Draco shoved her hard against the wall, relishing the snarl that escaped her lips as she slammed into the unforgiving stone. Roughly ripping her blouse off, he shoved a hand under the silky bra that lay beneath. She hissed as he savagely twisted her tender nipple, teasing her cruelly. Pulling her towards him again, the roughly thrust his tongue into her mouth, probing ceaselessly. She groaned as Draco ran his hand gently down her spine, then forcefully grabbed her buttocks and lifted her hips against his. The sounds of chattering youngsters approaching penetrated her tangled miss of feelings, and she pulled away, panting.
"People… coming…"
Draco swore under his breath, then quickly pulled her tattered shirt off the ground and handed it back to her. His eyes flashing with something she couldn't quite name, he turned quickly on his heel and fled.
"Goodbye…" she called after him, not expecting a response. She hardly had time to repair the buttons on her shirt and return it to its original state when a gaggle of third years rounded the corner. She prayed that none of them saw the tell tale signs—her swollen lips, slightly dazed look, and of course the fact that she had forgotten to button her shirt after putting it back on. She blushed, cursing her inattentiveness, and fled. This was much to the surprise of the third years—after all, it wasn't so often that they randomly came across sixth year girls with their tops undone in the hallways. They exchanged questioning glances as the girl pushed past them, red with humiliation as she buttoned her shirt, then shrugged and carried on with their lives.
Draco strode away from the scene, cursing the day he had come across her in the hallway, face streaked with tears. For some inexplicable reason he'd thought it would be great fun to kiss the red-eyed girl, though he'd never expected her to kiss back. Somehow this crazy thing had started after that day. There was no basis, no real truth behind it, merely a kiss that turned into a friends-with-benefits situation. They weren't even friends, really. They loathed each other—perhaps that was what lay behind it. Passionate hatred was still passion, after all. No one would ever suspect the reason behind her bruised lips or the scent of her perfume on his shirts—it was so far from what anyone would ever dream of, what anyone they knew could even comprehend. This crazychaoticfuckedup thing was nothing but physical, nothing but animalistic, and it would never be anything more. Midnight rendezvous carried no romance, merely a rushed physicality and an overload of secrecy. They rarely said goodbye, much less hello.
She crawled into bed, her heart aching. She didn't know why she even bothered to assign some sort of emotion to their arrangement, some sort of sentiment. He obviously saw it as nothing more than it was—a casual thing between enemies. Running a hand through her hair, she sighed. She didn't matter to him—so why should he matter to her? Why would she always say goodbye, desperately hoping he'd turn and say goodbye in return? Why would she never move on, past this thing?
She pulled a book out from the stack beside her bed, dragging her covers over her head and using her wand to illuminate the dull space. She skimmed the book, not even comprehending the words that flashed before her eyes. All she could think of was what passed between them every time they met, every time they kissed, every time he left her without a goodbye. It didn't matter to him, so why should it matter to her? Why should she be the one to put some part of her into this, to give up her emotions for something that meant nothing, should mean nothing—had never meant nothing.
Her eyes welled up, and she slammed her book shut as a salty tear trailed down her cheek. Muttering the counter spell, she extinguished her wand and set it in her nightstand drawer before bursting into tears of grief, wracking her entire body with heaving sobs. She cried until she could cry no more, then quietly slid into sleep.
When she awoke the next morning, the sunlight was streaming through the windows in a decidedly cheery way. She blinked groggily, then frantically sat up. The clock on the wall opposite her bed claimed it was a quarter past ten—which meant she was horribly late, and for Potions. Of all classes, she had to sleep through the vast majority of Potions. Lovely. She skidded into the bathroom, splashed some water on her face, and then traipsed down the stairs to the common room. Creeping out the portrait hole, the Pink Lady exclaimed something about oversleeping. She waved a hand dismissively at the portrait, walking as quickly as possible to the dungeons. She broke into a full run a few corridors away from the classroom, arriving flushed and out of breath. Snape took one look at her and sneered.
"Clearly, some students do not realize the importance of not… oversleeping. Now, I'm afraid you've relinquished the opportunity to choose your partner, so today you will be working with… ah, perfect, Mr. Malfoy. Mr. Malfoy, can you please explain the concepts behind this potion to our… latecomer?"
"Of course, Professor." Draco said, his voice oozing with distaste at his new task. "Right this way, latecomer."
She sighed and followed him over to the cauldron. He began to lecture her on the importance of precision for this particular draught as she nodded vaguely, thoughts wandering. She didn't understand what was happening, but that hardly mattered. It wasn't as though Snape was going to give them anything less than perfect, not with Draco as her partner. Draco droned on about ingredients, techniques, and proper stirring methods. She thought about kisses, feverish panting, and the lack of goodbyes. The sudden silence was the only thing to break through her twisted train of thought.
"What? I'm sorry. Could you repeat that?"
Draco cleared his throat disdainfully. "I asked if you felt comfortable with the task. As you clearly do not, I believe I will inform Professor Snape that you are ill, and should be sent to the infirmary. I don't want you messing with my work… Granger."
"But—" she sighed, knowing it was a lost cause. She didn't understand how he could be such polar opposites in his treatment of her, didn't understand why she had these conflicting emotions and he showed nothing similar, didn't understand. As a girl whose life revolved around understanding things, she was failing miserably.
Gathering her books and trudging back to the common room, she curled up in the corner of the couch in front of the fire. Gazing into the flames, she lost herself in the dancing lights. Harry sat down next to her eventually, reaching over to touch her shoulder lightly. She gasped and sat up hurriedly, blinking rapidly.
"I'm sorry—did I startle you?" Harry asked, concern evident in his voice.
"No, no, it's fine." Hermione said groggily, shaking herself to clear her head. "I'm just… a little out of it."
"Oh, really? I hadn't noticed." Harry said sarcastically. "What's wrong?"
She smiled ruefully. "I hardly think it's something you could help with, Harry. Thank you all the same, though."
"Are you sure?" Harry wanted to help, it was obvious that he truly did, and his earnest face made it all the harder for her to not explain all this chaos to him, to cry on his shoulder, to tell someone about everything that conflicted inside of her every time she saw the blonde Slytherin boy.
"I think so." She murmured, trying to keep herself from pouring out the whole story of this thing. She didn't want his pity, nor to have him hug her and give her advice. For once in her life, she wanted to not care about every minute detail, but for her this was impossible. She would never just relax, never stop her endless worrying, never cease overanalyzing every word that escaped another's lips. Never.
A/N: Review.