Stark
When he touched her naked back, it was supposed to be because he was going to shove her, hard, and then laugh wickedly as she sprawled on the floor, her heels shining in their rosy satin. But instead his hand couldn't move from the soft skin he touched, and so his fingers spread wide, to feel even more of her. He knew she thought he was someone else, because when she leaned further against his palm she slowly turned around with a languid smile to meet his eyes, and then it all disappeared and her gaze became black as a storm cloud. If lightning had a source on earth it came from her eyes when she was angry. The brown orbs literally flashed as her mouth moved with some bitter tirade, but he couldn't hear anything. All that filled his mind was what she had felt like. Even when he realized she had already walked off with that thunder cloud trailing on her gown, he could only blink and flex the hand that had touched her living skin.
Since that night, whenever he saw her in class or in the hallway, he would take every liberty and gaze at her with his silver eyes, smoky in all their desire. It unnerved her, and he liked it. He'd grin a crooked grin, and she would glare at him at first, but as the weeks went on, she began to meet his gaze with a mixture of curiosity and defiance. He wanted to touch her again, and he'd sooner be called 'Potter' if it wasn't going to be within a few days.
He knew she would never look at him the way he wanted her to. But he would never force her, because she wasn't made to be broken or used. She was a woman to hold, and he would hold her yet.
A Malfoy was not capable of the love that Hermione Granger required, which was why Draco decided to focus all of his feelings on a physical level, one where his emotions could never be intermixed, like her blood was. But the skin that that blood nourished was so soft, and so pure…it confused him, and he didn't like it. But he liked the thought of her, so he kept searching for her eyes in a crowd, relishing in the one memory he had of touching her.
He finally touched her again one day after potions class, when she had stayed behind to find a book under one of the desks. He stood silently in the doorway, his whiteblonde hair falling into his eyes, his length leaning against the doorframe, nonchalant and imposing. She was walking around with her wand in her hand, looking aimlessly around at the desks. When she noticed him, it was with an irritated look, and what came from her mouth he couldn't remember, because he was suddenly struck at how the sheen on her lips looked like the glow from her rosy satin heels the night that he had touched her, and he wanted to place his own over them and drink and drink and touch some more…but with his tongue.
"Did you hear me, Malfoy," she said sternly, "I want you to stop this ogling charade, right now. You can't go on doing this to me just to be more of a git than you are. It's so tiresome now, Malfoy, and I'm not in the mood for adolescent wars with you."
She gathered the books that she had brought to class and was about to rush past him in a huff when he caught her arm, closed the door with a nudge from his foot and pressed her against the shelf by the doorway. Her books tumbled to the floor, and the black storm cloud was back, lightning and all.
"Let go of me, you unforgivable…"
He was used to being silent now, and he brought a hand to her cheek and gently put his lips on the other side of her face, but then quickly turned around and opened the door, striding down the hall that the room opened into, trying not to grin his Malfoy grin as he left the unattainable young woman standing awestruck in the potions classroom.
Since then, he dreamed about her lips.
He would dream about kissing them, about feeling them kiss him, about their movements and their suppleness and their color and their taste…what had she done to him? Whenever he really thought about it, he would question so many things in his life, so he wouldn't "think" about any of it…he would just envision it. Lust was so much easier to indulge in than anything deeper.
They stopped exchanging death glares. He would glance over at her during a class, and she would sometimes meet his eyes, sometimes she wouldn't, but he knew she was aware of them. When he'd see her with Pothead or Weasel he'd become icy in his stares, but if she looked at him he could feel the ice melt, and then the docility that was always in his spirit when she looked at him would come over him, and he would revel in her gaze. He reveled in her mere presence. To touch her again would be suicide for him, because he honestly felt that if he felt that skin once more he wouldn't be the same Malfoy. If he thought about it more he could probably figure it out, but he wouldn't think about it, so he was left to surmise, and that was the biggest hardship of all.
Eventually, he found out that she would wander alone late at night when she couldn't sleep, and she'd go to the library. The third time he touched her was one of these nights. And he didn't say anything. Just put an arm around her and turned her around, putting the other hand on the side of her face, touching the skin that was his undoing as a Malfoy. He bent down and drank in her lips, his hand now silkily running through her curls, wondering if this was what…no, he couldn't give her the love that she required. He was a Malfoy, wasn't he? He still was. Even though something that sat where his heart was began to beat otherwise. He'd had plenty of girls. Plenty of women. But none were her. Their intelligence, their beauty, their attraction…none of theirs was hers. And here she was, in his arms, moving her lips to the rhythm of his own.
He once asked her how she felt safe with him, how she trusted his affection like she did. She simply answered, "I wouldn't be attracted to something that's untrue now would I? My books wouldn't allow the unsupportable to seep into here." And she'd touch her heart, and then she'd smile and laugh and he'd follow suit, because that's how much he fed off of her.
But they were still wary to make their adorations public. Draco felt it too unsafe, especially with the war building up. He was different now, and it was all because of her. He didn't like to think about it, though. It was all a little much to admit to, so he'd simply hold her in the dark or in the dim light and writhe at the inkling that he'd have to let her go before long.
The night that he lowered her down on the magic-summoned bedding was the night that they both knew they would have to part. But Hermione had told him that it wasn't forever. He had been silent in his disbelief.
His white Oxford shirt was unbuttoned, his tie untied and she was running her hands over his chest and his abs. He could barely breathe when she did that. Her own curves he had the pleasure to run his lithe fingers over, and their softness he complimented with his mouth. She was giving herself to him, and in knowing this, he knew no other could have him like she always would. He went into her gently, slowly, moving only when she was ready, and when she caught the rhythm and began to meet him in her own thrusts, he nearly cried aloud, but silence was vital, so he kept his volume low. She was the only one that he would admit to bringing him to the verge of shouts.
Hermione was beautiful, and there was something almost serendipitous about them. They could feel it when they were together. But they were together no more.
When he touched her naked back again, he was falling into the blackness amid a war-strewn field. Her robes were tattered where a curse had burned them, but she was alive. He had made sure of that. He and Severus had made certain that their loyalties to the Order were not revealed until their silence held no more gain, and so when he saw her stumbling under a curse, somewhere near Weasel, he decided there was no more to gain by pretending. He ran to her, realizing how much breath of his ran through her body, under her skin. If she were to die, he wouldn't be able to breathe anymore.
He took that last curse, but also cursed the one that had ushered it, presuming it was Goyle's father, but he couldn't be sure. Hermione's tears tasted like her, he realized, and then he smiled at her.
She sobbed, "You can't go now…there were so many decades for us to grow together, so many arguments and vows and lifetimes…"
"Hermione," he croaked, smiling, "You were my greatest lifetime, because I loved."
He swallowed the darkness that came over him, wondering suddenly if the light would ever come to him again, if it ever could, because, after all, she was not there to make him see.
A/N: To everyone who has responded to this piece, thank you for the reviews! I've enjoyed reading every one of them! If you enjoyed Stark, there is a prologue piece called Hermione on my author page. If you just came from reading the prologue, I hope you can comment on the way these two stories complement each other and/or contrast. Continue to review, because that's what ultimately motivates any author.