A/N: I am back with another id-stroking self-indulgent mindless detour into Dramione trope central. This is all to cater to my own preferences, so apologies in advance. Ron is getting the OOC pantomime villain treatment because that is my jam. Bear with me. Part 2 will most likely happen whenever I have to scratch my singular itch once again. Happy Sunday to y'all! 3

WARNINGS FOR: Ron being an ass and not respecting Hermione's boundaries; gratuitous use of the word mudblood.

"'Mione, come on."

Ron's hands run beneath her shirt. His lips maul her neck as she feels his hot touch on her, close to her bra. Hermione turns her head away.

"I—"

He wants in her pants but she's wearing jeans and she's not ready. Her legs are numb from where they are folded on the sofa, and her body leans back instinctively, trying to keep away.

He's so insistent. The kissing had been fine. It was fun and new and there was no longer a war, at least not the kind that she knew how to fight. They had returned together to finish their final year at Hogwarts, Ron deferring the offer to train as an auror with Harry just so they would not be apart. She was made Head Girl and had her own room. Ron was pleased, said they should take full advantage of the opportunities to be alone. At least one of them is taking full advantage, she thinks.

He's tugging at her bra clasp unsuccessfully. His fingers feel dull and uncoordinated against her skin.

"What's wrong?" His torso hangs big and heavy over hers, arms trapping her, mouth still searching for a place that will make her feel good.

"Ron—"

She tries to find that place too, has been trying. All he wants is to take, one step and then another; more and more. She's not ready. She—

The portrait door opens. Ron's whole body tenses. "Malfoy," he says in a disgusted hiss she can feel as much as hear. Still, Ron doesn't pull away. Why doesn't he? She hates that there's an audience.

Being Head Girl comes with living with Head Boy. Despite all Ron's assurances and protestations, the reality is that they are rarely alone.

Her roommate strolls in still wearing his Quidditch uniform, smeared in mud and damp from the rain. He stares at them with a tired indifference. Hermione feels her cheeks warm at his cold surveying.

"What are you looking at?" Ron says.

Malfoy drops his bag and moves to the small kitchen area. "An anticlimax," he says. He pours himself a glass of water and drinks, his back to them as Ron glares and Hermione tries to shrink into herself. He leaves the glass in the sink and moves to the staircase. "I need a shower." His eyes drift over them as he climbs the first step. "Feels like I'm drowning in mud."

"Did you hear that?" Ron growls as the bathroom door closes. "How can you stand to live with him?"

"He's not so bad." Hermione tries to put some distance between them, brings her knees up and wraps her arms around them. Ron is done glaring at the top of the stairs.

"Don't lie; he still hates you. They should never've let him back in, let alone made him Head Boy."

"Minerva had her reasons; and—"

"You don't have to defend him." His hands pull on hers, drag her back towards him as he reaches for her blouse. "There's still time."

She lets him kiss her just to make the talking stop. He's as prejudiced as any pureblood when it comes to Draco Malfoy and the rest of the returning Slytherins. And Malfoy might still hate her guts but he's not the worst roommate or Head Boy and certainly a far better student than Ron could hope to be. And he paid for his part in the war. They imprisoned his father and his mother is under house arrest; much of their assets were lost and he's on probation too. Even her word and Harry's could only do so much at his trial. There's something quiet and dignified about him now. It's the same way she feels for what she went through. Nothing to celebrate or gloat about; just the mundane job of getting on with living, of trying to move on. Ron doesn't get that, won't forget but likes to speed ahead. It's why she finds his hands have started to unbutton her shirt.

"Stop," she whispers.

"What?" The kisses to her neck still do nothing. His hands are clumsy, and she's turned off. It feels all wrong. "I can be quiet." He palms a breast through her bra. "You like this, don't you?"

No.

"I—"

"Are you done?"

Malfoy is once more at the top of the stairs, changed into sweatpants and a t-shirt. He rubs a towel over still wet hair as he makes his way down towards them.

"What's it to you?" Ron at least retracts his hand from her chest so he can turn to the constant focus of his ire.

"Well, beyond your lack of social graces and animalistic pawing in a communal space I use, Granger and I have certain Head duties to discuss. She probably forgot to mention it since she was clearly so caught up in the throes of desire."

Hermione cannot make eye contact with him as Malfoy watches her, now reduced to their level as he crosses the common room.

"Do you mind?" he says at Ron, raising a single pale eyebrow.

Ron looks back at Hermione. "Are you gonna—?"

"It's fine, Ron. Malfoy's right." She sees her boyfriend's face redden. "I completely forgot."

"Fine." He gets up, grabbing his things and butting shoulders with an unfazed Malfoy as he passes. "I'll see you at breakfast."

Malfoy smirks as Ron leaves; it vanishes when the portrait door closes. Hermione fumbles to button up her shirt.

"What did you want to talk about?" she says.

He retrieves his sports bag and heads back up the stairs. "Nothing."

"But—?"

"I gave you an exit and you took it. If you want to thank me, keep your neanderthal mate out of my face."

Hermione hears his bedroom door shut loudly. She falls back against the sofa, more alive at the words out of Malfoy's mouth than at any time when Ron had forced his touch upon her.

He doesn't know why he's angry.

There are enough other things to rage about: his fall from grace, the public dredging of his family through society's mud, all the anticipation that he's going to fuck this second chance up and there won't be another one again.

So why does he care who Granger's fucking? (Or desperately trying not to.)

He wasn't exactly ecstatic to discover they would be Head Boy and Head Girl. He was mostly shocked that he was awarded the title, another test bestowed by the powers that be he was set up to fail. Well, he'd repaired that Vanishing Cabinet against everyone's expectations. Unwinnable odds just make him more determined.

Still, despite their past and his own reservations, Granger has been considerate and their living together tolerable. She stood up for him during his Ministry trial and he would never forget it. He might be rude and still see her Muggle birth as beneath his pureblood heritage, but she has earned his respect and treats him like any other fellow student, never dragging up the past unlike others, who cast shit about as readily as primates. She is smart and capable and seems unbreakable in her convictions. Which is why it makes exactly zero sense that she would put up with Weasel.

Draco had seen it coming since their fifth year, and he knew all too well that enduring a war side by side could create an exaggerated sense of intimacy. He sought his own physical comfort where he could with the few who did not revile him. But the war is over now. All commonality between her and the grotesque imbecile is gone, save for their shared connection with Scarface.

He doesn't care. It's not his business. Yet he can no longer stand having his only private space filled with Granger visibly squirming in the Weasel's filthy hold.

The girl doesn't fancy him so what is she thinking? Why doesn't she just tell him no?

He lies on his bed with these useless thoughts, his gaze burning through the ceiling, his magic clawing like a hungry dragon, forever prowling beneath his skin.

He's already gone when she wakes the next morning. He rises early and goes to bed late and she wonders if it's only to train or to study or if there's another person he spends his time with or maybe if it's many. She wonders when she started wondering what Draco Malfoy does with his day.

Ron is late to breakfast and squeezes her knee as he squeezes in beside her. He massages her thigh and it's enough to make her want to give up on her cornflakes. She has to pry his hand off using both of her own.

"No one can see," Ron says, as if that's the only problem.

She doesn't like to be touched. She must be one of those people, their boundaries set and easily crossed. She doesn't know; she's not experienced. There had been one messy snog with Viktor, his hands staying firm on her shoulders for the entirety like it was she who was holding them up. And then this, whatever it is that Ron's hands do. What he wants. What makes him feel good. It isn't what she likes. She might not know but had always imagined: a meeting of minds, not sweaty palms against her skin.

As a girlfriend, she's a prude.

Ron is distracted as someone else enters the hall. A head of white-blond hair, she can see his pale throat, Adam's apple bobbing as he guzzles from a bottle of water. He's in a t-shirt and sweats like he was the night before. He's been running; she can see it now in the sheen of perspiration, a faint dash of color to his cheeks. He's lithe and long and he likes working out. She hears him in his bedroom on occasion and she's seen his weights and a pull-up bar, breadcrumbs to what he keeps as a private routine.

Malfoy plonks himself down at the head of the Slytherin table, unbothered and unwanted but still proud, like the loneliest of kings. He piles his plate high, mostly eggs plus toast and a variety of fried meats. He drinks his coffee black and sweet and makes no effort at small talk, ignoring the stares of distant neighbors, fascinated girls and resentful boys alike.

Hermione finds she also likes to stare. She must be one of those people.

"Who does he think he is?" Ron says.

Hermione doesn't know; she doesn't know anything.

"Who cares?" The voice is Dean's. "You guys still coming to the party tonight?"

Ron answers for them. "Of course. Wouldn't miss it."

"I've got patrol—" Hermione starts.

"Can't you swap with someone?"

"Malfoy won't—"

"Malfoy can do it on his own!"

Malfoy looks across at them, Ron's voice loud enough that most of the Great Hall must have heard him. Hermione looks back. His face is expressionless, but his eyes are lit with the small and unspoken flame of challenge. "I'll see you in class," she says and stands, gathering her books into the bottomless pit of her beaded bag.

"Don't be mad," Ron says.

Hermione steps out of his reach and starts walking, her back to all the tables. "How would you even know what I am?"

His first class is Advanced Potions.

He arrives late, going back to the dorms to shower and change after having a second helping at breakfast. He is used to the stares; he is used to hearing his name in poorly hushed conversations and others that are deliberately audible. He is used to Granger's shame and awkwardness at the situation. He does not seek compassion and abhors the slightest hint of pity. The world is a cruel and lonely place and its inhabitants are a bunch of boring, loathsome hypocrites. And it doesn't matter what side you were on. His side's now his own and he stands proudly with no one.

He sees Granger surrounded by friends but walking solo, shoulders slumped and posture broken. Little Golden Girl lost. Ironic and undeserved. Why should it bother him?

He goes to sit at the back of the classroom beside her, paying no mind to the scolding of Slughorn and the pointless docking of points. She's already got her quill out and is furiously scribbling notes, focused on the same extra credit assignment that he's taken. Advanced Potions is beneath them both. The rest of the class is irrelevant; Slughorn's got his hands full just trying to keep them from hurting themselves. Still even this is too advanced for that intellectual gnome that is the Weasel. It's one blessed lesson at least spared from his bloated red waste of pureblood genes.

"You're not including the crushed salamander tooth?" Draco says, unfurling his own parchment.

Granger doesn't miss a beat. "It'll cancel out the efficacy of the doxy saliva—oh." She blinks and glances over at him as if realizing they are having a conversation, which they are, since he bothered to initiate it. He smiles, and her eyes avert from his. "Were you testing me?"

"Not like I can catch you out."

They work in a companionable silence. They aren't companions, but they are studious and can concentrate for more than five consecutive minutes on the task at hand, unlike their fellow students. When the second hour draws ever closer to its finish, Draco holds out his parchment in the wordless implication that they should exchange notes. Granger nods her agreement. Her penmanship is lacking but her thesis is brilliant. Draco tries not to be jealous.

"This is good," she says, eyes pouring over his work.

"Yours is better."

"No—"

"Shut up and take the compliment, Granger." He takes his parchment back and packs up his things.

"Where are you going?"

"Library."

"Mister Malfoy," Slughorn says, noticing him rise from his seat, "the lesson isn't over."

"It never is," he mutters and strolls out the door, somehow resisting the urge to slam it behind him.

Mudblood, mudblood, mudblood, he thinks but it doesn't help and the jealousy takes over.

Even now, after everything, this insecurity eats away at him. His father's voice, his peers' stares, the itch of the mark on his arm. He is a product of expectation, spat out into the world with its weight tied to his shoulders. He didn't learn to walk; he only staggered before running. But he cannot run away. Not really. Not ever.

He goes to the library and looks up every reference that Granger cited and he'd never even thought about. He has to charm Madam Pince into giving him access to some and it feels like he's debasing himself, crawling belly-first on the ground through the dirt that the Gryffindor princess was able to float across. It's not her fault; it's his. The clawing starts to hurt and it's ready to break the surface. He grabs an apple and two sandwiches for lunch then disappears, missing the rest of classes and fleeing to the Quidditch field.

On his broom, two hundred feet above the ground, Draco breathes and sees this useless world for what it is, a tiny patch of unremarkable green.

He couldn't walk and he still can't run but there is something he can do better than anyone.

His earliest memory is of his father's words on receiving his first broom:

A wizard must know how to fly.

She's pacing, undecided, changed into a too-short floral dress and Doc Marten boots so she can go to the party but she can do patrol duty as well. Can she do both? Does she want to? She hates her indecision, had endured Ron's incessant nagging throughout dinner as he apologized and begged. He wants her there so he can touch her. Not to talk. Not to exist in each other's company. Minds mean nothing, only hands with him. And maybe she's finally had enough.

She doesn't know where Malfoy is. She hasn't seen him since he left Advanced Potions and Slughorn conveyed his displeasure to her like she had any control over what the Head Boy did. "Take it up with Headmistress McGonagall," she told him, and he had looked affronted; she so rarely ever talked back to teachers. But there are more words inside and angry thoughts and she's filled by a growing sense of injustice, like her own special oxygen she inhales and converts into righteous energy. House elves or Slytherin boys; if they're persecuted then she will take up their cause. She will shout their names from the turret-tops.

Malfoy has higher marks than her in Potions and is second in every other class. He has met every deadline and completed every project. So what exactly is there to punish him for?

He enters as the clock hits the hour and their evening of patrolling is meant to begin. His hair is windswept and he looks angry.

"I…" Her quandary has fallen out of her head.

"Here." He snatches a parchment from his bag and shoves it into her hands. "Read this."

"What is it?"

"I reworked that stupid Potions assignment. You gave me ideas." He stands and crosses his arms. "Well?"

"We have patrol—"

"So why are you dressed like that?"

"There's a party—"

"So? Go to it."

"But I thought that you—"

"I don't need you to babysit me, if that's what you mean. I'm a big boy, Granger. I can handle one sodding patrol."

"Are you sure?"

He steps closer. He's grown taller, maybe even taller than Ron, but he feels as big as Hagrid when he turns his gaze down on her. "What do you want to do?" he says.

"I don't know."

"Read it."

"What?"

He nods at the parchment. "I need your opinion. Read it and bore me to tears. Make me feel suitably small."

"Should I—?"

"Geez, how did you win the war? Just come with me. You can join your precious Gryffindors later, tell them how you put that no-good Death Eater snake back in his place."

"You sound like you think that it's bad."

"Grab your wand and move your arse."

She does. He's good at ordering her with his words, not his hands, and she's amenable to that. She lacks in direction these days and she's missed being commanded.

She keeps his parchment held up with a floating charm as they walk. The hallways are quiet and cool. It's deep into autumn now with the promise of winter in the changing air and the premature dying of the days. She didn't bring a cardigan and has to opt for a warming spell. Her skin is goose-pimpled but her attention is rapt: Malfoy's handwriting is a beautiful and elegant scrawl that slopes to the right with the occasional smudge, a constant peril of being left-handed.

She enjoyed what she read at the start of the day. There were innovations she had not thought about, though they were risky and might only work in a theoretical sense. His arguments were interesting, if not wholly focused, but she thought overall he was more original than her and it bothered her that she was still so tied to the rules. Here, his thoughts are different; they are measured and controlled. Everything makes sense. It is faultless and—

"So?"

His back pauses ahead of her, shirt stretched taut over the breadth of his shoulders. She almost collides with him as she reaches the conclusion.

"Hold on." He has applied the crushed salamander tooth and overcome all the risks involved. "You bloody git!"

He turns around and grins triumphantly, leaning sideways against the wall. He might normally be the personification of a sneer but right now he is something else entirely.

Hermione hopes she isn't blushing as she childishly stamps her foot. "How did you figure this out in just an afternoon? It took me a whole weekend—"

"I know. You did the bulk of the work for me. Flawless research as always."

"Then you cheated!"

He pushes off the wall in a flash. "I did not." There's only a layer of parchment between them now. "I work just as hard as you, Granger. Maybe even harder, not that you'd know it."

"I didn't mean—"

"You've done your duty." He steps back and cancels her charm with a wordless spell, the parchment recoiling to land in his palm. "Now run along and go have your fun. The lions' den is waiting."

He turns back around and marches down the corridor, raising his scroll like the baton in a race that he's just won.

Did he win? Hermione's not sure but she made him mad and maybe he did have a point. Nothing he wrote had plagiarized her work; he just took it to another level and she's angry at herself. She hates to lose just as much as him. That damned stupid clever Slytherin.

She makes her way up to the Gryffindor tower, snaps the password at the tedious Fat Lady and accepts the first drink placed in her hand.

"You made it!" Ron says, slinging an arm around her and throwing her off balance. Its weight is heavy and he's sloshed; she can smell it on his breath. "What took yer s'long?"

"Patrolling."

"So did Malfoy—?"

"Shut up about Malfoy!"

Ron gives a crooked grin but it's not appealing in the slightest, even if it is triumphant. "Can't not agree with that."

That's a double negative, she wants to scream. Instead she downs her drink and lets him kiss her.

"You wanna go somewhere more private?" he says.

She nods or she doesn't; she doesn't know, but Ron only hears her agreement. With assumed acquiescence, he's dragging up the stairs to the boys' dormitory while she's nursing her second glass.

"I like your dress," he says, sitting down on his bed. He pulls her onto his lap. "T'short." One hand is already under her skirt and he is kissing her neck. "Do you wanna—?"

"What?"

"Get undressed."

He's fumbling with the buttons. He didn't ask but he can't command. She wouldn't do a thing he says, even if she's normally stumbling behind him like a passive fool. I don't want to, she thinks. "I don't want to."

Her dress rips.

He can see her bra now and he's leaning down to kiss over her chest, lips hot as they slobber and the material turns wet. She really hates it. She pulls on his hair and tries to push him back. "Ron, stop it." His hand is at her underwear, fingers tracing and trying to tug, and she's squirming. "Stop it, I said!" She falls from his lap onto the floor.

"You okay?" He reaches a hand to help her back up and she slaps it away. "What is it?"

"Weren't you listening?"

"When?"

"I don't want to do this."

"Do what?"

"All of it."

"I can wait."

"No, you can't. And I don't want you to. It's not going to happen, Ron. I don't want to sleep with you." She says the words in one breath, like she's been holding it in for far too long. "I don't want you like that."

He blinks as what she said gradually sinks in, but his reaction is predictable and swift. "Then get out." He tosses her wand at her feet. "Fuck right off, 'Mione. Since apparently no dick's good enough for you."

"It's not like that," she says.

"Then what's it like? Is there someone else?"

"There's no one else. It's just not you."

He huffs. "You fucking frigid bitch. Good luck dying a virgin."

She climbs to her feet and crudely pulls her dress back together. She won't fix it, not like this. "There are worse fates to be had," she says. Her wand's in her hand and she points, sees the fear in Ron's eyes at the tip by his throat. That's enough, she thinks; she'll be going now.

"Go fuck yourself, Ronald." She pauses by the door. "You and your right hand are made for each other."

She's back before him. That didn't take long. He goes to the kitchen to make coffee, fills the kettle and sets it on the stove.

"You want a drink?" he says. She says nothing. He looks at her and finally sees her.

She is sat in that small pitiful way, legs pressed tight together and hands clasped in her lap. Her head is down, bushy mane obscuring her face, but he can hear her sniffle. She's crying then. Can't be good but can he be bothered? The Weasel's a whole six-foot-plus of disappointment. What did she expect? He's the place where expectations go to die.

Draco leans back against the counter. "What is it then?"

She shakes her head. At least that mass of hair sways from side to side.

"Did something happen? Granger?"

If it's possible, she somehow becomes smaller, and it's starting to freak him out.

"What did he do?"

"He…" She hiccups; how long has she been crying for? "I'm fine." She stands up. "I'll be going."

No you won't, he thinks.

He easily beats her to the bottom of the stairs. "Granger." She looks up, eyes red and face puffy; he's yet to meet a girl who's a pretty crier. "What is it?" He keeps his hands from touching her. He's not so good at comfort and she looks liked a scared rabbit about to dart for its burrow. She looks…

His eyes move down. He can see her bra exposed at the top of her dress. It wasn't so revealing before but now there's a tear and threads of cotton hang from where buttons used to be.

"Granger," he says, and it takes actual Occlumency to will his voice to stay calm, "did that piece of shit hurt you?"

Her face falls against his chest and she sobs. Her tears are soaking into his shirt, probably snot as well, and it makes him momentarily nauseous. But he's mad more than anything. He's paralyzed with rage, like someone has cursed him immobile.

The kettle's whistling; it's about to boil over.

"Don't go," she begs.

Shit.

Draco's left hand moves as if it's not his own. He sees it rise; it's there, hovering before his face, hovering above Granger's head. What are you going to do, body that's no longer under my control?

His hand comes to rest against the top of her head. Mostly hair. It's soft and thick between his fingers. He expected something coarse like wire wool or netting. This is different. His fingers move. They stroke and play, and Granger presses her body closer against his.

"Did he hurt you?" he says again. He thinks about every Dark curse he knows. He's the son of a pureblood gentleman. Funny thing about Lucius but, despite how cruel he can be, there are rules when it comes to women. He ruined his family's lives and brought a terrible evil into their home, but he always treated Draco's mother like a queen.

Mudblood but a girl, Draco thinks. "What did he do to you, Granger?"

"I'm fine," she says.

"Sure."

He's seen her hurt so he knows, has heard her screams of pain echo through the Manor's halls, in his worst nightmares. There are rules when it comes to women and there's a line when it's her.

"I couldn't… I couldn't sleep with him."

Good.

"I'm going to make tea now," he says. "You're in no fit state for coffee." That makes her laugh. "Sit," he tells her. "Be a good girl." She moans.

The kettle spits and rattles on the stove, and water bubbles over, hissing as it evaporates. There's a tension brewing when it should only be tea. Fucking tea. Just do as you are told. Listen to me.

Her shoulders are small and slumped when he takes them in his hands. She's tiny and delicate as a woman. He could easily break her; the fucking Weasel almost did. But as a witch, she's formidable. There's power in the slightest frame, magic that simmers, hot beneath his fingers. She's just like water and he's a volcano, a fire-breathing dragon in a human boy's skin. Together they could make steam and, if they did, it would surely burn everything.

"Are you going to behave?"

She looks up and bites her lip. The kettle's nearly boiled dry now. His fingers dig into her arms but she shows no signs of pain.

He guides her back until her legs hit the sofa and lets gravity do the rest. She is watching as he's moving, needing his wand to levitate the molten kettle and refill it from the sink. This time it boils too slowly for his liking and so he relies on magic like he should have done in the first place.

"Chamomile," he says, placing a mug on the table before her. There's a vial in his hand that he Accio'd from his bag.

"What's that?" she says as he holds it up to show her.

"Calming draught I made. Want to try it?"

"Okay."

There's an unspeakable amount of trust to the act as she lets him pour it in her tea. She's a fool, he thinks, though he knows that it's safe. I wouldn't touch a thing anyone else in this school gave me. But that's him. He has enemies. The Wizarding World is fine now for a Muggle-born in its superficial post-war fakery.

You're going to learn the hard way, Granger.

He waits until she falls asleep. It doesn't take long, and her mug is only half-empty (not half-full; he's not an idiot). Slumped against the cushions, she's at her smallest now, quiet and gut-wrenchingly vulnerable. She weighs nothing as he picks her up and carries her upstairs. He puts her to bed, puts back together her dress and covers her with what to him looks like a cheap and ratty duvet.

Dream a dreamless dream, he thinks, and returns to the common room. Half-empty still, he downs what is left in her mug and hopes that he has the same dream as well.

Hermione enters the Great Hall like it's the final battle against Voldemort.

To her right she can see the Slytherin table. Malfoy is at his pariah's throne, dressed in full robes and his usual sneer. He was gone when she woke, not unusual, though the night before had been. She's still drunk on his spell and charmed by his kindness. His calming draught had worked wonders. She feels well rested and strong. She looks at him and he dares to make eye-contact. There's no expression, no light of challenge, not much of anything until his eyes narrow in poisoned hatred as they drift dangerously over to Ron.

There, to her left, she can see the Gryffindor table. All her friends who ignored her fleeing from the party, despite the tears in her dress and the loud voices they must have heard from upstairs. She hates the conservative nature of even the most modern-thinking witches and wizards: that you do not interfere in others' personal affairs. And at the root of it all, her darkest fear: that their loyalty to him is more than it will ever be to her.

Thank you, Malfoy, she thinks and hopes he might deign to share that recipe of his. She walks proud and tall at five-foot-three as she approaches her house's table.

"Good morning," she says and takes a seat between Ginny and Dean. Ron and Parvati are sat opposite them, and there is the usual contingent of other seventh and returning eighth years.

Everyone exchanges glances until Ron breaks in. "Morning," he grunts then goes back to shovelling scrambled eggs and baked beans down his throat. Parvati stares at her shoes. Dean clears his throat with enough force that he starts coughing. Ginny glares at him as he holds out a glass and she leans past Hermione to fill it with milk.

"Is anyone going to address the awkward elephant in the room?" Hermione says, carefully laying a napkin across her lap.

"What elephant?"

"It's a Muggle saying, Ron. I mean no one wants to speak about the obvious. So I will. Did you tell everyone that we broke up last night?"

"If that's how you want to spin it," Ron says.

"And how did you already spin it?"

Parvati rises suddenly from her seat and starts to excuse herself. "M'sorry," she says, almost free when Ron stops her; his hand has latched onto her wrist and his thumb is stroking the skin there.

"She was there for me," Ron says, eyes shifting to Hermione.

Hermione feels sick. It's as if everyone around her is drawing away, or she's drawing in on herself. The walls feel closer. The air is too thick. "There for you?" she repeats.

Ron stands beside his new savior and leans over the table. "There after you forced yourself on me." Hermione leans back as he does, if only to avoid being spat on. "I had to fight you off. It was gross. Even when I said you don't do it for me. But you can't take no, never did. Boys'd never get away with how you treated me, 'Mione."

"Oh my god. You fucking hypocrite. You liar."

"Yeah? You're really going to play the victim now?"

Hermione looks around the table, but nobody is looking her way. She's not believed, she knows; deep down, she always understood her place. Without Harry and unattached from Ron, she's as much a pariah as Draco Malfoy is; Draco Malfoy, who has got up from his table.

Her eyes follow him as he crosses the room, hands in his robe pockets, not a care in the world. She pivots on the bench as he comes to a stop behind her. "Granger," he says, his gaze fixed on Ron like he's Voldemort's rotting corpse, "grab that fashion eyesore you call a purse and come with me."

"It's not an eyesore," she snaps but she wants to cry in relief.

"Love is blind, I guess."

Malfoy is smirking. Ron is on the brink of an explosion, his face an unbecoming shade of pink that clashes with his hair.

"Ronald, just let it go," Ginny says but he can't, never could. Just like his inadequacies when it comes to Harry, his hands on Hermione that do what they want.

Hermione knows what it's like when he explodes.

"Who's the liar now then? You'll put out for anything, even Death Eater scum?"

She's out of her seat now and Malfoy's still close behind her. She wants to scream, wants to hex Ron into next week, until he begs, until he writhes and grovels and doesn't forget who it is that he is messing with. They were friends but she carried him; he used her and took as he wanted whether she wanted to or not. Her wand arm is up, but it's Malfoy who lands the first hit.

"I suppose that's gotta hurt when she won't put out for you."

Ron has reached for his own wand now, spell at the tip of his tongue. Hermione is aware of the commotion from around and behind her; there are voices rising, calling out from the teachers' High Table. Her vision is Weasley red in her rage; her heart is ready for battle.

Then she's shoved aside, Malfoy reaching over to grab Ron by the wrist and slam his torso against the table. Face held down in Dean's bowl of soggy cereal, Malfoy keeps gripping and twisting until Ron lets go of his wand.

"Mister Malfoy!"

Malfoy steps back. He turns and looks around. Most of the teachers have crossed the floor and now surround him, Hermione as well. She pushes herself forward to stand in front of him.

"Minerva, please, he was defending me; Ron started it—"

"He's broken my bloody wrist!" Ron yells, his good hand wiping milk from his face.

"Miss Weasley, please can you escort your brother straight to the infirmary," Headmistress McGonagall says, at last living up to her title. "Mister Malfoy, Miss Granger, if you could come with me—"

"Fuck this," Malfoy says. The staff and the rest of the student body appear to flinch at his outburst. He glares at them all and spins on his heel, storming to the doors and slamming them open.

"Draco, wait!"

"It's fucking Draco now?" Ron says, shrugging off his sister's help.

"I'd rather fuck him than you!"

Hermione doesn't stop as she yells, doesn't wait to see the look on Ron's face or the expressions of everyone else in the Great Hall. She certainly doesn't wait to hear the horrified admonishment of Minerva. Her legs move and she chases Draco down. Though she's short, she's determined. And she helped win a war on a lot less breakfast than this.

Fuck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

It's over. One act of violence against that repulsive Weasel and his second chance is already ruined. It has barely been two months. All for a mudblood's honor. Stupid girl. He got so mad, hearing how that bastard talked and seeing how her face fell and not a single one of her friends lifted a finger to defend her.

Loyalty is the rarest commodity there is, he knows. And now she has his. He doesn't know why, but there's something he sees that's worth protecting. Not making amends; he's beyond all that redemption shit. But Weasel raised his wand to a witch. Not just any witch. He raised it to Granger.

"Draco, slow down!"

She's hurrying, out of breath behind him, nonsense curls wholly out of control, and she looks like a vision. She looks like his doom and destiny combined.

"Save yourself, Granger."

"I'm here to save you!"

He rounds on her then and backs her up against the nearest wall. She's small but defiant, even as he brings down a fist and slams it against the brick right above her.

"Don't be so fucking pathetic," he says.

"I—"

"You can't even save yourself and you're trying to save me? Take a look. I'm not the one who gets to be saved. I'm the one who fails; they set it up that way and your magical catch of an ex made damn sure it happened well ahead of schedule."

"Is that what you think?"

He looks away; small hands take hold of his face, forcing him to see her.

"Why do you try so hard then?" she says.

"I—"

"You're a good student. Intelligent and conscientious. You've always done your duty as Head Boy. And you took care of me. I don't know why but you did, last night and back there."

"You need taking care of," he murmurs.

"I… I'd like to return the favor."

"No. It's done. I've fucked it up for good."

"Don't be so bloody dramatic." She smiles, stroking his cheeks. "Did you really break his wrist?" she says.

"I don't know." He fucking hopes so.

"Thank you." She leans up. "Can I kiss you?"

"What?"

"Can I—?"

A pity kiss of gratitude? "Get fucked."

There are voices and footsteps from down the hall, likely teachers hot on both their trails or curious students come to witness the tragic fall of the last cursed Malfoy. Granger casts a quick disillusionment charm and takes hold of his hand.

"Come with me," she says and drags him towards sanctuary.

"Quit stealing my lines."

"Quit complaining!"

He doesn't know where they are going but he uselessly follows, too tired to resist, too over it all to care about what happens. Granger is humming and muttering to herself and it's an annoying quirk he's mostly overlooked until she starts giggling.

"Do you think," she says, "that there's ever been a Head Boy and Head Girl who have been in so much trouble?"

"Do you get off on this? You freak of a witch."

He tugs on her hand and she stumbles, blushing. "Shut up."

"No."

He grins until he sees they've reached the Astronomy Tower.

"This was your brilliant plan, Brightest Witch of Our Age?" He pulls his hand free and turns back in the direction they came.

"Where are you going?"

"I'm going to turn myself in."

"Are you scared?'

"Yes. McGonagall's a drunken House-Elf next to this."

"I'm sorry. I just thought they wouldn't think to look for us here."

He looks down at the infuriating witch, still shorter than him at two steps above. "Fine." He shoves past her up to the threshold and stops.

This is the precipice from where his life truly fell to shit. If he could've just cast that spell. If he could've asked for help much sooner. If he could've been The Boy Who Lived and not the boy who's despised by all and sundry. Name and blood mean nothing in this new existence. He had a plan and it's hanging from the edge of a precipice as well. Does he take the next step? Does he jump? Granger is shuffling behind him, at his back, agitated and trying to push.

"Aargh!" He screams (he made sure to cast a wordless silencing spell before he did). He wants to shatter the glass with his lungs. He wants to burn the bloody building down.

Granger shifts around him as he stalks to the center of the room. The whole scene is coming back to him and he wants to hex every ghost that haunts here, Snape and Dumbledore and the cowardly boy that he was.

"Draco," Hermione says, and her arms come around him. She's holding him about the waist, her petite body flush against his back, and he wants to squirm away. He wants to jump. He wants to—

She is screaming as well. "It actually does help," she says.

"Not really."

He turns in her hold and he's looking down at her; she's looking up at him. She's messy yet prim and trying to be proper. He wants to ruin her for good like she keeps on ruining him.

He pulls on her hair hard enough that she winces. "Ow!"

"You still wanna kiss?"

"I…" She's suddenly bashful now.

"What is it? I'm not going to make you, Granger." He tilts her chin up so she's forced to face him. "I'm not like him, okay?"

"I know that. I…"

"Say it. Tell me what you want to say. Anything you want to do."

"I want to see you."

"Huh?"

"I want to see what's beneath." Her head ducks down and her face hides against his chest. "I want to take off your shirt."

"You don't mess around."

"Shut up! You asked me."

"Okay."

"What?"

"You can do it."

He takes a step back and lets his robes drop, loosens his tie and removes it from around his neck. "You asked. I'm all yours."

Fuck, she's hot as a blushing virgin now. A blushing virgin who wants to strip him and touch him up. It's a wholly new experience, staying still, being patient, having to wait and be the one who is taken.

Let's not go that far, he thinks, but he wants to see how far she'll take this.

He doesn't move as she approaches, but he can still use his words. He wants to speak. He wants to hear what she's got to say.

"Have you ever done this?"

"No." Her hands reach for the first button and she slowly, gradually makes her way down. Each brush of her fingers is like a jolt though his system. He has to calm, to build up a wall inside his head and keep the now horny dragon at bay.

"You never got to see Weasel naked? What a shame."

"I never got to— " His shirt fully undone, she pushes it open. He hears her gasp, feels it like her ghosting fingers on his skin. He looks to see that she is looking at his scars and he doesn't have the energy to explain.

Fucking Potter.

"You're…"

Shit.

"It's like someone carved you."

Draco closes his eyes, words suddenly useless, and he lets himself feel for the first time in years.

Her hands start at his collarbones, light fingertip glances, then cautiously down, tracing the scars, pressing palms flat to his pectorals.

"I can feel your heartbeat," she says.

"Hermione—"

First name terms. She started it before him, but her name is like a charm and his own sounds like a curse.

"Ssh." She kisses him then right over his heart. Over his nipple. He's getting hard. Her clumsy soft touches are going to kill him.

Fuck.

"You're so fucking beautiful."

Shut up, Mudblood, he thinks. Stop talking. Stop touching. Never stop. Get down on your knees and take it all in your mouth and let me thank you.

Gods, his mind is ugly.

She is tracing lower now, across his stomach, running her hands over abdominals he has worked hard to achieve; her thumbs explore every groove.

"How did you get like this?" she says. When did she start asking all the questions?

He finds his voice again but it's a whisper, a heavy groan. "Like what?"

"Fit."

"I've been training."

"You like to run and do weights. Is it a healing thing?"

"Fuck no." Has she been watching? "I need to. It's all part of my plan."

"Tell me," she says.

"I'm going to go pro. Foreign Quidditch league. Maybe the States. Not this country. Fuck."

"You could."

"You've seen me play?"

"No. But you look good in your uniform."

"You're the scariest kind of perv. The kind they never warn about. Bookish girl with a fetish for—"

"What?"

He looks down at her. "It's my turn now."

"No."

"Fair is fair."

"You said you wouldn't make me do anything I didn't want to."

"You want to though." His hands glide over her breasts, nipples hard against his palms. She arches her back, pushing against him as his thumbs draw lazy circles. "Can I take your shirt off?"

"Yes."

He makes deliberately slow work of her buttons, lets his hands trace under the cotton and across her soft skin. Her shirt falls to the floor and he reaches for her skirt, looking at her face as she sucks on her bottom lip, nods her consent as he unbuckles and draws down the zip.

Hermione Granger stands before him in white lace panties and a matching bra. Knee-high socks complete the look and he will gladly die here. Let McGonagall Avada him for all of his sins.

"He didn't know what to do with you," Draco says.

"Who?"

He smiles. "He Who Must Not Be Named."

She laughs and he pulls her against him, one arm around her waist. It's narrow and her hips are curved and her breasts are surprisingly full. Who knew this was there? This perfect figure. "Your figure's perfect," he tells her.

"I didn't know if…"

"What?"

"If I was attractive."

"I'll break his other wrist," he growls. "You're really fucking attractive, okay?" He scoops her up and she throws her arms around his neck. "Shall we take this somewhere more comfortable?"

Stretched out on a sofa, Draco proceeds to have the greatest make-out session of his life. Granger's body is unnervingly responsive. The softest touch, the slightest caress has her writhing beneath him. Her mouth is sweet and she's noisy. He eats up every moan, swallows every cry and please. He unhooks her bra and spends an eternity just worshipping her tits. Their size, their weight, the taste of her nipples, the texture of her areolae against his tongue. She grinds against the hardness at his crotch and she comes before he's even moved lower than her chest.

"That was amazing." Her first orgasm and it's his; she's dazed and deliciously limp in his hold. He moves his mouth to her stomach, not flat but the tiniest bit round. It makes her too fucking feminine, he thinks. She's like a wet dream but he's not dreaming. He's jerked off more than once to an image like this. Tracing the ident of her navel, his hands explore the giving flesh of her thighs and buttocks. He's bent down right between her now and he can smell her arousal.

"Draco," she says.

"Just one taste." He kisses the lace and sucks as her hips jerk from the cushions. "I could do this all day."

He makes her come again, mouth and fingers working through her panties and she's ready if the nod she gives to take them off is any indication.

"What about you?" She can barely speak. She has the ideal triangle of pubic hair. Soft. Has she never shaved? Never do, he thinks, and runs fingers down over her mound, teasing at her entrance.

"Can I?" he says.

"Draco!"

She's tight like an unworn glove, new leather to be stretched. He tests her with one digit, then two.

"Can I fuck you?"

"Yes."

He undoes his trousers and releases himself. He won't last long. It's been too much just to get her here, up to this point, too long since he had a woman who would let him. She's staring, curious, and she wants to touch.

"Just be gentle." He grins as he guides her small hand around him. She strokes and he hisses.

"Is this big?"

"What?"

"I have no basis for comparison."

"Merlin, Granger. This isn't a damn class." He grabs her hands and pins her down, holding both by the wrists. She's smiling as he leans over her. "Just know that this might hurt."

"What does that mean?"

"I know you're normally used to disappointment but I'm somewhat above average."

"Oh."

He closes his eyes and groans in exasperation. He should be inside her by now.

Soon he is, slowly, carefully at first. He watches her and sees her bite her lip and leans down closer, nose brushing hers as he assures her, "You're doing so good. You're such a good girl." Shit. She's crying. "What is it?"

"Tell me again."

So he does. Slowly in and bottoming out and he tells her no one has felt better than this, been as good as she's being. He thrusts gently and he works her with his hand, taking her back to that edge until she falls. She's shuddering beneath him and he's tumbling not long after.

Body stretched on top of hers, he holds her close and strokes her hair and it's not even noon.

They're not even anywhere.

Fuck.

This time he's taken Granger down with him.