Disclaimer: If I owned Harry Potter, I'd be...JK Rowling. I guess I'm out of luck...
A/N: First of all, I apologize for the wait. If any of you are into theater, and you know the meaning of Hell Week, well there was that, plus a bunch of other stuff, so I haven't had time to update. This chapter is a bit longer than the other two (thankfully), though it is a bit cliffy. I couldn't decide if I should add more to the chapter or make that the next chapter. Obviously I decided to make the next half of this chapter the next chapter, because having one uberly long chapter is weird. Sorry about this not having very much Hermione/Draco-ness in it. In the previous chapters I set up the hatred, and now the secret and the secret empathy. So, it'll happen in due time, most likely starting next chapter.
A/N: This has a hint of rape in it. The rape is in italics so if you don't want to read it, don't. Really, though, it doesn't actually mention the word rape, nor is it explicit in regards to body parts or anything like that. It's very vague, so yeah...
A/N: I would like a beta-reader...
Oh, yes. And please R&R. Reviews are greatly appreciated. I will love you dearly if you review it...
Once Hermione had retreated to her room with the supposed victory hanging over her head, she crawled into her four poster bed, allowing her shoes to slip off as she maneuvered her small body to a sitting position. Pulling her feet onto the bed, she grabbed the novel which she had been reading. Yes, Hermione does focus much of her time on studying, but she does need a reprieve from that on occasion; hence, her addiction to novels. Of course, they are Muggle novels; in her opinion, Muggles have a much more sophisticated imagination and a greater understanding of human nature. The book in her hands at this moment was Sybil, a novel about a girl with 16 different personalities. She was about half way through, having started the book earlier in the day, and was immersed in some of the most repulsive things she has ever read. Sybil needed a reason to develop other personalities after all. This book, though, was more than a book. Some of the situations described in painful detail hit close to home for this seemingly perfect 17 year old girl. The book was interesting, yes, but reading it, especially parts like this, was a test of her strength. Hermione had to know that she was strong. She needed reassurance of it. To the surprise of most of the student body, Hermione doubts her strengths often, scared that the horrors of her home life are going to deteriorate her; though, she knows they can also make her stronger if she embraces them.
As she was reading, she found her eye-lids falling, heavy with sleep. Yet, she fought the sleep with all of her power, wanting to read more of this ever-changing, extremely intriguing book. But when one is falling asleep, they cannot fight it, especially when they truly want to fall into a world of nothingness. Yet, Hermione knew that her sleep would not be a dreamless one; rather, it would be one filled with nightmares and horrors. She needed to get over it though. One of the reasons she studies and barely sleeps is for that reason; she is fearful of what will happen to her in the world of her dreams, or rather, of her nightmares. Not having slept in days, she couldn't help it when her eyes closed and she lost touch with the world around her. Her breathing steadied; her breaths became deep and comfortable. That is, until her memories she had tried so hard to forget came rushing back in the form of a dream…
She was lying in her bed, book in hand. Her back was flush against her headboard; her legs were bent slightly at the knee. She was clad in a pair of multi-colored, striped pajama pants and a black camisole. Her untamed hair remained just that- untamed –falling over her shoulders in a mass of curls. Her parents weren't home, and they weren't expected home for another hour or so. She had written to both Ron and Harry, telling them that she was fine, when in reality, she was far from it. She was scared, terrified of what was going to happen night after night. Thankfully, she had already come of age- she was 17 –which allowed her the privilege of using magic to cover the bruises which lined her body. She sighed, content in her loneliness- that is until the front door creaked opened and the lights turned on.
There was only one set of footsteps, heavy, labored, not dainty like those of her mother's. She knew her father had found a way to leave the honorary dinner so that he could come home to his 'lovely daughter'. Only Hermione knew the reason he wanted to do that. He wanted her, in more ways then one, in more ways than she would let him. The stairs creaked under his immense weight. Hermione only pretended to be reading; she couldn't concentrate when she knew what was to come of her. Her door opened. Her father was standing there, clad in his tuxedo, a hint of lust in his honey-brown eyes. She pulled her legs closer to her chest, trying not to look up at him. It worked until he made his way to her bed, crawling on it, crawling closer to her. Finally, she looked up; their matching eyes met. She whimpered with the knowledge of what was to come, surprised that such a feeble sound left her lips.
Her jaw was set, reluctant to oblige to what he wanted to do to her. She tried to stay strong; she tried to keep herself curled up. What stopped her was the murderous look in his eyes. He was whispering threats as he inched closer to her. She didn't want to lose her life, at least not in the hands of her father. She had survived the final battle with Voldemorte. She had to be able to survive life with her father. Her muscles reluctantly relaxed. She refused to look him in the eye. Only small whimpers escaped her lips as he touched her in placed she hadn't been touched by anyone else. She felt him undressing her. She couldn't fight back. He was at least two times her size. She had no chance of winning. All she could do was sit and wait for it to be over.
Apparently, her enthusiasm was menial, which angered her father. With a look of blood-lust in his eyes, he smacked her, threatening to do worse if she didn't show the enthusiasm he did. But she couldn't. She knew that. And he smacked her once again. This time she screamed out. His mouth cut off her scream, which was now a nearly silent protest. She tried to push him off of her as she tried to hold down the vomit which was quickly making its way up from her stomach. In response to her signs of insubordination, he grabbed her wrists and pinned them forcefully to the bed, holding them with one hand as the other roamed her body, taking off her pajama pants and her bikini-cut underwear. He then proceeded to take his pants off, spending no time asking her for anything. Instead, he got what he wanted, and he got it quickly. He shoved himself inside of her, as tears fell violently down her face, as her blood-curdling scream echoed through the otherwise empty suburban house…
Little did she know, that same blood-curdling scream had echoed through the Heads' chambers, falling upon the ears of none other than Draco Malfoy. The urgency of the scream triggered memories of his own abuse from his filth of a father. For a moment, he thought his mind was playing tricks on him, trying to torture him with memories of the past. But then, as another scream fell upon his ears, he knew it wasn't his own memory playing tricks on him. Somebody else was screaming 'bloody murder', and the only other person in the vicinity was Granger. Slowly, he stood up, walking towards her door, where he heard whimpers choked by sobs. It had to be her. But why? He knew that he was invading her privacy, but his curiosity had gotten the best of him. No, he didn't go in there with the intention of comforting Granger, or even touching her. He just wanted to see what made her scream with such fright. She was strong, brave, stubborn, and not one to be found whimpering, screaming, sobbing.
Her door creaked opened, as his bleach-blonde head poked inside the room. And there was Hermione, her face tear stained, her eyes closed, her body thrashing around, as if she was trying to get somebody off of her. He didn't know what this was about, but he could only imagine. Without thinking, he had taken a few more steps into the room, keeping the door opened behind him. His mind was blank, though he found himself moving towards her bed. He knew he had to wake her, not only because her whimpering and screaming was bloody annoying, but also because he knew what it was like to relive memories best forgotten. He knew the pain they caused, and the residue they left behind. No, Malfoy was not doing something nice. He was not caring for Granger. He was just trying to stop the bloody noise. Or so he kept telling himself.
His hand fell upon her shoulder; an action which caused Hermione to thrash, attempting to rid herself of his touch. His short fuse temper flared, and he tried shaking her, only to be met with flailing arms and choking sobs. Finally, he pulled his wand out of his cloak, murmuring a spell bound to wake her up. Water poured out of his wand and onto her now soaked body. Her eyes shot opened, fear still apparent in her brilliant honey orbs. It took her a minute to gather her setting, and that was when her eyes fell upon Malfoy. Her eyes narrowed in suspicion. She knew he wasn't the cause of her dreams, but she was still skeptical of his intentions. How much had he heard? What did he now know? How long would it take until the entire school knew, at least the basics? Would he even bother to tell? Hopefully not.
"What are you doing here?" she asked, her voice hoarse from screaming, thick with sleep, yet her unsaid threats were obvious, despite this. She looked him over, his wand at the ready. He looked quite guilty, as if he had just cast a spell. She hadn't noticed the water around her. It was normal for her to wake up soaked from sweat when she was having a nightmare like that. She knew he had woken her up, and for that, she was grateful; not that she would ever let him know that, of course. "And why are you still pointing that bloody wand at me. I'm up. You can leave."
Malfoy wasn't surprised at her coldness, her abruptness. He knew this wasn't something she had wanted anybody to see, and he was the last person on that list. But he had seen it. The damage was done. The least he could do was try to explain himself. But in order to do that, he would have to seem at least slightly human. Even though he had fought alongside the Order during the final battle, he was still considered a greasy git with no heart and no respect for other people. He liked being that person. People feared him; they revered him. And, if he were to explain the reasons for waking her up, he would lose some of that, because he knew he could just mutter a silencing spell and her screams no longer would have penetrated the walls of her room.
"Your screams and whimpers were bloody annoying. What else did you expect me to do," he asked, knowing very well what was going to come out of her mouth next. Yet, he still stood there, his gaze fixed on her, challenging her to answer his question with the obvious answer.
"Well, you could have left the room, or even put a silencing charm on the room, seeing as you were so eager to use your want to stop the…screaming," she replied, her gaze falling as she spoke, though she quickly regained her composure, until it all but disappeared as she neared the end of her sentence. Why did he have to hear that? Why did he have to walk in on her? Why?
"Yes, well…" Malfoy said in response, unsure of how to answer this. He knew the truth was best suited for this situation; but when did a Malfoy tell the truth, especially when it would ruin their reputation. Never. And then it hit him. He knew what he was going to say. He also knew his hesitation would make his words lack the conviction they needed. He was going to try anyway, though he knew that with Hermione and her perceptiveness, she would catch him lying just one more time. "I wanted to see what you were bloody screaming about. Maybe it was something I could blackmail you with. Or maybe just spread it around the school. Hermione Granger, screaming and crying like a baby. She's really not as strong as you all think, is she?"
As he spoke, he locked eyes with her once again. His trademark smirk was sitting playfully upon his lips, his eyes challenging her. His hands fanned out in front of him as he spoke the words of the school, as if he was portraying a headline for the Daily Prophet. In any other situation, Hermione would have jumped on the glitches in his reasoning. But what he said had hit home. She grabbed her wand, her eyes filled with fire. She kneeled on her bed, stepping closer to him. Her wand was at the ready, nearly touching his nose. Her voice was low, nearly a growl. "If you ever tell anybody what you saw or heard, I will personally hex you into the next century with the intent to murder."
Malfoy surprisingly backed down, knowing quite well that she was serious about the threat. Instead, he tried a different tactic; something resembling the truth, but not quite. And in context, it would just be a way to make Hermione shut up and stop pointing that bloody wand at him. "Well, maybe it would help to talk to somebody. You wouldn't be so bloody angry all the time if you did," he muttered, as he turned to walk away, his steps deliberately slow, waiting for Hermione's reaction.
"And who should I talk to? Harry? Ron? I love them to death, but they're not nearly mature enough to handle what I would tell them. I have nobody to tell, and I'd much rather not tell anybody. I don't want their pity. It's much easier living without anybody knowing, and that means you as well. So don't try to figure it out, because if you do, you will not live to see the next day unless you perform an Unbreakable Vow not to tell. And even then, I wouldn't put it past you find a way around that…" Hermione found herself rambling, so she cut herself off, knowing that if she spoke anymore, she would let something slip, and she couldn't afford that. "Just get out and leave me alone. I hate you enough as it is; don't give me another reason to hate you even more."
Malfoy turned around to listen to what she had to say. When she was done speaking, he let his thoughts slip out of his mind, and into the open air to fall upon Hermione's ears. "Well, then try talking to someone who can handle it. Try talking to someone who will empathize instead of sympathize…" His words were soft, angry mumbles. His face turned a bright red as he realized what he just said. Quickly, he turned around, his black cloak fluttering behind him, and he left the room, closing the door behind him. As they both settled down, Hermione back in her bed, Draco on the couch in the common room, their thoughts were exactly the same:
What the bloody hell was that?
