Why should they mean anything now? Throughout all their years at Hogwarts, nothing he'd said to her or her friends had ever truly affected her. She'd shed a few tears when she finally found out what that derogatory slur meant, but never again, she'd vowed. Never again.

In the years that followed, the bastard had made it easier than breathing. Ironically, all of the vicious sneers and cruel taunts that he'd used to debase her and make her feel inferior only made him uglier and less human in her eyes. She discovered that she no longer found it difficult to dismiss his derision, because she found it even harder to perceive him as a person. She didn't loathe him. She pitied him. To her, no human could possibly derive such sadistic pleasure from victimising his or her own kind, not without feeling the slightest bit of remorse—as if he or she had committed a crime against nature. No human, she realised. Only monsters. Not the ones hiding in the shadows beneath her bed or lurking in the cupboard, but the ones who walked amongst civilization, fancying themselves "human"—the most heinous beasts of all.

Then, things changed. She saw his fear eat away at him as the strain of serving the Dark Mark began to take its toll. She witnessed the rapid decline of his health as his own body physically rejected each and every atrocity it had swallowed. She heard him cry. And suddenly, she cared. She bloody cared, after all the years she'd spent trying not to.

Upon her return to Hogwarts, she'd initially experienced varying degrees of anxiety at seeing him there amongst her classmates. She didn't want to remember the War, or the deluge of death and horror associated with his presence. True, if he hadn't disarmed Dumbledore or attempted to duel against them at Malfoy Manor, Harry would not have come to possess the Elder Wand, and the War could've ended very differently, but still… Some things didn't just change overnight.

As the term progressed, they'd started spending more and more time together in the library. Well, not together, but simply remaining in the same room without incident. At first, she'd bristled with suspicion at his encroachment upon her territory as the resident bookworm, but then she recalled… Salazar Slytherin prized not only cunning and pedigree in the students of his House, but also cleverness and determination.

Day after day, she listened to the clamour of his tireless efforts to atone—the heavy thud of books smacking onto his desk, the crinkling of rifled pages, the frantic scratching of his quill, the absentminded mutterings of frustration beneath his breath, and the screeching of his chair as he leapt up in search of a new volume. And slowly, very slowly, something bordering on respect began to take root inside of her. Because of his reputation, he had to work twice as hard as everyone else, including her. People expected her to excel. Yet, despite Malfoy's natural talents, or how far he'd come from the snivelling, sneering snot that had once defined his deplorable existence, people would never expect, or want to see, the same of him. Eventually, she came to realise, he couldn't control the circumstances of his birth any more than she could.

With every struggle, injustice, and ostracism that he faced, she learned to let go of some of her own prejudices and misconceptions. Gradually, she came to forgive him. She simply saw no need to hold on to the bitterness any longer. For who could hate someone who tried so hard, so actively, to change himself? To strive to learn from his mistakes, and try to become a better person? Sometimes, when she looked at him, she saw a bit of herself. Ever since her initiation into the wizarding world, she'd tried so hard to overcome her own shortcomings and earn the respect of others. She'd studied her arse off, and people might call her a know-it-all for it, but she knew the truth. She knew the desperation that lurked behind it. And now, seeing him in a similar situation, she couldn't bring herself to resent him for any of it.

Malfoy had every right to yell at her. All the tears and self-pity in the world wouldn't bring Anthony back. She had no choice but to get up, give it everything she had left, and make sure that she didn't make the same mistake again. She stood and swiped her face clean, purged of all frailty and burning with resolve.

She'd barely taken a single step before she heard it. A rustling in the bushes. The snapping of a twig. The stumbling footfalls of deadened limbs, amplified by the deathly stillness of the night. She held her ground, her mind already whirring away as she calculated the frequency and proximity of the unnatural lurching. A chill colder than stone dropped into the pit of her stomach. The residents of the Trail had them surrounded.

She didn't even have time to think. A split second later, an ear-piercing wail shattered her senses, signalling the breach of the Caterwauling Charm. She dropped to her knees and covered her ears, unable to differentiate her own screams from the shrieking alarm. The defences that she and Malfoy had put up would only keep them occupied for so long. Most of the spells she'd thrown up protected them primarily from magical assaults. Against an actual physical onslaught, however, she didn't know how long they'd last, especially when the foes in question had already died and knew neither pain nor fear, only the taste of human flesh.

She bolted to her feet, brandishing her wand at the thunderous footsteps behind her, only to find Draco Malfoy staring her down with a gaze so predatory and intense that she backed away instinctively.

"M—Malfoy?" she asked uncertainly, frightened by his lack of response. He didn't answer, stalking towards her as if possessed, his eyes blazing with determination and the grey ashes of demonic hunger. His pale skin stood out strikingly against the shadows, and Hermione feared for the worst. He'd turned into one of them.

Before she could defend herself, he lunged at her and bit roughly at her lips, his sharp teeth breaking through the tender skin. She opened her mouth to scream, but he greedily swallowed her cries, wrenching her head back and groaning as he seized her tongue and sucked upon it, pulling at the slick flesh with his lips. She struggled against him, writhing in his clutches and shoving at him as she twisted her arm around to try and get a clear shot at his head. She took aim and instinctively squeezed her eyes shut, only to falter as she heard him moan something. Something that sounded suspiciously like "Hermione."

He hadn't turned, she realised. She could taste it—the frantic need and desperation upon his tongue as he penetrated her mouth over and over with its soft, thick length. She could taste every complicated, pent-up desire that he'd managed to shove into this one kiss, and it completely overwhelmed her. Her mind went reeling, and words escaped her as she drowned in the heady tempest that swallowed up her senses.

When he finally wrenched his mouth away, he grabbed her by the shoulders and growled, "Listen to me, you stubborn bint! I—I fucking care about you, and I am not going to lose you because you think you're on some sort of mad, altruistic suicide mission like the rest of your bleeding House! Don't you dare leave my side! For fuck's sake, I'm in love with you, and I don't care what the hell it takes, you're staying with me until we both get out of here alive! Do you understand?"

"Yes," she whispered aloud, uncaring of the ramifications of her response. Call it adrenaline, call it desperation, call it fickle impulse, but right here, in this very moment, this felt right. Like two broken shards coming together, sealing off all the cracks and the jagged edges, and simply completing one another. And it didn't matter if the pieces could no longer serve any other purpose. They fit. They just… fit.

Without wasting another moment, she and Malfoy immediately whipped around, standing back-to-back as the zombies stampeded through the trees and staggered towards them. Survival instinct took over, and she swung from left to right, pushing back the un-dead circle in a volley of coloured sparks and slashes of fire. She didn't dare allow her thoughts to stray, not even towards the occasional, familiar scream in the distance that split her ears and threatened to tear out all sense of rationality. Instead, she concentrated on the only thing she could—the solid heat emanating from Malfoy's back as it pressed against hers, holding her up and telling her that she still had hope. That she still had something worth fighting for. And most of all, that there still remained one more human who would fight with her.

TO BE CONTINUED