I simply suck beyond measure...
While I'm staying with my parents, my internet access has been seriously, seriously limited. I haven't gotten around to commenting on all the ficexchange stories I loved, especially argosy's and bambu345's and several others whose authors' names I can't remember. I'm so behind on my snape_detentions that I will never catch up! And I flaked out on due to illness on my own ficexchange story.
The one thing I did manage to do was edit about 1000 words out of Chapter 2 of Dangerous Words in a Foreign Language and slowly, painfully, pound out a draft of Chapter 3. Chapter 3 didn't really turn out at all like I expected... I mean, when I sketched out my idea for this story, I imagined it as less of an illicit, secret sex story and more of a character-and-relationship-exploration-story in which sex is the vehicle. But still, the angst-to-sex ratio has gotten rather high. Plus, I've gotten really timid, b/c I realized Draco is only sixteen at the time of the story, so I've totally punked out of writing anything terribly explicit. Sigh. And I thought I was done with non-black-void chapters until the end, but now I think I going to have write a couple plot chapters to build Draco's stress and Hermione's dilemma. Well, anyway, I don't know if it's too long, too-dialoguey, too-nothing's-really-happeningish. So, please, someone, let me know if it sucks.
'WHAT WERE YOU THINKING, MALFOY?' Hermione shouted, as she tore away from him and spun round the disconcerting darkness, feeling for the walls.
'Please scream louder, Granger. I don't think they can hear you over in the next void.'
Dangerous Words in a Foreign Language
Chapter 3: A Short Course in Sexual Ethics
Words:
Rating: PG-15
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: Draco/Hermione
Warnings: Language, Sexual Situations, Spoilers for Half-Blood Prince
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. This is purely for fun, not for profit.
Summary: It's their sixth year at Hogwarts, and both Draco and Hermione are desperately seeking temporary escape from their friends, their families and their so-called lives.
A/N: Based on Argosy's drabble of the same title. Thanks to her, jenna_alatariel" and harmony_bites for comments and encouragement on previous parts. This chapter occurs sometime between Chapter Fourteen: 'Felix Felicis' and Chapter Fifteen: 'The Unbreakable Vow' of Half-Blood Prince
3. A Short Course in Sexual Ethics
Hogwarts, 14 November 1996
One minute, Draco Malfoy was slowly, carefully sketching the Moravannic Runes of Egress and Crossing onto the interior of the vanishing cabinet.
KABOOM!
The next, he was lying flat on his back, choking on hot, thick clouds of glittery purple smoke, which stank of brimstone and rancid patchouli. His wand, which had been blasted out of his hand by the explosion, boomeranged back and struck him on the head.
Coughing, he sat up and groped for his wand. It took three Banishing spells to clear away the smoke. When Draco scrabbled to his feet and saw the damage to the cabinet, he wished he had left the purplish haze in place. Four nights spent coating the cabinet in Flux Varnish. Four nights work, ruined. The finish was scorched, blistered and cracked. He would have to strip it, refinish it, and try again.
'Mugglefuck!' Draco swore, turning his wand on a cluster of nearby hexing dummies that Draco was fairly certain had not been there a moment before. He rapidly fired off a Reducto spell, an Acid Bath curse and a Bee-Bogey hex. Panting, he watched as one dummy shattered, the second melted and the third was consumed by a buzzing swarm.
December was two weeks away. He was no closer to fixing the cabinet than he had been in September. An errant image of a convulsing Katie Bell floated to the front of his mind. Fuming, he pushed it away. Bell had survived. According to the St. Mungo's orderly whom Draco had bribed, Bell was expected to make a full recovery. But if he didn't fix this Mudblood-buggered cabinet, he and his parents were going to die. The House of Malfoy would be forever extinguished, just like the House of Black.
Draco raised his wand again and shot a Cruciatus at a fresh dummy. As it wriggled and writhed in artificial excruciation, he tried to picture Dumbledore shaking and shuddering with ensorceled agony. He tried to picture Potter, keening and shrieking with torment.
He strove, with every ounce of will he possessed, not to imagine the Dark Lord screaming similarly.
Draco realized he was running, making bitter, furious laps around the Room of Requirement's motley obstacle course of bookcases, birdcages, scrollracks and trunks. His stomach was rumbling; he had skipped lunch to come here and try out the new Runes he had researched. He was hungry. He was angry. His heart was racing with fear and frustration. As he loped around a rather foetid mound of old Quidditch robes, a window suddenly appeared in the wall before him. Jogging in place, he gazed down onto the frosty shore of the school lake, where a bushy-haired brunette was walking-- uncharacteristically-- alone.
Mmmmm...Granger. Mudbloody goodness.
Draco had an irresistible vision: of archly-traded insults, soft, vanilla-scented flesh, and a cozy black nowhere beyond the reach of Death Eaters and werewolves. He cast a quick hunger-stifling charm to quiet his stomach, snatched up his bookbag, Accio-ed his cloak and raced to the door.
Hermione Granger paced along the lake, watching the giant squid splash about the surface. The freezing November wind whipped about her face and hair. She hugged herself and muttered a warming charm. It helped a little. Against the cold, at least.
Potions was in half an hour. The thought of Slughorn drooling with ecstasy over Harry's cheating made her shudder. She wondered if she could fabricate a sufficiently plausible excuse for skiving off.
Rather crazy, that: she, Hermione Jane Granger, was seriously considering skipping class. And not because a friend or the school or the entire wizarding world was in peril. But simply because she didn't think that she could face it.
There wasn't much she wanted to face, these days.
She hated her own room in Gryffindor Tower. Granted, it had never been her favourite place. But lately it had become intolerable. The mere sight of Lavender's things made Hermione want to scream. Every time she was in there she wanted to shred the gaudy pink duvet on Lavender's bed. Or set fire to the stacks of Strega Fashionista and Witch Weekly on Lavender's trunk, with their glossy covers featuring pouting, anorexic witches and vapid headlines like 'CARNAL CHARMS: 7 SPELLS TO DRIVE YOUR LOVER WILD' and 'WEIGHT LOSS POTIONS: WHICH SLIMMING ELIXIR IS RIGHT FOR YOU?' Or perhaps simply pour a two-litre bottle of dragonsdrool all over Lavender's overflowing crate of magical cosmetics.
She hated the Gryffindor Common Room. It was constantly infested with that sickening, slurping, snogging, tangled lump that comprised the glommed entity of LavenderAndWonWon. When it wasn't, it invariably contained a Harry. Who cared. And meant well. And was currently driving her barking. When he wasn't taking undeserved credit for the 'Prince's' work in potions, he was concocting endless conspiracy theories involving, well...Malfoy.
Which brought Hermione round to the third place she now hated.
The library. Her sanctuary. Her refuge. Hogwarts Castle's most perfect place, a warm and woody maze of bookcases, crammed with magical knowledge. It was where Hermione retreated to when Lavender and Parvati were being too horrid, or when Harry and Ron were being prats. It was where she felt most secure, surrounded by books and scrolls, able to look up the answer to every imaginable academic problem.
It was where she had recited that stupid Sumatran spell. Which had necessitated her having sex with Draco Malfoy.
Hermione hadn't been back since. A full week without entering the library-- periods of being confined to the infirmary aside, it was a term-time record of sorts. Hermione felt something akin to pangs of withdrawal, a physical yearning for bookstacks and parchment dust. But her aversion to revisiting the Scene of the Crime was stronger. Every time Hermione thought of going to the library, she remembered what had happened there with Malfoy; voila, the urge to visit Madam Pince's realm was instantly quashed.
No bedroom, no Common Room, no library. It was as if Hogwarts had been stripped of every safe or sacred space. Hermione fumed as she strode along the shore of the lake, barely seeing the frost-covered path in front of her.
Much less the dark-cloaked figure sprinting to catch up to her.
'ARGH!' Hermione yelped as she nearly collided with the tall blur of pale skin and inky blue wool. Stumbling backwards, her feet skidded on the icy path. With a squeal of dismay, she started to fall.
Into Draco Malfoy's waiting arms.
'Malfoy!' she spluttered, too surprised to immediately pull away. Hermione was just noticing the strange violet smudges on Malfoy's face and the faint, odd whiff of patchouli and spoilt eggs, when she recognized the sound of the syllables Malfoy was muttering mechanically. It was the ancient Sumatran Especially Secret Trysting Spell, she realized with alarm.
Then the world disappeared in a darkening swirl.
'WHAT WERE YOU THINKING, MALFOY?' Hermione shouted, as she tore away from him and spun round the disconcerting darkness, feeling for the walls.
'Please scream louder, Granger. I don't think they can hear you over in the next void.'
Gingerly backing as far away as possible from the sound of Malfoy's voice, Hermione dropped her bookbag and drew her wand.
'Lumos,' she and Malfoy both said, nearly simultaneously.
Hermione glared across the black void. Malfoy stood a metre away in the faint spotlight of his wand, his green dragonhide schoolbag sliding off his shoulder, his pricey new traveling cloak hanging open and slightly askew. His hair was uncharacteristically mussed and, yes indeed, his face was still smeared with that strange, purplish grime. But his chilly grey eyes were glinting with amusement and his mouth was curved in that classic, self-satisfied Malfoy smirk. The sight of it made Hermione's fury spike to new heights.
'THIS IS RAPE, MALFOY!' she bellowed.
Malfoy's eyes widened. And that odious smirk slid right off his pale, pointy face. 'No--it's n--' With a shudder, he shook his head violently. 'I-I don't rape women, Granger.'
'Oh? So what do call this then? Moderate ravishment? Nonserious abduction?'
'Granger, what's problem? It's just sex. You seemed fine with it last time.'
'Last time? Last time was an accident! This time, you knew!' Hermione shrieked.
Malfoy was staring blankly at her, as if she were speaking a foreign language. But of course, Hermione thought; for Malfoy, ethical reasoning probably was an entirely alien skill-set. She took a deep breath and tried to calm herself enough to explain the situation. In short, simple words a Slytherin could understand. 'When you recited the incantation this time, Malfoy,' she said slowly, 'you knew what would happen. You knew we would be stuck here. You knew that the only way out of the black void would be for me to sleep with you. That I would have no other choice but to sleep with you. That's sex by means of situational coercion, Malfoy. Otherwise known as rape.'
Malfoy's face blanched, paling even further than Hermione believed possible. 'I d-didn't...' he stammered, then stopped. He shrugged off his messenger bag and turned his back to Hermione, flinging his free fist at the weirdly elastic blackness in front of him.
His fist seemed to hit something, colliding against the dark surface with a thud. 'I thought...' Malfoy trailed off, and for the longest time simply stood there, as if waiting for the oddly adaptable darkness to supply the answer he needed. Finally, he turned back toward Hermione. 'You're right,' he said stiffly. 'I'm...' he paused, yet again, his voice hoarse and cracking.
She stared at him in the dim wandlight, nearly breathless, not quite able to believe what she was hearing. Was he actually going to say I'm sorry? Was Draco Malfoy going to apologize to her?
'It won't happen again,' Malfoy said finally.
Right. Hermione snorted softly to herself. The world wasn't coming to an end. Hell hadn't frozen over. And Draco Malfoy still hadn't apologized to a Muggleborn.
But he had come amazingly close. Given that it was Malfoy. And her.
He wouldn't look at her. It was as if he were genuinely embarrassed. He stood silently on the opposite side of the black void, seeming to lean against one of the spongy, mutable walls that stretched, softened and solidified as required. With a sudden sigh he slid down the wall, until he was sitting on the floor.
She watched him, marvelling. At him, at herself, at the both of them. She was angry. But she should be so much angrier. After all, this was Draco Malfoy. And almost sorry or not, he was still making her have sex with him.
And if he was actually abashed at his new understanding of the situation, it was only because she had used the 'R' word. Why wasn't she surprised, to learn that Muggle criminals and Dark wizard wannabes shared the same bizarrely chivalrous hang-up about sexual violence? Murder, torture, bullying and battery? Oh, they were all alright. But Merlin forbid they rape anyone. Oh no, that would just not be on, mate.
Gracelessly she plopped down onto the soft black floor. It was, she noticed absently, almost velvety to the touch. Then, with a hysterical chuckle, she buried her face in her hands.
For a while, they simply sat there in silence.
But then Malfoy-- being Malfoy-- had to ruin it by speaking. 'Granger. Last time-- you really didn't enjoy it at all?'
At that, Hermione curled tightly around herself, forehead pressed to her knees, hair cloaking her face, refusing to even acknowledge the question. Had she enjoyed it at all? Could he be more crass? More egotistically obtuse?
All week she had felt faintly...polluted. Nauseous and rather burpy, too, but that-- along with the four-day period that had come three weeks early-- Hermione had put down as a side-effect of the Contraceptive Cordial. But as for the other, well, how could she not feel dirtied? She had had sex--for the first time ever--with a boy who called her 'filthy' and 'Mudblood.' A boy who had wished her dead their second year. A boy who openly opined that she was a perversion and that her parents were little more than animals.
How could she not feel soiled? Knowing that that boy's lips had made her shiver and moan. That his fingers had brought her to a shuddering climax. That was the problem: Hermione had enjoyed it. At the time, that had seemed alright; a minor blessing, even.
But afterwards, that fact had been the worst part of it all.
Reading his pocket-watch by wand-light, Draco estimated that Granger had been silently sulking for a good six minutes. Which gave them exactly thirteen minutes more to fuck, perform the exit incantation, and get to Potions on time.
Then again, Draco supposed they could be late for Potions. Wasn't as if they were learning anything there anyway, aside from the degree to which a fat old pederast like Slughorn could bend his bulk to lick Harry Potter's famous arse. Draco kept a couple Skiving Snackboxes stashed in his messenger bag; though it pained him to admit a Weasley could do anything right, that Fever Fudge did come in quite handy.
Draco studied Granger, sitting on the other side of the black void, a dimly-lit ball of black wool and unruly brown hair. She hadn't raised her face from her little Muggle knees since she had--thankfully-- stopped shouting and sat down.
She had made him feel rather bad. Granger had shouted the word 'Rape,' and Draco had gone hot and flushed, his guts tightening and twisting sickeningly, as if his innards were trying to expel themselves. It was a surprisingly awful feeling. Nowhere close to the brain-bleeding agony of the Dark Lord's--or even his father's--Cruciatus, of course. But bad enough. And all too similar to the sensation he had, whenever he allowed himself to dwell for more than moment on Madame Rosemerta or that bloody Katie Bell.
The gorgeous irony of it was, he had grabbed Granger and recited the Sumatran Trysting spell to get away from all that. To spend just a few minutes not thinking about them, or the blasted vanishing cabinet, or about his father rotting in Azkeban, or about Fenrir Greyback molesting his mother or about his own future death by the Dark Lord's wand. To spend a few peaceful minutes in the black void, feeling...well, principally, feeling up Granger.
But the Mudblood did have a point: he had grabbed, not asked. He had assumed that Granger had found their first trip to the black void as diverting as he had. An assumption, to be fair, based on observed evidence: namely, the various noises, shudders and spasms Granger had made, all sounds and movements Draco had encountered before and previously learnt to interpret as A Girl Being Best Pleased With His Performance. Not to mention Granger's fairly enthusiastic kisses and caresses. Some of which had left marks. And rather persistent ones at that: Draco had had to slather them with Concealing Cream before keeping his usual appointment with Pansy in the dungeon broom closet.
But perhaps Mudbloods and Gryffindors were wired wrong; perhaps pleasure equalled pain in their mixed-up and muddy physiology. Or perhaps Granger's Gryffindor head was at war with her lithe and maybe slightly less Gryffindor body.
Still, he should have asked. Malfoys didn't rape. But be that as it were, they were here now. And in order to leave, they needed to shag. Draco slid off his cloak and clambered across the short expanse of the black void, sidling up to where Granger was sitting.
'Granger,' he prodded her arm with a finger.
She ignored him, rolling herself more tightly into that dark ball of cloak and robe and hair.
'Graaaan-ger,' he yodelled softly, and finger-combed the curtain of wavy tangles away from one side of her face.
'Weh gummphing be lateph Potions,' she mumbled, her face still curled into her knees.
'Yes,' he said, and stroked Granger's head. Her hair was an appalling mess, but rather fun to play with, so long and soft and springy and wild. So completely unlike Pansy's dark cap of hair, which was baby fine and perpetually charmed into place. 'Such a tragedy, to miss even a moment of the Horace Loves Harry Show. I may appear outwardly calm, but really, Granger, inside I'm weeping.'
It was a feeble jab at The Boy Who Got Away With Everything, but still, this was Scarhead's pet swot. Draco waited for Granger to stir and defend her Hero.
Nothing.
Then, with a sigh, Granger said: 'Weedon ebenhab bird control.'
'Bird control?' he asked, nonplussed.
'Birth control, Malfoy!' Granger said, her hair lashing Draco's face as she rather suddenly sat up. 'Honestly! For some of us, sex has consequences! And I don't fancy sitting my N.E.W.T.s whilst nursing a baby!'
Ah, Birth Control. What a positively Mugglish-sounding phrase. Given the fact that they bred like puffskeins, Draco had never been entirely sure that Muggles even grasped contraception as a concept. Though from Granger's ranting, he now gathered that they did.
'Relax,' and he massaged her shoulders for emphasis. 'I've taken care of that.'
Granger stiffened under his touch. 'You've taken care of it?' she repeated sceptically, shrugging off his hands.
'Granger, I'm a Malfoy. Do you really think I'd leave something as critical as the begetting of my heirs to the whims of casual sex partners?'
'How?' she demanded.
'The Exseminis Charm, obviously.' Draco watched, amused, as Granger's know-it-all face registered incomprehension, then quickly tried to hide it. 'You don't know about the Exseminis Charm, do you?'
'I--'
'But of course you don't,' he teased. 'In fact, is there anything about sex magic you do know?'
'Malfoy!' she said, growling rather adorably, like a half-grown lioness.
Draco slid one arm around her waist. 'I'll enlighten you: it banishes the sperm from the ejaculate. You know, when I was younger, I used to lie in bed at night and wonder where all the spelled-away sperm went. I mean, according to Jemmer's Law of Magical Conservation, unless the output of magical energy is massive, banished matter doesn't ever completely vanish.' He pushed back her hair and brushed his lips against her neck. 'Think of it. Somewhere out there, Granger, there's a gooey, wriggly Sperm Dimension.'
'Thanks for that lovely image,' she said dryly. But she was beginning to relax her body against his. And he could see that her lips were fighting not to smile. 'And when did you cast this, exactly?'
For someone whose hair looked as it did, Granger could be extraordinarily anal. He sighed, and toyed a bit more with her decidedly disordered tresses. 'This morning, as usual.' To be precise, right after his daily wank in the shower and before his shampoo.
'As usual? Just how much sex do you have?' She pulled away yet again and glared at him.
Trolls' bollocks.
Draco bit back the urge to note that he and the Mudblood were hardly involved. 'It's not what you think. I've been casting it daily since I was ten.'
'Ten?' Granger echoed incredulously.
'As a precaution against theft.'
'Theft?' Granger repeated again.
'Drop it. Believe me, your pristine Gryffindor mind doesn't want to know the sort of potions an enemy can brew, using a wizard's sperm.'
'Did you even have semen in your testes to charm, at age ten?'
Draco meant to tell Granger that the manly mysteries of Malfoy sexual development were not fit topics of inquiry for a Mudblood like her. He meant to suggest that she ask her beloved blood-traitor Weasel if she needed some part of the birds, bees and bugbears explained. But some other part of his brain took possession of his mouth and admitted: 'Not at first.'
Not until he was eleven, actually.
Granger's brown-eyed gaze was wide, intense, and a bit uncomfortable to endure. 'But, Malfoy, how do you bespell something your body doesn't yet have?'
'The plumbing was already present.' Why was he explaining this to her? Draco didn't know. Yet still his mouth kept moving. 'I just aimed the charm where the semen would eventually be.'
'But when it wasn't yet there?'
'It did sting a bit at first,' he conceded softly, remembered pain leaking into his voice. 'But Father said it was important to make it habit. Second nature. So there wouldn't be any accidents.' Impregnating a Mudblood like Granger being exactly that sort of intolerable mishap, he supposed. 'Or thefts,' he amended.
Of course, it had stung more than a bit, and every morning, until his equipment sufficiently matured. For a year and a few weeks following his tenth birthday, Draco had dreaded his morning trip to toilet, dreaded the burning pain of charming his balls, dreaded the drops of blood that sometimes dribbled out his penis. But when Draco had complained the once and only time about the pain, Father had suggested that if Draco couldn't manage this simple requirement, more extreme arrangements would have to be made. And Draco had heard the horrific rumours: about a Longbottom or possibly a Black, whose balls had been magically detached, preserved and stored at Gringotts by his parents until his betrothal to an appropriately pureblooded bride. So Draco had diligently done the charm, and endured the discomfort. Until that blessed day when he woke to find his cock had milked itself in the night; afterwards that morning, when he gingerly pressed the tip of his wand to his scrotum and performed the spell, he had felt nothing but a wondrously mild tickle.
But the above was all six years ago and utterly meaningless now, he told himself, excepting that this good habit continued to keep his seed out of any unsavoury potions and facilitated fucking a succulent but entirely unsuitable piece of arse like Granger. Who was staring at him disconcertingly. Her face had gone soft, and a tad glowy. Rather like it did right before she slopped a gush of affection on Potty or Weasel. It didn't bode well; sex was one thing, but he would surely have to hex her flat if she burbled Oh, Draco! and flung her arms around him in a squishy Gryffindor hug. Of course, given the way his mouth was currently betraying him, he might well mutter some mushy inanity and hug her back instead.
To forestall any such contingency, Draco abruptly announced: 'I suppose we should get on with it. The sex, I mean. If you're ready. If you need more time, of course--'
'No,' Granger said, eyeing him speculatively. 'I think I'm okay.' Then she leaned forward and planted her mouth on his.
Her lips were soft and tasted like coffee. Draco plunged one hand into that wild mass of hair that he could neither stop mocking nor touching, and pressed her hard against him. The black void stretched and softened and moulded itself around them as they grappled and groped, nibbled and sucked. Draco lost himself in a sea of sensation. And felt, for the first time in a week, as if he were somewhere far away from terror and threats and unmendable cabinets.
Felt, for the first time in a week, that he was somewhere he wanted to be.
Read Chapter 2: Runes and Ruination (revised)
Read Chapter 1: The Unorthodox Use of Reference Volumes
The one thing I did manage to do was edit about 1000 words out of Chapter 2 of Dangerous Words in a Foreign Language and slowly, painfully, pound out a draft of Chapter 3. Chapter 3 didn't really turn out at all like I expected... I mean, when I sketched out my idea for this story, I imagined it as less of an illicit, secret sex story and more of a character-and-relationship-exploration-story in which sex is the vehicle. But still, the angst-to-sex ratio has gotten rather high. Plus, I've gotten really timid, b/c I realized Draco is only sixteen at the time of the story, so I've totally punked out of writing anything terribly explicit. Sigh. And I thought I was done with non-black-void chapters until the end, but now I think I going to have write a couple plot chapters to build Draco's stress and Hermione's dilemma. Well, anyway, I don't know if it's too long, too-dialoguey, too-nothing's-really-happeningish. So, please, someone, let me know if it sucks.
'WHAT WERE YOU THINKING, MALFOY?' Hermione shouted, as she tore away from him and spun round the disconcerting darkness, feeling for the walls.
'Please scream louder, Granger. I don't think they can hear you over in the next void.'
Dangerous Words in a Foreign Language
Chapter 3: A Short Course in Sexual Ethics
Words:
Rating: PG-15
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: Draco/Hermione
Warnings: Language, Sexual Situations, Spoilers for Half-Blood Prince
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. This is purely for fun, not for profit.
Summary: It's their sixth year at Hogwarts, and both Draco and Hermione are desperately seeking temporary escape from their friends, their families and their so-called lives.
A/N: Based on Argosy's drabble of the same title. Thanks to her, jenna_alatariel" and harmony_bites for comments and encouragement on previous parts. This chapter occurs sometime between Chapter Fourteen: 'Felix Felicis' and Chapter Fifteen: 'The Unbreakable Vow' of Half-Blood Prince
3. A Short Course in Sexual Ethics
Hogwarts, 14 November 1996
One minute, Draco Malfoy was slowly, carefully sketching the Moravannic Runes of Egress and Crossing onto the interior of the vanishing cabinet.
KABOOM!
The next, he was lying flat on his back, choking on hot, thick clouds of glittery purple smoke, which stank of brimstone and rancid patchouli. His wand, which had been blasted out of his hand by the explosion, boomeranged back and struck him on the head.
Coughing, he sat up and groped for his wand. It took three Banishing spells to clear away the smoke. When Draco scrabbled to his feet and saw the damage to the cabinet, he wished he had left the purplish haze in place. Four nights spent coating the cabinet in Flux Varnish. Four nights work, ruined. The finish was scorched, blistered and cracked. He would have to strip it, refinish it, and try again.
'Mugglefuck!' Draco swore, turning his wand on a cluster of nearby hexing dummies that Draco was fairly certain had not been there a moment before. He rapidly fired off a Reducto spell, an Acid Bath curse and a Bee-Bogey hex. Panting, he watched as one dummy shattered, the second melted and the third was consumed by a buzzing swarm.
December was two weeks away. He was no closer to fixing the cabinet than he had been in September. An errant image of a convulsing Katie Bell floated to the front of his mind. Fuming, he pushed it away. Bell had survived. According to the St. Mungo's orderly whom Draco had bribed, Bell was expected to make a full recovery. But if he didn't fix this Mudblood-buggered cabinet, he and his parents were going to die. The House of Malfoy would be forever extinguished, just like the House of Black.
Draco raised his wand again and shot a Cruciatus at a fresh dummy. As it wriggled and writhed in artificial excruciation, he tried to picture Dumbledore shaking and shuddering with ensorceled agony. He tried to picture Potter, keening and shrieking with torment.
He strove, with every ounce of will he possessed, not to imagine the Dark Lord screaming similarly.
Draco realized he was running, making bitter, furious laps around the Room of Requirement's motley obstacle course of bookcases, birdcages, scrollracks and trunks. His stomach was rumbling; he had skipped lunch to come here and try out the new Runes he had researched. He was hungry. He was angry. His heart was racing with fear and frustration. As he loped around a rather foetid mound of old Quidditch robes, a window suddenly appeared in the wall before him. Jogging in place, he gazed down onto the frosty shore of the school lake, where a bushy-haired brunette was walking-- uncharacteristically-- alone.
Mmmmm...Granger. Mudbloody goodness.
Draco had an irresistible vision: of archly-traded insults, soft, vanilla-scented flesh, and a cozy black nowhere beyond the reach of Death Eaters and werewolves. He cast a quick hunger-stifling charm to quiet his stomach, snatched up his bookbag, Accio-ed his cloak and raced to the door.
Hermione Granger paced along the lake, watching the giant squid splash about the surface. The freezing November wind whipped about her face and hair. She hugged herself and muttered a warming charm. It helped a little. Against the cold, at least.
Potions was in half an hour. The thought of Slughorn drooling with ecstasy over Harry's cheating made her shudder. She wondered if she could fabricate a sufficiently plausible excuse for skiving off.
Rather crazy, that: she, Hermione Jane Granger, was seriously considering skipping class. And not because a friend or the school or the entire wizarding world was in peril. But simply because she didn't think that she could face it.
There wasn't much she wanted to face, these days.
She hated her own room in Gryffindor Tower. Granted, it had never been her favourite place. But lately it had become intolerable. The mere sight of Lavender's things made Hermione want to scream. Every time she was in there she wanted to shred the gaudy pink duvet on Lavender's bed. Or set fire to the stacks of Strega Fashionista and Witch Weekly on Lavender's trunk, with their glossy covers featuring pouting, anorexic witches and vapid headlines like 'CARNAL CHARMS: 7 SPELLS TO DRIVE YOUR LOVER WILD' and 'WEIGHT LOSS POTIONS: WHICH SLIMMING ELIXIR IS RIGHT FOR YOU?' Or perhaps simply pour a two-litre bottle of dragonsdrool all over Lavender's overflowing crate of magical cosmetics.
She hated the Gryffindor Common Room. It was constantly infested with that sickening, slurping, snogging, tangled lump that comprised the glommed entity of LavenderAndWonWon. When it wasn't, it invariably contained a Harry. Who cared. And meant well. And was currently driving her barking. When he wasn't taking undeserved credit for the 'Prince's' work in potions, he was concocting endless conspiracy theories involving, well...Malfoy.
Which brought Hermione round to the third place she now hated.
The library. Her sanctuary. Her refuge. Hogwarts Castle's most perfect place, a warm and woody maze of bookcases, crammed with magical knowledge. It was where Hermione retreated to when Lavender and Parvati were being too horrid, or when Harry and Ron were being prats. It was where she felt most secure, surrounded by books and scrolls, able to look up the answer to every imaginable academic problem.
It was where she had recited that stupid Sumatran spell. Which had necessitated her having sex with Draco Malfoy.
Hermione hadn't been back since. A full week without entering the library-- periods of being confined to the infirmary aside, it was a term-time record of sorts. Hermione felt something akin to pangs of withdrawal, a physical yearning for bookstacks and parchment dust. But her aversion to revisiting the Scene of the Crime was stronger. Every time Hermione thought of going to the library, she remembered what had happened there with Malfoy; voila, the urge to visit Madam Pince's realm was instantly quashed.
No bedroom, no Common Room, no library. It was as if Hogwarts had been stripped of every safe or sacred space. Hermione fumed as she strode along the shore of the lake, barely seeing the frost-covered path in front of her.
Much less the dark-cloaked figure sprinting to catch up to her.
'ARGH!' Hermione yelped as she nearly collided with the tall blur of pale skin and inky blue wool. Stumbling backwards, her feet skidded on the icy path. With a squeal of dismay, she started to fall.
Into Draco Malfoy's waiting arms.
'Malfoy!' she spluttered, too surprised to immediately pull away. Hermione was just noticing the strange violet smudges on Malfoy's face and the faint, odd whiff of patchouli and spoilt eggs, when she recognized the sound of the syllables Malfoy was muttering mechanically. It was the ancient Sumatran Especially Secret Trysting Spell, she realized with alarm.
Then the world disappeared in a darkening swirl.
'WHAT WERE YOU THINKING, MALFOY?' Hermione shouted, as she tore away from him and spun round the disconcerting darkness, feeling for the walls.
'Please scream louder, Granger. I don't think they can hear you over in the next void.'
Gingerly backing as far away as possible from the sound of Malfoy's voice, Hermione dropped her bookbag and drew her wand.
'Lumos,' she and Malfoy both said, nearly simultaneously.
Hermione glared across the black void. Malfoy stood a metre away in the faint spotlight of his wand, his green dragonhide schoolbag sliding off his shoulder, his pricey new traveling cloak hanging open and slightly askew. His hair was uncharacteristically mussed and, yes indeed, his face was still smeared with that strange, purplish grime. But his chilly grey eyes were glinting with amusement and his mouth was curved in that classic, self-satisfied Malfoy smirk. The sight of it made Hermione's fury spike to new heights.
'THIS IS RAPE, MALFOY!' she bellowed.
Malfoy's eyes widened. And that odious smirk slid right off his pale, pointy face. 'No--it's n--' With a shudder, he shook his head violently. 'I-I don't rape women, Granger.'
'Oh? So what do call this then? Moderate ravishment? Nonserious abduction?'
'Granger, what's problem? It's just sex. You seemed fine with it last time.'
'Last time? Last time was an accident! This time, you knew!' Hermione shrieked.
Malfoy was staring blankly at her, as if she were speaking a foreign language. But of course, Hermione thought; for Malfoy, ethical reasoning probably was an entirely alien skill-set. She took a deep breath and tried to calm herself enough to explain the situation. In short, simple words a Slytherin could understand. 'When you recited the incantation this time, Malfoy,' she said slowly, 'you knew what would happen. You knew we would be stuck here. You knew that the only way out of the black void would be for me to sleep with you. That I would have no other choice but to sleep with you. That's sex by means of situational coercion, Malfoy. Otherwise known as rape.'
Malfoy's face blanched, paling even further than Hermione believed possible. 'I d-didn't...' he stammered, then stopped. He shrugged off his messenger bag and turned his back to Hermione, flinging his free fist at the weirdly elastic blackness in front of him.
His fist seemed to hit something, colliding against the dark surface with a thud. 'I thought...' Malfoy trailed off, and for the longest time simply stood there, as if waiting for the oddly adaptable darkness to supply the answer he needed. Finally, he turned back toward Hermione. 'You're right,' he said stiffly. 'I'm...' he paused, yet again, his voice hoarse and cracking.
She stared at him in the dim wandlight, nearly breathless, not quite able to believe what she was hearing. Was he actually going to say I'm sorry? Was Draco Malfoy going to apologize to her?
'It won't happen again,' Malfoy said finally.
Right. Hermione snorted softly to herself. The world wasn't coming to an end. Hell hadn't frozen over. And Draco Malfoy still hadn't apologized to a Muggleborn.
But he had come amazingly close. Given that it was Malfoy. And her.
He wouldn't look at her. It was as if he were genuinely embarrassed. He stood silently on the opposite side of the black void, seeming to lean against one of the spongy, mutable walls that stretched, softened and solidified as required. With a sudden sigh he slid down the wall, until he was sitting on the floor.
She watched him, marvelling. At him, at herself, at the both of them. She was angry. But she should be so much angrier. After all, this was Draco Malfoy. And almost sorry or not, he was still making her have sex with him.
And if he was actually abashed at his new understanding of the situation, it was only because she had used the 'R' word. Why wasn't she surprised, to learn that Muggle criminals and Dark wizard wannabes shared the same bizarrely chivalrous hang-up about sexual violence? Murder, torture, bullying and battery? Oh, they were all alright. But Merlin forbid they rape anyone. Oh no, that would just not be on, mate.
Gracelessly she plopped down onto the soft black floor. It was, she noticed absently, almost velvety to the touch. Then, with a hysterical chuckle, she buried her face in her hands.
For a while, they simply sat there in silence.
But then Malfoy-- being Malfoy-- had to ruin it by speaking. 'Granger. Last time-- you really didn't enjoy it at all?'
At that, Hermione curled tightly around herself, forehead pressed to her knees, hair cloaking her face, refusing to even acknowledge the question. Had she enjoyed it at all? Could he be more crass? More egotistically obtuse?
All week she had felt faintly...polluted. Nauseous and rather burpy, too, but that-- along with the four-day period that had come three weeks early-- Hermione had put down as a side-effect of the Contraceptive Cordial. But as for the other, well, how could she not feel dirtied? She had had sex--for the first time ever--with a boy who called her 'filthy' and 'Mudblood.' A boy who had wished her dead their second year. A boy who openly opined that she was a perversion and that her parents were little more than animals.
How could she not feel soiled? Knowing that that boy's lips had made her shiver and moan. That his fingers had brought her to a shuddering climax. That was the problem: Hermione had enjoyed it. At the time, that had seemed alright; a minor blessing, even.
But afterwards, that fact had been the worst part of it all.
Reading his pocket-watch by wand-light, Draco estimated that Granger had been silently sulking for a good six minutes. Which gave them exactly thirteen minutes more to fuck, perform the exit incantation, and get to Potions on time.
Then again, Draco supposed they could be late for Potions. Wasn't as if they were learning anything there anyway, aside from the degree to which a fat old pederast like Slughorn could bend his bulk to lick Harry Potter's famous arse. Draco kept a couple Skiving Snackboxes stashed in his messenger bag; though it pained him to admit a Weasley could do anything right, that Fever Fudge did come in quite handy.
Draco studied Granger, sitting on the other side of the black void, a dimly-lit ball of black wool and unruly brown hair. She hadn't raised her face from her little Muggle knees since she had--thankfully-- stopped shouting and sat down.
She had made him feel rather bad. Granger had shouted the word 'Rape,' and Draco had gone hot and flushed, his guts tightening and twisting sickeningly, as if his innards were trying to expel themselves. It was a surprisingly awful feeling. Nowhere close to the brain-bleeding agony of the Dark Lord's--or even his father's--Cruciatus, of course. But bad enough. And all too similar to the sensation he had, whenever he allowed himself to dwell for more than moment on Madame Rosemerta or that bloody Katie Bell.
The gorgeous irony of it was, he had grabbed Granger and recited the Sumatran Trysting spell to get away from all that. To spend just a few minutes not thinking about them, or the blasted vanishing cabinet, or about his father rotting in Azkeban, or about Fenrir Greyback molesting his mother or about his own future death by the Dark Lord's wand. To spend a few peaceful minutes in the black void, feeling...well, principally, feeling up Granger.
But the Mudblood did have a point: he had grabbed, not asked. He had assumed that Granger had found their first trip to the black void as diverting as he had. An assumption, to be fair, based on observed evidence: namely, the various noises, shudders and spasms Granger had made, all sounds and movements Draco had encountered before and previously learnt to interpret as A Girl Being Best Pleased With His Performance. Not to mention Granger's fairly enthusiastic kisses and caresses. Some of which had left marks. And rather persistent ones at that: Draco had had to slather them with Concealing Cream before keeping his usual appointment with Pansy in the dungeon broom closet.
But perhaps Mudbloods and Gryffindors were wired wrong; perhaps pleasure equalled pain in their mixed-up and muddy physiology. Or perhaps Granger's Gryffindor head was at war with her lithe and maybe slightly less Gryffindor body.
Still, he should have asked. Malfoys didn't rape. But be that as it were, they were here now. And in order to leave, they needed to shag. Draco slid off his cloak and clambered across the short expanse of the black void, sidling up to where Granger was sitting.
'Granger,' he prodded her arm with a finger.
She ignored him, rolling herself more tightly into that dark ball of cloak and robe and hair.
'Graaaan-ger,' he yodelled softly, and finger-combed the curtain of wavy tangles away from one side of her face.
'Weh gummphing be lateph Potions,' she mumbled, her face still curled into her knees.
'Yes,' he said, and stroked Granger's head. Her hair was an appalling mess, but rather fun to play with, so long and soft and springy and wild. So completely unlike Pansy's dark cap of hair, which was baby fine and perpetually charmed into place. 'Such a tragedy, to miss even a moment of the Horace Loves Harry Show. I may appear outwardly calm, but really, Granger, inside I'm weeping.'
It was a feeble jab at The Boy Who Got Away With Everything, but still, this was Scarhead's pet swot. Draco waited for Granger to stir and defend her Hero.
Nothing.
Then, with a sigh, Granger said: 'Weedon ebenhab bird control.'
'Bird control?' he asked, nonplussed.
'Birth control, Malfoy!' Granger said, her hair lashing Draco's face as she rather suddenly sat up. 'Honestly! For some of us, sex has consequences! And I don't fancy sitting my N.E.W.T.s whilst nursing a baby!'
Ah, Birth Control. What a positively Mugglish-sounding phrase. Given the fact that they bred like puffskeins, Draco had never been entirely sure that Muggles even grasped contraception as a concept. Though from Granger's ranting, he now gathered that they did.
'Relax,' and he massaged her shoulders for emphasis. 'I've taken care of that.'
Granger stiffened under his touch. 'You've taken care of it?' she repeated sceptically, shrugging off his hands.
'Granger, I'm a Malfoy. Do you really think I'd leave something as critical as the begetting of my heirs to the whims of casual sex partners?'
'How?' she demanded.
'The Exseminis Charm, obviously.' Draco watched, amused, as Granger's know-it-all face registered incomprehension, then quickly tried to hide it. 'You don't know about the Exseminis Charm, do you?'
'I--'
'But of course you don't,' he teased. 'In fact, is there anything about sex magic you do know?'
'Malfoy!' she said, growling rather adorably, like a half-grown lioness.
Draco slid one arm around her waist. 'I'll enlighten you: it banishes the sperm from the ejaculate. You know, when I was younger, I used to lie in bed at night and wonder where all the spelled-away sperm went. I mean, according to Jemmer's Law of Magical Conservation, unless the output of magical energy is massive, banished matter doesn't ever completely vanish.' He pushed back her hair and brushed his lips against her neck. 'Think of it. Somewhere out there, Granger, there's a gooey, wriggly Sperm Dimension.'
'Thanks for that lovely image,' she said dryly. But she was beginning to relax her body against his. And he could see that her lips were fighting not to smile. 'And when did you cast this, exactly?'
For someone whose hair looked as it did, Granger could be extraordinarily anal. He sighed, and toyed a bit more with her decidedly disordered tresses. 'This morning, as usual.' To be precise, right after his daily wank in the shower and before his shampoo.
'As usual? Just how much sex do you have?' She pulled away yet again and glared at him.
Trolls' bollocks.
Draco bit back the urge to note that he and the Mudblood were hardly involved. 'It's not what you think. I've been casting it daily since I was ten.'
'Ten?' Granger echoed incredulously.
'As a precaution against theft.'
'Theft?' Granger repeated again.
'Drop it. Believe me, your pristine Gryffindor mind doesn't want to know the sort of potions an enemy can brew, using a wizard's sperm.'
'Did you even have semen in your testes to charm, at age ten?'
Draco meant to tell Granger that the manly mysteries of Malfoy sexual development were not fit topics of inquiry for a Mudblood like her. He meant to suggest that she ask her beloved blood-traitor Weasel if she needed some part of the birds, bees and bugbears explained. But some other part of his brain took possession of his mouth and admitted: 'Not at first.'
Not until he was eleven, actually.
Granger's brown-eyed gaze was wide, intense, and a bit uncomfortable to endure. 'But, Malfoy, how do you bespell something your body doesn't yet have?'
'The plumbing was already present.' Why was he explaining this to her? Draco didn't know. Yet still his mouth kept moving. 'I just aimed the charm where the semen would eventually be.'
'But when it wasn't yet there?'
'It did sting a bit at first,' he conceded softly, remembered pain leaking into his voice. 'But Father said it was important to make it habit. Second nature. So there wouldn't be any accidents.' Impregnating a Mudblood like Granger being exactly that sort of intolerable mishap, he supposed. 'Or thefts,' he amended.
Of course, it had stung more than a bit, and every morning, until his equipment sufficiently matured. For a year and a few weeks following his tenth birthday, Draco had dreaded his morning trip to toilet, dreaded the burning pain of charming his balls, dreaded the drops of blood that sometimes dribbled out his penis. But when Draco had complained the once and only time about the pain, Father had suggested that if Draco couldn't manage this simple requirement, more extreme arrangements would have to be made. And Draco had heard the horrific rumours: about a Longbottom or possibly a Black, whose balls had been magically detached, preserved and stored at Gringotts by his parents until his betrothal to an appropriately pureblooded bride. So Draco had diligently done the charm, and endured the discomfort. Until that blessed day when he woke to find his cock had milked itself in the night; afterwards that morning, when he gingerly pressed the tip of his wand to his scrotum and performed the spell, he had felt nothing but a wondrously mild tickle.
But the above was all six years ago and utterly meaningless now, he told himself, excepting that this good habit continued to keep his seed out of any unsavoury potions and facilitated fucking a succulent but entirely unsuitable piece of arse like Granger. Who was staring at him disconcertingly. Her face had gone soft, and a tad glowy. Rather like it did right before she slopped a gush of affection on Potty or Weasel. It didn't bode well; sex was one thing, but he would surely have to hex her flat if she burbled Oh, Draco! and flung her arms around him in a squishy Gryffindor hug. Of course, given the way his mouth was currently betraying him, he might well mutter some mushy inanity and hug her back instead.
To forestall any such contingency, Draco abruptly announced: 'I suppose we should get on with it. The sex, I mean. If you're ready. If you need more time, of course--'
'No,' Granger said, eyeing him speculatively. 'I think I'm okay.' Then she leaned forward and planted her mouth on his.
Her lips were soft and tasted like coffee. Draco plunged one hand into that wild mass of hair that he could neither stop mocking nor touching, and pressed her hard against him. The black void stretched and softened and moulded itself around them as they grappled and groped, nibbled and sucked. Draco lost himself in a sea of sensation. And felt, for the first time in a week, as if he were somewhere far away from terror and threats and unmendable cabinets.
Felt, for the first time in a week, that he was somewhere he wanted to be.
Read Chapter 2: Runes and Ruination (revised)
Read Chapter 1: The Unorthodox Use of Reference Volumes