Inhuman
Hermione eased off the desk carefully, her body sore all over, and the drilling feeling between her legs increased. She gasped a little, attempting to adjust to the pain, and hobbled down the corridor towards her room. The Heads Common room stank of cigar smoke and brandy; Theodore Nott had been holding one of his parties again: a bunch of elitist males sitting around playing wizard's chess discussing politics, advantageous marriages, and the importance of blood lineage. Hermione could barely stomach the smell of the sweet smoke, and was struggling to get to her room without being seen, bruised, slightly bloodied, and terrified. Nott was asleep on the couch, but she could hear his breathing, his male breathing, and immediately his ragged breathing rose back into her memory, and she had to escape. She limped as quickly as she could into the bathroom and uncontrollably vomited into the sink. She felt disgusting.
I need to shower. I need to get his smell off, his eyes off, his hands off of my fucking body. NOW.
The sound of the water eased her mind a little, the rushing in her imagination was the epitome of clean. The steam began to cloud the room and she was inhaling deeply, trying to ignore the smell of his cologne, her blood, and the smell of sex. The hot water stung her skin as she stepped in, stinging in the open cuts on her face and causing all the bruises to ache madly with each impact from every tiny droplet of water. She hissed quietly at the pain, and stretched her arms over her head attempting to ease out the tight muscles in her back and shoulders, veins still tense with fear. She fumbled around for the little scrub brush she normally used to clean dirt from her hands after Herbology, and scrubbed madly at where he had touched her stomach and ribs, then she leaned half way over and scrubbed the inside of her thighs, where he had pried her legs apart, until they were red and raw, and the hot water stung in what was practically an open wound. She looked down, satisfied at the pain, the sting, that maybe she had gotten his essence off of her skin finally. She hesitated before standing up straight in the shower again, the water beginning to go cold, and she flinched a little again. It hurt everywhere. She stepped out of the shower, wrapping herself in a towel and moved toward the mirror, out of pure horror and sick fascination; she inspected each and every one of her injuries in the mirror. The right side of her face was almost entirely splotchy black and purple, the colors of the bruise heavier in some places than others. She looked at her soiled clothes on the floor, and walked out in to the common room holding them as far away from her body as she could reach. She stared into the still roaring fire for a moment before throwing them in, destroying the evidence of all this, and pondering for a moment throwing herself in after her clothes. She stood there, wrapped in her towel staring at the flames for a little while until a tiny sound, the click of a shoe heel caught her attention. She spun around, and there stood Draco Malfoy, a few feet away, staring at her. At first his expression had been one of surprise, like he'd been caught at something or she shouldn't have heard him, and then when his eyes grazed her face she heard him stop breathing, and she saw first horror in his eyes, and then what she could have sworn was concern. But then, seeing his grey eyes, and knowing what he was, what he had for parts, what he was capable of doing to her, all the fear and bile rose back up in her throat, and she bolted back to her room, locking the door and immediately collapsing to the floor. That's when the first tears stared to flow, quietly at first. Soon her body was racked with sobs, so hard that she could barely breathe, and it felt as if her lungs were being crushed within her, by her. She managed to crawl across the floor and pull herself into bed, still crying, still mourning whatever she had lost—she still wasn't sure just what that was yet…her virginity? Her dignity? Her cleanliness? Her purity? Her soul?
She wouldn't get out of bed the next morning, nor for the next three days. She sent a short note to Madame Pompfrey, saying she had a little flu, and that she was taking care of it herself.
Malfoy sat at the Slytherin table that next morning, and at every meal following, staring at the empty seat at the Gryffindor table, knowing full well what he'd seen. His curiosity was getting to him, he needed to know what had happened.
A/N: I know these are really short right now, but these chapters are leading up to the good stuff. And also, it's finals week for me here, so I only have enough time to write for an hour, which makes for this-length chapters. They'll get longer the further we get into the story and the more free time I have!