Harry Potter 1. Chapter 1

The house war between Gryffindor and Slytherin escalates when Ginny Weasley is caught and raped by Blaise Zabini. Now the Ministry has stepped in and assigned a new law to Hogwarts- each Gryffindor student will be paired off with a Slytherin, and forced to share solitary confinement on a secluded island for five months.

"Malfoy please!" Every bit of her is burning, turning her into black ashes. She's disappearing into nothing, melting into the foggy blackness that swirls beneath her eyelids. She can't see, only feel, and it's heightened tenfold just by his presence.

"Please what, Granger?"

"Please," Her hands grip the beach sand, desperately trying to latch onto something, anything other than his body "Please touch me…"

**A/N May be a two-shot, three-shot or multi chapter. Doubt it'll be long though, but I just had the craving to go extremely dark and extremely sexual. Here you go…**

**Ginny's name is corrected, thank you for that. Slip of the fingers, sorry.**

**DISCLIAMER- I don't own Harry Potter, its characters, nor do I make any money from this. It's purely a piece of fanfiction yadayadayada**

Is she okay?

Hermione doesn't ask this, even though it's the first sentence on the tip of her tongue. How could she ask such a rhetorical question to her best friend?

Is your sister okay? Are you okay, and your parents? You've all been through so much, and now this…

But she doesn't say it, just tries to portray it through her eyes as she hugs Ron. She can't read him anymore; she can only see the unhinged terror in his face, the way he can't seem to get a grip on anything, even though he's squeezing the breath out of her.

If he feels this way, imagine Harry.

Harry…

When Ron lets her go she sidesteps Pomfrey and walks towards the bed. It's dull in here, white yet dirty, it smells like blood and ethanol, the fumes making her stomach turn.

She's lying underneath the covers but Hermione can just see it already. The bruises around her throat, the cut on her lip, her eyes swollen shut.

What must be underneath the blanket? Even more bruises, and more blood, and more cuts, and more swollen bits of flesh that do everything they can to make her look ugly and blemished.

Maybe if she had been ugly this wouldn't have happened. So many what ifs that never amounted to anything. What if she hadn't been a Gryffindor, what if this house rivalry hadn't gotten so out of hand?

She reaches out to touch her lifeless hands, but she can't bear to feel them so still and deathly, so she puts her hand on Harry's shoulder instead.

You're breaking, and she's broken. Who's going to crack and split next? She doesn't say it, but it's on the tip of her tongue, along with everything else she just can't mention.

The Ministry comes the same day every Slytherin student is clothed in black.

They create a new law the moment they watch the body disappear underneath the ground. A spell misfired, hitting a comrade. Nobody knows who fired it. He had the suspicion it was Crabbe, but he didn't ask. What was the point? Nott was dead, everything else was insignificant.

Nobody was impressed by the new rule. Nobody complained either. Especially not when most of Slytherin house had been in the fight, including him.

Draco wipes a hand across his temple, drying the drops of water that had fallen from the tree above him.

Pansy is sniffing loudly. Even she has nothing to say today. Nobody from Slytherin has visited the Weasley girl. And no Gryffindor has shown up for the funeral.

But instead of these accidents quelling the fire, it just threw more coals onto it.

He doesn't know if he's okay with the war. He doesn't feel all that guilty about it either.

It's because of the Weasley brat that his best friend is in Azkaban. The first word out of her mouth had been Blaise's name. Everyone thought he was the criminal now.

Slytherin house knew better. But nobody would save Blaise. He knew the truth. He knew Blaise and Ginny had been having an affair. He knew it was because of this that a bunch of Slytherin boys decided to show him what happens to traitors. Blaise was only guilty of loving Potter's red brat. But he was guilty, none the less.

And Draco wouldn't tell.

"Each member of Gryffindor House will be paired together with a member of Slytherin house. The two students will then be apparated to a secluded, unnamed island. There they will be forced to live together, work together, and help each other for a duration of five months. You will not only be in charge of your own welfare, but that of your companion. Should any harm come to one student, their partner will be seen instantly as guilty of violence and/or neglect, and be charged appropriately."

The students buzzed with opinions, but the Minister of Magic continued on.

"You may see this as unfair punishment. But students, the fact is that the deaths of Theodore Nott and Ginevra Weasley were also unfair. But they happened because of a school rivalry that Dumbledore failed to quell. It is our job as the Ministry of Magic to squash any hint of danger to not only the school, but also the Wizarding World. Pairings will be decided by the school faculty based on the history of the two students. You cannot exchange your partner, nor can you skip this law. Think of it as a mandatory assignment. And may I repeat," His face grew grim "if any harm comes to your chosen partner, you will be held accountable."

Hermione couldn't pause to think. Her mind was racing with options and opinions, mapping out every detail she needed.

Pack clothes, pack books- can't do this!

"When I call your name, please step forward." Dumbledore's voice rings clearly throughout the Great Hall.

She can't breathe right now. Her heart is going at the speed of a racing firebolt. Her palms are sweating. She wipes them on her school robes.

"Neville Longbottom?"

Hermione looks at Neville. She can see he is just about to faint. Ron pushes him forward. Harry doesn't say a word.

Neville is led onstage by Filch. Even he doesn't seem to be enjoying this. Perhaps there was humanity in everyone.

"Millicent Bullstrode?"

Oh God, Neville. She doesn't say it. She can't. Hermione can only watch as Neville practically dissolves into sweat.

Neville and Bullstrode are led out the door. Nobody knows where they're going to. Nobody gets to say goodbye.

As the proceedings continue, Hermione watches her friends stand side by side with their enemies. She realizes every pairing is one boy and one girl. She supposes that would just make everything even more difficult. She thanks God that it means she won't get Pansy Parkinson.

"Harry Potter?" Dumbledore's voice quivers. Harry doesn't notice. He doesn't see, either. Just looks at the floor with blank, dead eyes. She wants to hug him, run to him like she'd done all the years before. But she can't. No one can.

"Pansy Parkinson?"

Hermione feels like flaking out. Even Harry looks a little startled. It's no secret Pansy had been in a relationship with Blaise. It's also no secret Pansy felt no remorse for Harry or Ginny.

The Slytherin girl climbs the stairs and stands next to Harry. Neither one looks at each other. They make quite an odd pair, Hermione thinks.

Both black haired, both green eyed, both blank and unseeing.

It doesn't occur to Hermione that maybe Pansy is feeling the same loss as Harry does.

When her name is called she has the overwhelming feeling to turn and run.

But she can't. She can only push and pull her legs, shuffle her feet, try and climb the steps with cement limbs.

She reaches her destination. She wants to scream. She can't.

"Draco Malfoy?"

It's now Ron who's screaming. It's Ron that's yelling and kicking, trying to get to her. It's Ron that's crying now, trying to convince Dumbledore that Hermione would die. Draco would kill her. Draco would…

She can't look at him, for the first time in her life. And he seems speechless, in shock, for the first time in his.

But when she manages a quick glance she can see he is not in shock. He's just nonchalant, cold as stone and just as hard. He doesn't even register her existence. She's grateful for that, at least.

She can hear a female crying. She thinks it might be Lavender, but she can taste the salty water sliding down her lips.

Why is she crying? It's because Ron is still screaming, because Harry is gone now, because Ginny is dead, and she probably won't finish her school year. She might not even turn eighteen. There are plenty of reasons to cry. But not enough for Hermione Granger. So she wipes her face a little too roughly, bites her tongue until her eyes stop leaking.

Filch comes to help her down but McGonagall gets to her first. Hermione was always her favourite student. She'd told her once they were so alike. Hermione took it as a compliment.

Through her hazy eyes she can see Malfoy already walking out the Great Hall.

She wants to say goodbye to Ron, but Dumbledore has already called his name. She doesn't have a chance to find out the name of his partner. Partner… She'll never be partners with Malfoy. How can she spend five months alone with the very reason of all her insecurities?

She can practically taste the salt from the waves as they lap at her bare feet.

Hermione is standing on the beach, waiting for the nausea to pass. She's always hated apparating.

She can hear Malfoy behind her, banging around in the little kitchen. The house isn't much, just an A-frame structure with two bedrooms, a bathroom, a living room and a kitchen. It's supposed to be her home for five months, but already she wants to walk into the ocean and drown.

The Ministry had stocked the pantry, transfigured utensils and furnished the house with basic living pieces. If they needed anything it was up to them to try and make it.

A door slams. She cringes. He hasn't said one word to her all day. In fact, he hasn't said one word to her all year, except for "Out of my way, mudblood," by the Potions classroom once.

He's changed. They all have, but Malfoy especially. At first she'd tried to reason with herself. It must have been hard for Slytherin's to return to post-war Hogwarts, feeling the embarrassment of knowing their parents were either dead or imprisoned or traitors to Voldemort.

Maybe that's why this war had gotten so out of hand… maybe every one of them had pent up emotions and frustrations that they had to release.

But did that excuse what had happened? Of course not.

Hermione watches the sea bubble around her feet. Waves lap at her ankles, and she buries her toes into the sand, trying to hold onto something, anything. She looks up then and sees the dark, red hue of sunset. Hermione has to close her eyes then, because she recognizes that colour hair, and she wonders if she'll ever see it again.

The days pass by slowly, lazily. They don't speak. It's unnerving her, making her hairs stand on edge. A quiet Malfoy is something she can't handle.

They come and go, avoiding each other like thrown knives. She spends the better half of her day underneath a palm tree with a book and a cup of ice tea. He spends his in the forest. He only gets home when she's in bed, ready to sleep.

Hermione doesn't know what he does in there. It's dark and strange, full of exotic animals and vivid plants. She's too scared to put her big toe in there. But either way, neither of them are ever really in the house.

It's been two weeks now of unaltered silence. Her books distract her, but only for a little while.

"I miss you…" She whispers to the blue sky, to the dark storm clouds travelling over her head.

"I miss you." She repeats it again; because it's the only real thing she has left to say.

It's raining and wet, the trees knocking against the roof.

He's dripping and tired, and everything else that can be equated to depression.

Draco thinks he misses Hogwarts. It's only a theory, but it makes sense. Hogwarts has always been the only sure, stable thing in his life.

He bangs the screen door closed. Its hinges cry out. They need to be taken care of. They're old, and weak, and rusted, and ugly. Just like him.

He thinks he'll oil them tomorrow. But then he realizes he can't, because she'll be here, and he can't stand to look at her.

Miss Perfect Priss. Never did anything wrong except for being born. Dirty and unstable, a freak of nature, a know-it-all, filthy little mudblood.

He'd wished it had been her instead of Weasley. He still did. He had dreams of it, visions almost. He'd wake up in a cold sweat, remembering the way she looked in her paper-thin dress from Fourth Year, the blue tinge of her lips, the stark contrast of her white skin to her dilated eyes, and most of all he'd remember his fingers wrapped around her muddy little throat, enjoying the fact that her lips were open but she couldn't speak. She'd never speak again.

He has the dream again tonight. It's still pitch black when he wakes up. He looks down at his clenched hand, flexes it.

He wonders how many minutes it would take for her to suffocate. How long would he have to touch her for? Just the sensation of her skin in his mind makes him shudder with disgust. But still, he lies back down against the pillow and dreams of his fingers around her throat, her mouth open in a silent cry, her eyes wide and brown, his fingers inside of her…

In the morning Draco wakes up and pretends he doesn't want to touch her.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N Hello again, thanks so much for the reviews/favourites/follows, means so much to me. **

**Special thanks to my beta kci47, AKA Krissy. Seriously go check out her stories, isn't she absolutely brilliant?**

**DISCLAIMER- I do not own Harry Potter, its characters or anything else in the fandom. I do however own a lampshade with various Dumbledore quotes scribbled on it.**

Hermione watches him from the corner of her eye.

He's bent over by the front door, a jar of oil on the floor next to him.

It's strange, being in the same room as him. She doesn't quite know what to say. So she doesn't say anything, like always.

Instead she puts the kettle on to boil.

He's busy fixing the door hinges. She wonders if it's because he doesn't want her to know when he gets home at night.

She laughs inwardly. It sounds as if they were an old married couple.

When Hermione has a cup of tea in her left hand and a book in her right she goes outside towards her usual palm tree.

It's shady and cool. The sand is still damp from the storm last night. It cools her down. The humidity is stifling. She has to change positions numerous times to unstick her dress.

She misses Harry and Ron. But she stops herself from thinking any more. It's too late to think about those things. They'd been through a war together. They would get through this.

Hermione was no stranger to loss.

After the war she had found her parents again. But they couldn't find her. She'd tried different spells, memory charms, every incantation that could possibly work. She went from one person to another trying to find someone who could help her. But no one managed to bring her back to her parents' life.

She was simply erased from their memories. They wouldn't accept her into their lives either. To be honest she would have had trouble believing her story as well, had it been under different circumstances.

But now it was done, finished.

She has no parents, and no family. She'd made sure of it before the war. She didn't want anyone dying because of her. Obliviate had worked. A little too well.

Hermione stretches out along the sand. She hikes her dress up to her thighs, feeling the cool sea breeze caress her skin. This weather is hideous, she decides. She can't breathe, can't think. Eventually she closes her book, because her eyes are starting to drift shut.

When the hinges are fixed and silent, Draco steps outside to clean his hands in the outdoor sink. He glances at her while he's washing. Granger is sleeping under the palm tree in the cool shade. Her dress has been pulled up. He stares at the exposed flesh of her legs. It makes his skin crawl.

Her lips are moving but he can't make out what she's saying. He wishes he could knock her out, drag her into the ocean and watch her sink. But he can't, because if she's harmed he'll have to be punished. He doesn't want to end up in the cell next door to Father.

Draco shakes the water off his fingers. He walks a little closer to her. She's still fast asleep, her head rolling from her shoulder to the tree trunk and back again. She's mumbling now. He wants to hear her clearly.

Hermione is on a beach at sunset. She can't decide if it's the same one in real life, but it's definitely a beach.

She feels funny, strange inside. Like someone punched her in the stomach, and then massaged it. She rubs her thighs together, trying to still the little cramps in her abdomen.

Out of nowhere she sees Ginny walking towards her. The redhead is smiling at her, her face covered in purple patches of bruises.

Hermione calls to her but Ginny continues walking, silently.

She doesn't reach Hermione though. She turns sharply and starts walking towards the ocean.  
"Ginny, please don't leave!" Hermione cries, stretching a hand out towards her friend. But Ginny has already entered the water.

No matter how hard she tries, Hermione can't get up, can't even move. She's frozen in place, forced to watch as Ginny's head disappears under water.

And then nothing.

The sea is still again except for the motion of the waves.

She wants to scream. But she can't even make a noise anymore. All she wants to do is wake up, get out of this nightmare.

And suddenly Malfoy is next to her, standing over her.

She doesn't want him here, but the cramping in her stomach suddenly turns into soaring. She feels like there's a bird fluttering inside her rib cage, its wings gliding along her bones.

It's him. He's making it better.

It's only a dream, she thinks, it's just a figment of my imagination.

But still, if it's her dream she has to make it better.

The bird is starting to get frustrated. Its wings are starting to scratch her.

Malfoy doesn't say anything, just stares.

She opens her mouth, tries to say something.

"Malfoy please!"

Every bit of her is burning, turning her into black ashes. She's disappearing into nothing, melting into the foggy blackness that swirls beneath her eyelids.

She can't see, only feel, and it's heightened tenfold just by his presence.

"Please what, Granger?"

"Please." Her hands grip the beach sand, desperately trying to latch onto something, anything other than his body "Please touch me…"

It slips out as if it doesn't even belong to her voice. But she's aching all over for something to ease the loneliness she's felt this year.

He stares at her stoically. She thinks he's going to turn and walk away, leave her writhing in pain on the scratchy sand.

But he doesn't. He stays.

She wants to feel him, just a finger on her cheek, a palm on her shoulder.

He slides down next to her. When he places a hand on her waist she shivers.

She realizes that she needs to feel his skin against hers. Her body is frozen in place, and she seems to have used up all her words because as much as she tries to speak it just ends up being a silent gasp.

He seems to understand, though. The dream Malfoy actually wants to help her.

Maybe he's just as lonely as she is.

Malfoy lets go of her waist and moves his hand to her thigh. She parts her legs for him as he rubs his palm along her skin.

Her entire body starts to quiver. Nobody has ever made her feel like this. The bird is breaking free slowly.

She wants more than just these gentle caresses, though.

Her eyes plead with him.

"Do you want me to kiss you, Granger?"

His voice is like the sweetest melted chocolate, sliding down along her body.

"No," she manages to whisper hoarsely. It's the truth. She doesn't want that. She just wants his skin to touch her.

"What do you want?"

"I need y-your hand." She stutters, her fingers twisting in the sand, grasping onto the grains of ground.

Malfoy wants the same thing. She can feel it in his urgency to get to her knickers. He slides his thumb down them.

"You're wet," he states, pushing the cotton fabric to the side.

Then he's touching her in just the right place. Her eyes close, her toes curl.

It's a new experience, having someone else touch her like this. It's not an experience she wants to forget.

Malfoy pushes against her clit. She jumps a bit. He chuckles.

"Oh!" It comes out like a strangled moan, not at all sexy or seductive, but she doesn't care. She doesn't even care that it's Malfoy.

And when he pushes a finger into her she forgets to breathe.

"A virgin?" He moves his finger around gently. "I thought so." He plunges it back in, a little more roughly.

It makes her cringe a bit. He's inserting another one now, forcing her open.

Hermione gasps, digging her feet into the ground. She shuts her eyes and sees fireworks going off. Was it like this in real life? Probably not, but it doesn't matter now, she thinks, biting her lip.

Malfoy is working her faster now, the pad of his thumb rubbing firmly against her.

"Mal-alfoy!" Hermione quivers. Her hand goes to clutch his shoulder.

She's so close to the end she can feel it.

"Are you going to cum, Granger?"

"Oh Merlin!" Her head goes back. "It's so close!"

"Good," he says. Then he pulls his fingers out of her and wipes them on her dress. Her eyes shoot open and her stomach drops as the intense feeling suddenly comes crashing to a halt.

Malfoy sneers at her, gets up and walks away.

That's when the dream ends, and she suddenly wakes in a strangled cry.

Draco leans against a tree, taking in a deep, ragged breath.

He can't close his eyes because then he'll just see her again. He's never wanted to strangle her more. He rubs at his eyes, as if trying to erase his memories.

It doesn't work, though. He can still smell her on his fingers.

She'd begged him, she was so close, and he'd walked away.

Draco shakes his head, collapsing to the ground. Did she think it was just a dream? Maybe, hopefully. He can't have the mudblood think he actually wants her. He doesn't know why he did it. Maybe he just wanted to see her weak and in pain. That's why he'd walked away.

"It won't happen again." He promises himself. Then he brings his fingers to his mouth and tastes her.

Hermione lies on the couch in the cramped living door. The front door is propped open and a cool breeze blows through the house.

She doesn't want to fall asleep again. If she does she might have another dream.

It was a complete piece of confusion. All of it.

Why Malfoy? Is it because she's stuck with him? Because no other man she knows would have walked away just to make her suffer? Or maybe it's because they're more alike than she cares to admit.

Both are alone, no matter how many friends they have. She has no family, neither does he. No one understands her. No one understands him. She doesn't want to understand him.

But still, Hermione isn't the type of person to hold a grudge. She wishes it weren't Malfoy here. If it had been any other Slytherin they might actually become friends.

But not Malfoy. Never Malfoy…

She's still on the couch when he comes in. He's surprised; she can see it in his face.

He isn't used to her being here, in front of him. It even startles her a bit when she wishes they were still fourth years, easily throwing insults at each other. Now it's just animosity. Mostly from his part, of course.

"It's better now." She gestures to the door. He doesn't reply, just stands there with the look on his face that suggests she doesn't belong here.

She picks at her cotton shirt, trying to think of something to say. Maybe she shouldn't say anything. She's been good at that lately.

"What're you doing here, Granger?"

Hermione jumps a bit. It's something in his voice that makes her suddenly unsure of her safety. For all the childish hate he has for her he's never sounded like this before. It's like he truly abhors her. Not because she's a muggle-born, or top of the class, or Harry Potter's best friend. It's like he can't stand any of her, inside and out.

This is complete bullocks, since he doesn't even know her.

"I live here." She finally manages to say, "It's my house too."

He drags a hand across his face. She can see it's dirty and bruised. She's never seen him dirty in all her life.

"I thought we had an agreement."

Hermione furrows her brow "Wha-"

"You're not supposed to be here when I come home, mudblood."

She starts to get a little annoyed at his brazen attitude. "I have just as much a right to be here as you do, Malfoy. And I never agreed to anything," she shoots back.

"I thought I made it perfectly clear I don't want to be in the same room as you, Granger."

"Oh? And when was that?" She rises from the couch, hands on hips. Hermione is furious.

He takes a menacing step forward.

"Look, Malfoy," she starts again, trying to stifle the oncoming argument, "I know you don't like me. And I certainly don't want to have a picnic with you either. But like it or not," she shrugs her shoulders, "we're stuck here for four and a half months."

He doesn't reply, just stands there with a stone look on his pale face.

"So there's no reason we can't be civil," she finishes. "Right?"

Malfoy takes three big steps and he's right in front of her, breathing down onto her face. She has to crane her neck to look him in the eye.

"We will _never_ be friends, Granger," he snarls. "So do me a favour and stop fucking pretending that we are."

We're more alike than you think, Malfoy. She wants to say it. She wants to tell him she understands why he's mad at everyone and everything. She wants to tell him she understands the loss that he's feeling, that nobody is perfect, not even Harry, that after all the death and destruction she's finally ready to let go of their past differences and at least act cordial to him.

But she doesn't, because what's the point? He'll probably push her away, say he's nothing like her, that he's pure and she's vile, that he's a Slytherin and she's a Gryffindor, that she can't ever understand what he's been through, and that the last thing he wants is her pity.

So she closes her mouth and sits back down on the couch. He stands over her for a moment, seemingly surprised she's given up without trying the infamous Granger fight.

Then he turns on his heel and strides out the door again. Hermione lies back, trying to stop her heart from exploding out of her chest.

When Draco stumbles into the house again he sees her lying on the couch, talking in her sleep.

He stops to watch her dreaming. She's twisting her hands in the material of her t-shirt; her nails are digging into her exposed skin like her teeth are digging into her bottom lip.

He wants to- he doesn't even know what. He's never felt this violent before. But Granger makes him want to use his hands and break. He wants to break her like he's been broken.

He wants her to cry, throw things around, sink to the floor and convince herself she's completely alone, just like him.

He wants her to admit they're more alike than she thinks. That just like him she's messed up too, that she has no family left, and that no one understands her, that her body may be healthy but her mind never will be, just like his. Not after the war. Not ever again. He wants her to break and he wants to watch it happen.

So when she's deep in her dreams, screaming for him to touch her, he doesn't. He leaves her on the couch writhing in pain. He doesn't help her.

Because it's a war, and this time there's nothing left to break inside of him. This time he'll win.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N Thank you so much for the reviews, and favourites, and follows, and reads and –takes deep breath- just thanks so much. Big digital cookie for my beta kci47; without her I'd look like a grammatically challenged idiot.**

**DISLCAIMER- Sadly I own no part in the Magical universe created by the Queen Rowling herself. I do own a cheap replica of the Mona Lisa, though. Does that count for something? *crickets chirp* never mind, goodbye.**

Hermione's never been very good with numbers. That's why Arithmancy is her favourite subject at Hogwarts. Transfiguration, Charms, Potions- she's good at that stuff. She can concoct most of the potions in her textbook blindfolded. She can transfigure a bird cage into a prison cell with a flick of her wrist and she can charm her way through a siege of Slytherin students. But Arithmancy challenges her unlike the other classes. With Arithmancy she has to think about each question hard and long, go over them again and again, repeatedly chewing her quill in frustration until it snaps. Harry and Ron couldn't understand her love of it simply because it was _hard_.

While she's got her feet buried in the sand to her ankles, as the tide slowly starts to come in, Hermione realizes Arithmancy is very much like Malfoy.

Unlike his peers, she doesn't understand him. Unlike every other male schoolmate, he's never been simple for her to grasp.

There's the one side, the undeniably male side, which lives for Quidditch and models and overdoses of firewhiskey and delicacies.

Then there's the other side, the side she hasn't seen often. The studious side, where he sits in the library for the better half of the day, staying in amongst the musty shelves whilst she's already packed up and off to the Common room. There's the competitive side, where no matter how high he is in class he constantly has to be better than her.

Hermione had thought he might have changed after the war, but he'd become worse.

And now she sees a brand new piece to his puzzle that just confounds her even more. The dark side, the solitary hours he spends alone, not just here with her but back at Hogwarts as well.

He didn't talk much in the Great Hall during supper and it's just minimalized even more so now that he has her for company.

It'd been three days since he'd confronted her in the living room. She's keen to move on and forget about it, mostly because it's far too lonely here for her.

She's used to being the one left out of conversations but she's been constantly surrounded by boisterous boys since her early adolescence.

A part of Hermione wishes Malfoy was a bit more loud and rough and insulting, because maybe then she wouldn't feel so strange.

But he's not. He doesn't talk to her, not even to mock her, and he never looks at her, or feigns awareness that she's even in the same room, on the same island, in the same world.

The waves come to her feet, wetting her toes and taking bits of sand with them as they're pulled back into the rough waters.

The sky is dark and she wonders if there'll be another storm tonight.

Weather is a tricky thing on the island. She's now begun to grasp that although the sweat may pour down her in the day, at night the roof will be hounded with cold raindrops, sometimes even hail.

She hopes Malfoy won't be there. Usually she's knocked out by the time he makes his way back, but lately he's not been coming in at all. She's not worried, though. Why should she be? They're not friends, just like he'd said, so why should she pretend otherwise?

She awakens with a start to find the bottom half of her shorts sopping wet from the water. The tide is definitely coming in at a fast pace, because now the waves are lapping at her wrists instead of her ankles.

To make matters worse, as soon as she's up the clouds open.

Rain screams down from the sky and pummels her. On the island there's no drizzle, no light droplets or summer showers. When it rains it doesn't pour, it doesn't storm, it punches everything it comes in contact with.

Beneath the dripping wet exterior she's starting to worry about Malfoy. It's against her better judgment but she does anyway. After all, if he gets hit by a falling tree branch or succumbs to pneumonia the Ministry will have her in shackles, regardless of the culprits being Mother Nature and Malfoy's stupidity.

So she grabs the lone umbrella from the rack by the front door and hikes on her gumboots. Then she turns and, in spite of the warning voice in her head, steps into the thicket of bush and moss.

It's dark in the forest. The few lights that manage to pierce the thicket belong to bolts of electricity currently aimed at the tallest thing in sight. Hermione almost trips over a root. She stumbles into a tree, then a hedge, then over a log, then into a snake. Thank God it's a small boa constrictor, and quite ignorant of her presence.

Is Malfoy really worth this? Of course not. Is her freedom? Definitely.

She wants to shout for him but she realizes he'll probably just sidestep her path and leave her wandering aimlessly.

Thunder cracks, the sound rebounding in the enclosure of the treetops.

It's followed by the shrill screams of a Nightjar, and the howling of the wind.

She's a bit terrified really. Actually, scratch that, she's bloody terrified. She keeps tripping over the damned ground, and Malfoy is nowhere in sight.

She wishes for her wand now. The Ministry had taken away their only protection, so if they couldn't do wandless magic they were buggered.

She wishes for the use of Lumos again. Her fingers are itching to wrap around the familiar wood. She stubs her foot against a rock and falls backwards. She's flailing her arms around wildly, trying to resurrect some kind of balance, when a hand grabs her by her hair.

"Ow!" She shrieks, trying to pry the fingers out of her curls.

Warm air tickles the nape of her neck. She regains her footing but the hand just pulls her hair harder.

"Don't follow me," he hisses, snapping her head backwards. "Or you might not be so lucky next time."

Hermione clenches her hand around his fingers but they're like statues, glued to her.

"Oh how unfortunate," she digs her nails into his wrist, "that you won't be here to pull my scalp off my skull!"

He lets her go with a hard shove and she falls on the ground with a thud, her face a few inches from the rock.

"You're going to break your neck just now, Granger. Get out of here."

Hermione lies still, her heart thudding in her head. She waits until she can't see him anymore, then she gets up and chokes. What is wrong with him, she keeps thinking. Why is he so hard and evil, and untouchable? Why does he constantly want to hurt her, why does he feel so threatened by her presence? Is it so wrong that she wants to make sure he isn't lying in a ditch with a broken leg?

When a lightning bolt strikes the tree a few feet away from her she turns and runs.

She hopes Malfoy won't be there.

Draco doesn't dream anymore. He can't remember the last time he's woken up and looked forward to life.

He's supposed to, though. After all, he is seventeen, he's almost finished school. He has a promising future lined up with the Ministry if he can pull a few strings together; he has a mansion and millions of Galleons sitting in Gringotts. He should be bloody excited.

But the only thing he can think about now is how he has a father sitting in prison and a mother who refuses to look at him. The only things he can see at night are the faces floating around his head, of the people he had to kill and torture and hunt down. He'd done the dirty jobs, simply because the Dark Lord knew he abhorred them.

He'd been a dog, forced to take care of the scraps the other Death Eaters left behind. The worst was when they'd gotten hold of a family of Muggles.

Draco remembers that day clearly. He remembers having to come in after the work was finished, how he'd had to scrub at the floors, wipe down the walls, how he'd had to pick up the bits of flesh still stuck to the tiles and cart them off to the dumpsters.

He feels his skin prickle at the memory. Shaking his head, Draco lies back against the sheets and stares at the grey ceiling. He can hear Granger's light snores through the thin walls. She's probably soundly asleep, with bright pictures and unfamiliar faces floating behind her eyelids. She'll be like this for hours, until the sun rises approximately half way up and straight onto her face.

He sighs, turns over, feels the jealousy crawl up his spine and wrap around his neck, choking him. Granger doesn't see dead faces, Granger doesn't remember torture or blood or pieces of someone's body being thrown back and forth between the Malfoy hounds as if it were a game.

Granger is peaceful and calm, and pragmatic and sane. He wants to be like that again, but he can't. He won't ever be the same way again.

So he closes his mind and imagines her cold and dead and completely gone, just like him.

Her fingers reach for it, brush against the cool glass, trying to grab something they cannot reach. She's been trying to get the Jam down for exactly eleven minutes now. Her fingers can't quite reach the high ledge, even though she's tiptoeing on the counter stool.

"Sod it," she finally mutters, clambering down onto the floor again. She holds eye contact with the offending spread for a few moments, daring it to drop down and break.

_Wingardium Leviosa!_

The jar doesn't move. She pushes her mind harder but she's obviously not very talented with wandless magic.

"Sod it," Hermione repeats.

She spins at the sound of thumps on the stairwell, and comes face to face with Malfoy, who appears to be in a worse mood than yesterday.

She refuses to greet him; instead she takes in his wayward hair and circled eyes, the fact that his shirt is misbuttoned and his hands are shaking.

Hermione stands off to the side, trying to look inconspicuous as he makes his morning coffee.

She jumps a bit when he suddenly turns and snaps at her, "What in the bloody hell are _you_ looking at?"

She shakes her head slowly, wondering what on earth was wrong with him.

Hermione is used to mannish Draco, she's used to studious Draco, loner Draco, coward Draco, competitive Draco, dark Draco -but she's never been witness to the nervous variety before.

Draco stumbles out the door and into the forest again, nearly connecting with a tree branch as he fumbles through the thicket of leaves and hedges.

He reaches his usual spot and keeps going. He's trying to run away from that damned house and that damned mudblood. He finally collapses against an overturned stump, ignoring the twigs sticking into his backbone. He folds into himself, grabbing at his hair and pulling, trying to stop his mind from turning.

He wants to yell, scream, kill something. He wants the ground to open and swallow him. He wants to disappear and pretend it never happened, not to him.

How could someone like him still somehow create a dream? A happy dream, no less. And how in Merlin's name could he somehow put her in it?

Because this morning, when Draco Malfoy woke up, the first thing he saw in his mind was Granger, smiling.

And for a split second, while he lay in his tousled blankets, for just one, millisecond of a moment, he actually looked forward to life.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N Hello everyone! Sorry it took so long to update, was a bit busy with school stuff. Anyway, hope you guys enjoy it!**

**Thanks to everyone who has kept on reading, your patience is really appreciated. Special, big thanks to my amazing beta, kci47 (Krissy) who has helped me a lot with this story.**

**DISLCAIMER- Don't own it, so don't sue.**

He stares at his mirrored reflection, taking in the way his hair looks, slicked against his skull; the way his eyes don't sparkle, just shine with greyness and a dormant fury. His facial features, his sharp chin, his thin lips: they makes him giddy and perplexed and sick.

He looks just like his father. Draco braces his palm against his reflection's face. He doesn't want to, doesn't need to think about his family right now.

All his life he's wanted nothing more than to be Lucius Malfoy. To be the epitome of his father, to be exactly like him, from head to toe, from mind to heart. But now that little insecure boy inside him, the one that doted on the icy, abusive serpent all his adolescent life, that boy was long gone.

All his life Draco had wanted to be his father. Now all he wants is to smash every mirror in the world.

The soles of her feet are icy against the old floorboards. With every step the ancient flooring creaks beneath her weight.

"Why am I doing this?" she asks herself, even so moving closer towards his door. It's cracked open a bit, just enough to allow her access without him waking.

She reaches the doorframe and pauses. He'd woken her from her peaceful dreams. One minute Hermione was eating those delicious lady fingers she'd loved as a child and the next minute she was bolting upright because of the psychotic screaming from next door.

He isn't screaming anymore, but she's starting to think he's having a seizure, the way his entire body is shaking and sweating and shivering and- Hermione has to make sure he's alright. There's a large dosage of loathing inside her for this man, but anxiety too, because Hermione knows pain.

Not the physical agony of impact, or the slow clenching of poisons. She knows the inner pain, of emotional torture and lead weights that drop, like rain, onto your mind until it's nothing but black and solitary silence. She realizes this is the pain Malfoy is suffering. And although he treats her like a poisonous snake,

Hermione needs to help him, so that maybe she can close her eyes and feel a bit more at peace.

She is selfish. But she has to be. She needs to be.

He opens his mouth and starts muttering.

She can't take it anymore, so she paces over to the bedside and pushes at his shoulder with her index finger.

His voice is muffled by the pillows, so she pushes him again, a little harder.

It does the trick and he sits up, ramrod straight, only his eyes only betraying the sudden shock and lingering pain of his dreams for a second before they narrow in her direction.

"Are you alright?" She backs away a few steps from him. She won't test this new Malfoy, this post-war Malfoy.

"Get. Out." His jaw clenches. Hermione wipes a hand across her brow. He's still shuddering. She watches the muscles in his arm spasm as they try to hold him upright. He looks absolutely weak, and Hermione feels pity.

"Was it your mother?" She tries again, "I heard you calling her." Hermione pauses, watches his expression turn from stone to realization.

"If you need someone to talk to…" she finishes, her tongue turning to lead.

He gets out of bed and jabs a finger in the direction of the door. "I said get out, Granger."

"I'm only trying to help!" She teeters on the verge of frustration, her forehead knotted. She can't deal with him anymore, not like she used to. It was like tearing through a military camp with a one-man army. "I know about your mother, Malfoy. I mean, I know about St Mungo's; and I know you loath me and we're on two entirely different continents mentally, but I'm just trying to-"

It happens so suddenly that she can't rebound. She touches her cheek, presses against the warm, red handprint gingerly. She can only stand in shock, slowly registering the fact that he'd hit her, actually hit her. And it isn't just that, it really isn't. It's the fact that she's never wanted to feel it again. Because the last person to slap her was Bellatrix- she shudders- and after the slap Hermione can only remember terror.

She's tried so hard to forget. She's tried to wipe her memory of the entire event. The scar on her arm has healed, but she can still trace the letters, feel and remember where they were cut into her arm, where they branded her like she was some sheep at an auction.

She removes her hand when she feels the welt start to appear beneath her fingertips and swell. It stings.

He doesn't look at her, but if he does she doesn't see it. All she sees is white fury, all she feels is anger ping-ponging down her spine. Hermione is sick and tired of being an emotional punching bag, tired of being mentally beaten around and made to feel worthless by him, by everyone, all her life. She's done with sitting around and letting him walk all over her, act as if she's inferior.

The first thing to cross her mind is third year- and how hard she'd slapped him that day. The second thing is how much more she hates him now.

Then she charges at him, throws him to the ground on impact and they thump against the hard floors of the little cottage as her fingers rake down his cheek.

She doesn't stop until his warm blood pools beneath her nails, and Hermione looks at the crimson liquid and sees they have the same blood after all.

It's been hours, but still she doesn't move. Her legs are locked around his midsection like steel bars. He'd tried to pry them off but soon her arms had clenched around him as well, so now he's just lying against the cold floor with her on top of him. He thinks she's sleeping. Maybe she fainted.

Draco can feel the unsteady thrumming of her chest against his. He tries to get up but he can only manage to prop himself against the wall.

He tries to ignore the sticky, dried mess on his face, or the jolting pain by his ribs. He's certainly worse for wear than she is.

He could have beaten her unconscious; he could have thrown her off him. Instead he'd lay there in shock as she ripped at his skin and pummelled his chest, screaming at him until his ears rang.

From what he can see, Granger is majorly unharmed besides the bruises on her arms where he'd tried to tear her off of him.

Her head lolls to the side of his neck. He tries not to look, tries to distract himself by naming all of his relatives. Eventually he runs out of family, and his eyes swivel down to stare at her. Her left cheek is swollen, purple and pink combined with his handprint.

He doesn't want to think about how much Granger's face reminds him of his mother's. How many times in his childhood had he seen these markings on her? How many times had he promised himself, had he promised her, that he would never lay a hand on a woman?

Granger's lips crack open in a low moan. He jerks his eyes up to the dark ceiling. He feels anger when he stares at her, frustration and guilt, and longing- he might as well admit there's some of that too.

But above all he feels cold and disturbed. All his life he'd wanted to be his father. But maybe he had been him all along.

"Malfoy let go of me!"

Hermione barely registers the pain in her knuckles or the slight numbness in her face. All she feels is him, and the urge to throw up her dinner.

"I'm _not_ holding you." He hisses each syllable, pushing at her locked limbs.

Oh. She carefully unwinds herself from him, one stiff muscle at a time, until she falls back against the floor in relief.

It's only then that she remembers last night. A part of her wants to apologize, but for what? For defending herself? For giving him what he deserves?

No. For becoming someone she'd promised she wouldn't become.

Hermione had never wanted to be the Gryffindor that started a violent fight with a Slytherin. She wanted the stupid house war to end.

But now she could understand. Now she could see why her peers had done it, why they'd started the whole mess.

Because they were tired of being bullied, tired of being punished by the Slytherins.

But how had she become the bully? How had she become the punisher?  
Trust Malfoy to get under her skin. Malfoy…

Hermione's eyes flicker up at him from beneath the tangle of brown hair. Swollen, bloody, purple, ugly bits of open flesh, blond hair stuck to his forehead.

She looks down at her hands. Pink, not from exertion, but from blood.

Hermione doesn't make it to the bathroom before she gets sick.

She's busy washing the blood out of her sweater when she hears the knocking.

Three thumps against the door, that's all it takes for her to come thundering to a sudden halt. She really doesn't want to know who's behind the wooden barrier, but the knocking grows impatient and Hermione makes a slow journey to the door handle.

It's a sigh of relief- and confusion- when she sees Mr Perkins, an old, familiar face peering down at her.

"Hello Miss Granger," he says, looking around absently.

"Mr Perkins? What are you doing here?" She glances over his shoulder. "I mean I hardly expected to see you here, of all people."

"Yes, well." He stares back at her. "The Ministry assigned me to your case. Actually Arthur Weasley managed to convince them to allow me the duty of 'checking up on you' as they called it." He rubs at his forehead. "And by the looks of it I appear to be late for the job."

Hermione turns her head away from him.

So the Ministry is checking up on the students. It must be her dumb luck they sent Perkins today.

"Well, Miss Granger, that doesn't look like a mark left by a friend, now does it? Where is Mr Malfoy?" Perkins pushes the door open and marches in.

"I fell down the stairs." She mumbles.

"And into a hand? That's a distinctive mark, Miss Granger. I need to see your partner, I'm afraid."

"Well I can't help you. He's in the forest somewhere." His eyebrow rises. "He goes off there every day, doing Merlin knows what."

If Perkins sees Malfoy she might as well lock _herself _up.

She has a bruise. Malfoy has multiple, along with cuts and abrasions and a face half scratched to obscurity.

"Maybe if you come back later?" she tries.

"You act as though Apparating such a long distance is an enjoyable task, Miss Granger." He sighs, flicking his gaze to the brown wristwatch on his arm. "I need to see Mr Malfoy in order to complete my report."

"Your report? I didn't realize the Ministry was making reports."

"Indeed."

She wonders if he's going to spend the night camping on the beach with his tent.

She hopes not. She never wants to see that thing again. Too many memories and mostly painful ones at that.

"Can I get you some tea? A sandwich maybe?"

Perkins nods at her.

Hermione puts the kettle on, praying to God that Malfoy gets knocked unconscious until Perkins is back in London.

She spoons sugar into the cups, absently glancing out the window every five seconds. She hasn't seen Perkins since- she can't even remember when. She can't recall him being at the post-war ceremony, but she had been otherwise occupied back then.

What reports are the Ministry waiting for? Probably on the students' welfare, she presumes. At least it gives her a tinge of relief knowing someone was also checking up on her friends.

Hermione carries the tea tray to the living room where Perkins is perched on the edge of the couch, surveying his surroundings.

"Not much, is it?" she jokes.

He shrugs. The war has definitely aged him, she thinks. She wonders why Mr Weasley had his friend check on her instead of Ron or Harry. Most probably because she was stranded with a war criminal.

Malfoy had been pardoned of his crimes, along with Narcissa, because of his mother's help with Harry.

She'd never get to thank the woman for that. Hermione can't say she's all that put out by the blonde woman's insanity. She was carted off to St Mungo's after attacking Lucius Malfoy in his prison cell. Apparently she almost ripped off his ear with her teeth. But then again the Daily Prophet was known to exaggerate.

Either way, Hermione would always be grateful. If it wasn't for Narcissa Malfoy, Harry would be dead.

But that doesn't mean she owes Draco Malfoy a damned thing.

"So can I ask a question?"

"So long as it doesn't bridge protocol, Miss Granger, you may ask away."

Hermione grips her tea cup and blows on the surface. She sets it down onto the coffee table again and clears her throat.

"Strictly on a curious basis."

"Yes?"

"Are there other Ministry workers who are checking up on students, such as yourself?"

"Of course. One worker per pair, chosen by rank according to the seriousness of a pairing."

"So, say for Neville and Millicent Bullstrode, the Ministry worker assigned to their case isn't very high ranking?"

"No, a very low rank is assigned to a very low risk pairing. And for Harry and Miss Parkinson, a senior worker of the Ministry is involved in their check-up."

Hermione takes a sip of tea, "And I take it because you're a high ranking member of the Ministry, my pairing is somewhat serious."

"Somewhat, yes."

"Mr Perkins, you don't, by any chance, know who Ron was assigned to?"

"I do, but the information we hand out to you students is selective, and I cannot disclose any names."

She sits back against the chair and chews her lip. She wonders if Perkins will catch onto her next question. She hopes not but it's worth the risk. She has to know.

"So, another question- strictly curiosity, again- if one of the Ministry officials were to find a student severely bruised or cut or beaten or what have you-" Perkins lifts an eyebrow, "what would the Ministry do?"

"Well, and this is off the record, it depends on the severity."

Malfoy's face looked awfully above severe.

"Say the student has clearly been beaten or clawed at or something, what then?"

"Then we would assign a longer confinement- it is, after all, the best punishment."

"Wouldn't that put the one student in danger, though?"

"The point of this whole thing, Miss Granger, is to have both parties come to an understanding. If someone decides to push around their partner, on the one hand they have a life imprisonment in Azkaban, on the other they have an unending cycle of imprisonment on the island."

"That's a bit unfair for the innocent party."

Perkins relaxes back. "Life is unfair. The sooner students at Hogwarts learn this, the sooner the school will be back to normal."  
It'll never be back to normal, she thinks. Maybe the Ministry knows it too.

Draco fumbles with the latches on the screen door, eventually managing to swing it open. It doesn't squeak anymore. He's made sure of that.

As soon as he pushes the blasted thing open a pair of hands shoves at his chest.

"What the fu-"

Granger slams her hand over his mouth. He winces at the contact against his cuts.

She stares mutely at the door for a moment, her eyes alert. Then she turns to him again and whispers, "We need to talk. Quietly." She removes her hand and wipes it across her skirt. He pretends not to notice.

"What do you want?" he asks, not even trying to lower his voice.

Her eyes dart nervously to the door again and then back at him, pleadingly.

"Look, Granger, I don't have time for you and your conscience." He makes for the door.

"I wasn't going to apologize, Malfoy," she states, pressing herself firmly against the entrance, blocking his path.

"And I concur, now move."

"Okay, look," she rubs at her temple, "We have a visitor. And if this visitor sees you like this we're going to be stuck together for an incredibly long duration, alright?"

He feels himself slowly riling in agitation. Draco has had a long day, a bloody long day, and there's nothing that he wants more than a hot bath and a warm bed. Granger is slowly working herself towards another bruised cheek if she keeps on. He knows that's just frustration talking. He doesn't want to touch her again if he can help it.

"Granger, if you're going to pussyfoot around the subject I'd prefer to just go back into the forest."

She holds her hand out, craning her head slowly into the doorway.

"Just hang on five seconds," she says, and then darts inside.

He leans against the wall and, for the millionth time, presses his fingers against his face. Marked by Granger, he thinks. It's ironic, and not at all amusing.

Draco counts to twenty, about to march in anyway, when she slips out again.

"Okay, he's in the bathroom. I need you to hurry up," she snaps.

"To fucking where?" he shoots back.

She takes a deep breath, sneaking furtive glances at the stairway.

Granger grabs his left wrist and yanks him away from the wall, "To my bedroom."

He trips through the front door.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N Thank you for the reads and reviews, means so much for me. Thank you to my beta KCI47 AKA Krissy, you've really helped improve my writing.**

**DISCLAIMER- I don't own anything.**

Hermione presses the cool glass into Malfoy's open palm.

He holds it up into the light and flushes.

"It's Essence of Dittany," she explains, coolly.

They're in her bedroom, trying to find a way to disguise his cuts before Perkin's sees them.

Malfoy jerks his gaze away from the familiar, brown liquid.

"I know what it is." He folds his fingers around the potion and presses it against his body.

Hermione senses he's used it before. She supposes it's a familiar tool to Death Eaters.

"Where'd you get this?"  
"I hid it in my coat pocket."

The potion is already halfway finished. On their Horcrux hunt, Hermione used the Essence numerous times. Not one of them had escaped wounds. It's her least favourite potion. She doesn't recall a single moment she's enjoyed using it. Not when Ron got splinched, not on the lacerations' on her arm.

She actually feels a sense of betrayal at allowing Malfoy to use it. It had belonged to her, Harry and Ron. It had kept them alive. Malfoy doesn't deserve it. But if it means saving her months of insanity, Hermione is more than willing.

"I presume you know how to use it?"

Malfoy glares at her instantly. Hermione sighs and sits on the bed while he walks over to her little vanity table.

She doesn't hate him, even though he probably thinks she does.

Last night Hermione had really thought he was the worst person she'd ever met. But after calming down, she realized that Malfoy isn't bad enough for her to hate, not really.

Truth is, Hermione hasn't hated him since Third Year.

She had been thirteen. Her emotions were all over the place.

In First Year she hardly knew him; in Second she'd been too innocent to hate him. In Fourth Year, Hermione had been too distracted, and in Fifth she had built up a sense of pragmatism and realized Malfoy was nothing more than an insecure, petulant boy.

In Sixth Year she had even gone so far as to feel sorry for him… right up until Dumbledore, of course.

And when Hermione was fighting off Snatchers and imminent death, she realized she was far too busy to feel anything for Malfoy except disgust.

She watches him squeeze a fat, brown drop onto his left cheek. Hermione turns away and stares at the closed door.

She doesn't hate him. At least, not yet.

Draco puts the glass vial down on the table and looks up fleetingly to find his face is marred by thick pink stripes, clearly revealing week old wounds that were well into healing.

He touches one of the long strips of tender skin. It's shiny and soft, but it doesn't hurt when he presses his fingers into it.

"Works wonders, doesn't it?"

He glances behind him and Granger's expression mirrors his thoughts.

"You don't need to preach about its wonders, Granger; I've used this more times than most people."  
She sighs and digs her toe in the carpet. "And I don't even doubt it, Malfoy."

Suddenly her head picks up. "You used it in Sixth Year, after the bathroom incident, didn't you?"

He ignores her, stuffing the stopper into the little, almost emptied bottle.

"That's why there's so little scarring on your chest, right?" she finishes.

He slams the bottle down and turns on her. "How the fuck do you know about my scars?"

"I saw you…" Her cheeks flame and she turns her head away to look out the window.

"Saw me where?"

"In the infirmary," she turns back to him again. "I was helping Madam Pomfrey with some chores, and I saw you sleeping." She points to his chest. "It _was _Dittany, right?"  
"Yes."

"You know," she moves closer to him, "Harry was really sorry about the whole thing."

"How good of him," he replies, dryly.

She crosses her arms, "Oh honestly, Malfoy, grow up. It was only a few scratches." Of course that isn't true. Hermione has no love for that spell, and those cuts on his chest were more than just mere scratches.

"Oh was it now?"

"As far as I know, Malfoy, you've done a whole lot worse than cut somebody." She flinches as she says it; the memory of her Headmaster lying cold and broken on the stone floor is still fresh in her mind, along with all the other bodies she stores away in the back of her thoughts.

His irises darken and flash, and he grabs her shoulders and before Hermione can do anything, he's twisted her around and shoved her against the wall.

"You think I gave one bloody damn about the cuts?" he hisses.

"Let me go, Malfoy." Hermione tries to wriggle out of his grip but he pushes his fingers harder into her flesh.

"You know what really gets to me, mudblood? If it had been me, or any other Slytherin, or Ravenclaw, or Hufflepuff- hell, even Gryffindor- you know what would have happened?" He presses his forehead against hers and she cringes back against the wall.

"Let go, Mal-"

"As soon as that spell flew out our wands, we'd be expelled and sent to the Ministry for punishment. But not . !" he enunciates.

"That's not true Malfoy," she retorts, "and you know it. Hogwarts may be biased to us, but they were biased to you as well. Explain why Harry wasn't selected to be a Prefect in Fifth Year, but you were? Explain why we were never expelled for all those broken rules?"

Hermione breathes in deeply, and as every second ticks by without a smart reply from him, her lips begin to perk into a sardonic grin.

"What? No comeback? No sarcasm? No _excuse_?" She taunts, "I thought you were full of excuses, Malfoy? Have you finally run out?"

"Shut up, Granger."

"Not even on your life, Malfoy. Though that's not worth much now, anyway."

"Shut the fuck up!" He wraps cold fingers around her throat and locks them like steel.

Hermione tries to jerk away, but it's hard to do when trying not to make too much noise. She brings her knee up but Malfoy's already intercepted it and locked it between his thighs. Her eyes dart to the door and she decides it's time to come clean. She opens her mouth, draws in as much air as she can manage with her windpipe half shut and the scream bursts out- and suddenly it's disappearing into Malfoy's throat as he pushes his lips hard against her open mouth.

Hermione restarts her struggle, desperately trying to pull back or shove him off. He presses into her harder, and her eyes start to swim with watery tears of frustration and suffocation.

He presses his face into her nose and effectively cuts off the last bit of her air.

She dimly recalls people constantly saying you see your life flash before your eyes when you die.

Hermione sees nothing but a black, empty space. Because that's her new life; empty and foreign and bleak, with no family, and friends who could already be dead, or dying, just like she is.

And Malfoy is kissing her.

Sure it's closemouthed and he doesn't do anything except cut off her screaming, but in Hermione's foggy memory it is something akin to a kiss, and she wants to throw up.

Wouldn't that be exactly what he deserves, she thinks, and the sudden image of it all makes her start laughing- it's raspy and thin and most of it drones into silence, but Malfoy must've heard it, because he pulls away from her and sends her sprawling.

Hermione dry heaves against the floor. She clutches at her numb, sore throat and chokes in oxygen, and welcomes the sudden onslaught of smell, even though it's only of floor polish and mosquito repellent.

She doesn't care to look up at him, and when he slams her door shut Hermione collapses onto her chest and sends a silent prayer of thanks to God.

Choking a woman; pressing a mouth against her screaming lips, watching her cry, suffocating her.

It's all familiar to Draco, and for the second time this week he wants to be Obliviated.

He's lost count of how many times he's seen it amongst the ranks of Death Eaters. What he did to Granger was only the beginning of what Death Eaters would do to women: Muggles, traitors, slaves, even their own wives.

Draco grips the sides of the basin with white fingers.

Memories pour into every empty space in his brain, clouding his eyes and churning his stomach.

It had all rubbed off on him after all. He still has the underlying traits of one of them. He still does what they did, still takes pleasure in what he was forced to watch.

If Granger hadn't interrupted him with her chuckle, if he hadn't suddenly been awoken from his nonchalant state of mind, what would he have done?  
Draco splashes cool water across his flushed face. He could have killed her… Or he could have been a good little Death Eater, and done what his father had always taught him was the correct way- the proper way to treat a woman who got out of line.

He could have raped her…

It's Draco's turn to throw up today.

Draco had faced off with the Ministry worker earlier. He hadn't seen Granger. Maybe that was a good thing. And when Perkins disappeared into thin air on the doorstep, Draco could finally breathe in relief.

The Dittany had hidden most of the cuts, or at least had made them faded. Draco had seen the distrust in Perkin's eyes, but the Ministry Official had no proof of any misconduct. At least that's what Draco hoped.

Now he's sitting on his bed, watching the door. It's been three hours since he left Granger on her bedroom floor.

He waits for her to march into his room with a kitchen knife. He waits. He watches. Eventually she comes.

But she doesn't bring cutlery, she brings the look of utter revulsion and mistrust, the same one he's loathed all his life.

But here Granger is, staring at him accusingly, and Draco feels all the anxiety rushing back into his system.

"Have you done it before?" The words come out crisp and clear, whilst her face is giving him everything he needs to know she's on the verge of screaming.

"Get out, Granger," he whispers. He plants his hands firmly beside him, fingers twisting in bed sheets in a nervous dance.

"I've seen that look before, Malfoy." She shoots back, "When you were choking me, I saw it in your eyes." She takes a step forward and stops, and he knows she can smell his sick. Strangely he doesn't feel embarrassed, just tired.

"Want to know where I've seen it, Malfoy? In Dolohov, in Greyback, in Yaxley; and in your father. And you want to know what _really gets me_?" She mocks. "I asked myself 'What does Malfoy have in common with them, besides being a Deatheater?' And then it hit me-" She takes a deep breath and narrows her eyes, "You've done it before, haven't you?"  
"Granger…"

She points a finger at him, accusingly, "You're exactly like them, aren't you? Did you enjoy murdering innocent people? Did you get some sick, twisted pleasure in torturing them, in watching the colour drain from their eyes and change to the empty grey you were cursed with? Is this what it's about, Malfoy? Making yourself feel better?" She leans toward him and hisses, "Did raping women make you feel special?"

Draco jerks his head up.

"I never-"

"Don't lie to me!" She screams suddenly. "I saw it, Malfoy! I saw the way you looked at me." She's crying now, but he has a feeling they're tears of pent up rage flowing down her cheeks.

"Would you have even stopped? Would you have done away with me like the rest?"

"Get out."  
"How many were there, hmm? How many innocent people did you kill? How many girls did you break?"  
"I never raped anyone, Granger!"  
"But you watched it happen, didn't you Malfoy?" she yells back.

She waits for him to deny like he always does, but Malfoy continues to stare sullenly at the floor.

"You watched it happen, Malfoy, and that's the same thing." She unconsciously traces the light scarring across her arm. "Those girls could have been your friends, Malfoy, people you knew. They could have been Pansy or that sweet little thing that runs around Hogwarts in pigtails-"

"Daphne," he corrects.

"It could have been Daphne- that's her name, I remember now. It could have been her, or any other girl from Hogwarts, from every year, at every age. But you never helped them, did you?"

Granger is suddenly in front of him, eyes staring straight back at him with newfound awareness- and disgust.

"It could have been your mother, Draco."

She withdraws from him and disappears through his door- just like he'd done to her. Hurt her, left her in shock, and then just left.

"It was my mother." He whispers into the empty darkness.

But nobody hears him.


End file.

Harry Potter, Angst, Romance