The Harry Potter universe and its characters are the sole property of J. K. Rowling. By using them below, I am in no way claiming ownership.
'Draco?' Hermione let herself down from the table, readjusting her dress. She took a step towards him, but he grimaced, staggering back and holding up a hand to stop her.
'Stay away from me!' Hermione flinched at the disgust in his voice. She'd been so naïve. 'Do you think I could ever be seen with a... a...'
'A what?' She demanded. 'Go on, say it.'
'A filthy mudblood like you,' he spat. Hermione had been expecting the words, but they still cut like a knife. She felt the tears welling up behind her eyes and tried her best to suppress them. 'Go on,' he took a step towards her. 'Go on and cry about it. Go cry to your little Potter about it.'
Her fists clenched, and she contemplated slapping him, but didn't. She simply stood opposite him, the tears beginning to stream down her face. What's the point? You could never hurt him like he's hurt you.
'Go on, get out!' He screamed at her.
'You're so damaged,' she managed to mutter before a sob caught in her throat. It was all she could do to stop herself running from the room. Turning her back on him, she opened the door then paused at the threshold. 'You stay the hell away from me!' She shouted over her shoulder, choking back another sob.
After she'd left, Draco moved over to the door and slammed it closed, then pounded one fist against the wood. That infuriating, manipulating witch! He turned his back to the door and slid down into a sitting position, staring at the hands which moments before had been caressing her skin. Hermione may not have intended her words to be the wake-up call they were, but those six little words had been enough to conjure his father's reaction in his mind. The sneer, the look of contempt. It wouldn't only be his father who would react in such a way. Draco would be seen as equally tainted as Hermione, if not more, for turning his back on his pureblood heritage. He would lose his friends, his family, his position in society. And for what? Some silly mudblood girl? If he were in his right mind, he would never have given her a second glance. If they hadn't been forced together. If she hadn't bewitched him.
Yet he still wished that she were there on that table, under his hands. His eyes moved from the table to the large, gilt mirror. He could see his reflection, the pale boy sat against the door. Weak. Pathetic. Alone. Driven mad by his conflicted emotions, he pushed himself up and aimed a curse at the glass. The mirror split in two with a mighty crack, stress fractures branching out towards the frame before the entire thing collapsed. Silvered shards skittered across the floor and bounced off his shoes. With a sigh, he turned his back on the destruction and left.
The atmosphere was thick with despair and desire, as if the words of the previous occupants had left an emotional imprint on the room. The glass shards began to roll slowly backwards towards the mirror, gaining in speed as they reached the gilded frame. Large and small pieces of silvered glass floated through the air and began to fuse together, moulding and reshaping themselves to form the body of a crouched figure. As the last pieces of shattered mirror incorporated into the man, he took on colour, reflecting back the mirror's last desire.
He moved upwards into a standing position, the silver fabric of his costume uncreasing itself, then ran a hand through his pale, blonde hair.