It's when you carry her to the infirmary that you fall for her.

You know this because it's the very same day you lose yourself beyond redemption.

You're her potions partner because Potter is on leave that day. You curse your luck the whole time while you sit at an impractically far distance from her, watching as her hands tremble, adding ingredients to the cauldron. You're making her nervous no doubt, you can tell by the way the sweat is collecting on her brow. You refuse to utter encouraging words, or ease her discomfort.

Instead you savor in her distress.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" she finally asks, her eyes never leaving the task at hand.

"To make sure you don't fail us." Your voice is devoid from any emotion.

She sneers at your remark; "if anything Malfoy, that would be you. I couldn't fail us even if I tried."

At that moment a fire ignites within you, her cockiness the ever present fuel. You want to wring her neck and bite the flesh all at the same time. You move your wooden stool closer, dangerously close. You can smell the lavender of her perfume and the sweetness of her breath, and for a moment you want to capture her mouth with your own.

To see if your theory is correct of course.

The thought of touching her impure skin both excites and disgusts you. And you are walking a thin line between the two when you pluck the vial of God knows what from her dainty hand, making it a point to brush your fingertips against the back of her hand. You don't know what kind of game you are playing, but you know it won't end well. She recoils immediately as if her hand were exposed to a flame.

You chuckle inwardly at the thought.

"What, the brave little lioness doesn't like playing with fire?"

You speak your thoughts aloud and bite down on your tongue immediately, but it's too late. She shoots you a bewildered glare but before she can speak, her face contorts into one of pure agony. The clink of the dagger falling to the wood floor is accompanied with the fall of crimson droplets.

A large gash extending from the palm of her hand to the wrist being the reason.

She stands up abruptly, one hand pressing against the other. Her stool falls back unceremoniously and you hate her more than you have ever hated her in that moment. You hate her for putting you in the position to save her. But mostly, you hate yourself for knowing that you would have done so regardless. Her face has begun to lose color, and just as she begins to sway dangerously, you catch her; an annoyed "fuck" muttered under your breath.

You hold her close as she borders unconsciousness, and even now she won't give up her tough lioness act.

"I'm fine," she mutters.

But you know she's not.

"Shut the fuck up Granger." You spit the words like venom. A bit too venomous, even for you.

"It's just a little cut."

"For God's sake Granger, it takes a special sort of talent to slice open your hand with a dagger that small. And while cutting cloves of garlic nonetheless! I'm not too surprised though it must be a Mudblood talent, you are a clumsy lot after all."

Mudblood.

You've said the word so many times before but somehow this time its painful. Mostly because you've seen her blood and it looks just like your own. Nothing like you'd imagined.

"Put me down," she hisses. And you comply, curious as to see what she will do. But you're never further than a few feet from her. You watch as she guides her way down the hall, her hands gliding against the stone walls. A trail of blood in her wake, a reminder of the event, perhaps a permanent one.

The walls are never scrubbed.

They are ignored. Downtrodden.

Left to their own fate.

Somehow these walls remind you of yourself.

When she collapses, you're there to catch her. It's in that moment you notice the way her lips part with every breath, their soft pink hue almost irresistible. It's in that moment that you see how the dull moonlight highlights her features, and realize how beautiful she really is.

Have you learned your lesson you foolish, prideful girl?, you want to say, but instead you hold her close. Because she can't push you away.

Neither can you.

Instead.

It's an action that becomes part of who you are. It's always instead for you, because the former option is never really an option.

Not for you.

You run. Run harder than you ever have. Your legs had threatened to give way so long ago, but you trudge on until you reach the double doors leading to her salvation.

You run your hands through your hair as Madame Pompfrey dresses her wounds, assuring you that she's gonna be fine. You sneer at her, pretending that you don't give a fuck, because besides 'instead,' pretending is something you do best. You know the wound is nothing serious, but the thought of her in the infirmary scares you. You tell yourself it's because you'd be the one to blame, but deep down you know it's because something has shifted inside this deep abyss of your being.

Only a handful of words were exchanged but here you are, falling for a girl you've hated for so long.

But you know that you've always felt this way.


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