Losing you
Title: Losing You
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: Dramoine
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Don’t own a thing
Author’s note: written for the dramoine Christmas fix challenge. Should contain: fairy lights, an ornament, a snowflake and a kiss.
Word count: 1,300
“Damned Granger, that was a perfectly good essay and you know it.” Hermione smirked as she saw the essay dissolve. “Well, then, you’ll know what to do tonight. I’m sure Professor Snape will be enough of an ass not to give you an extension.” She turned and walked away. “As a matter of fact, I bet I get the highest grade again, this year.” Draco growled as he watched her walk away. Prissy Mudblood princess. Always got in his bloody way. Damn fine ass though. He sighed and headed to his dorm.
He couldn’t help but wonder when things had gotten the way they were. Harry and Ron seemed futile now, appendages to his new-found nemesis Hermione Granger. She knew how to push his buttons and she knew how to do it with an attitude. And she knew it got him aroused. She counted on it. “Damn her,” he cursed to himself, using quite a simple spell to have his essay returned to him in one piece. She must know about this spell. So why ruin the essay? He sagged into his chair, staring at the fire, as he reminisced how it all began.
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Christmas celebrations had been in full swing. The Grand Hall was decorated with fairy lights, the ornamental decorations all about Santa and presents. It had annoyed the hell out of Draco. His father refused to lower himself to join the masses in this “childish display of” -Slytherin forbid- “good spirit”. So he had chosen not to sit in said Hall and sauntered over to his favourite spot by the lake.
Of course, it had annoyed him beyond compare to find a certain curly-haired blonde sitting there, comfortably, in his exact spot. He had not liked that at all. So he had stomped towards her, planning on demanding exactly what a Mudblood was doing in his spot, but when she had looked up to him, red-eyed and pale, no sound would pass through his lips. Instead, he had sat down beside her and asked her, gruffly, but not unkind, what was wrong. Hermione had frowned, but told him anyway. “My grandmother is really sick. Doctors aren’t sure she’ll make it through Christmas.” He didn’t know about doctors, but he did know about grandparents getting sick. The mediwitches hadn’t been able to do a thing about it. And so his favourite grandmother -the sane one, he thought bitterly- had passed away in the stretch of a few months.
So he had sat there beside her, not wanting to touch, but still being kind enough to just be there. An hour or so later, she had gotten up, thanked him quietly and left Draco to his grim thoughts.
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He still didn’t know why he’d shown her kindness then. But it had become a regular thing. If one would notice sadness in the other, they would signal each other and sit out there by the lake. Sometimes they had even talked. Draco found it remarkably easy to confide in this young woman. She seemed to really listen and sometimes she had even given some half-decent advice.
When her grandmother had actually died in spring of the next year, she just couldn’t be comforted. So he had done the unthinkable and reached out to her, cradling her in his arms until the sobbing subsided. His shirt had been wet and her eyes puffy, but somehow it hadn’t mattered at all. She had given him a small apologetic smile and then chose to ignore him for months. Perhaps she was angry with him for trespassing onto her turf. Or maybe she had just been embarrassed to have shown so much feeling in front of her so called enemy.
All of it had set off their current state. One day he had decided to draw the feeling out of her, sending her -and her precious books- flying as he tripped her easily. Her eyes flashed in anger and she had used her wand to thoroughly remove his robes. As a matter of fact, she had blasted them off his body. Luckily for him he didn’t wear embarrassing boxers, but the act had led to him being ridiculed for several weeks. All he could think about at the time however, was how the desire had burned in her eyes at seeing him half-naked.
So he had defied her, provoked her, until they had ended up in each other’s arms in the down stairs janitor’s closet. She had practically ripped his clothes of -by hand this time-, bruising his lips with hers, all the while throwing insults at him. He had gotten high off her anger; he lusted after her mind and body as she screamed profanities at him, his desire throbbing inside her as he fucked her brains out.
They didn’t talk about their feelings. Ever. They shared their spot at the lake and their closet on the ground floor. But they never spoke about the intensity of their kisses and how maybe they didn’t hate each other at all.
And so today, she had done it again. She had ruined his essay and expected him to follow her to that damn closet. Again. But he couldn’t make himself go. His pants were too tight and he could damn well do with a good shag, but somehow, today, that wasn’t enough. She had talked so intensely about how Christmas was her favourite holiday and how one day she hoped to share it with the love of her life. So why would she choose sex in a closet over all out lovemaking in a luxurious big bed with a man of her choosing?
The realisation that he wanted to have her in his luxurious big bed caught him off guard. Would he really go that far? Would he admit to liking her enough to want to ‘make love’ to her? He sighed, looking at the flames once again. Then he got up, leaving the dorm in search of a closet.
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The next day, he headed out to the lake, hoping Hermione wouldn’t be there. But when he saw her locks reflecting the light of the snow, his heart leaped. He secretly knew she couldn't have been anywhere else. Draco considered turning around, but trotted through the snow towards her anyway. She gave him a hint of a smile as he sat down beside her.
“Do you ever tire of it?,” he asked. “Tire of what, Draco?” Her voice was soft, as if she didn’t want to disturb the peace around her. Draco. The sound of his name on her lips. He wasn’t sure he’d ever not get warm and fuzzy hearing it. He shrugged it off. “This game we play. The pushing and pulling. The random sex. The teasing, knowing the consequences.” He looked at her sideways. “The fact that we never, ever talk about what we really feel.” She paled visibly. “What’s there to say, Draco?” Again, that sweet sound. “We don’t want anything more than this, do we? Imagine the implications of it. Harry and Ron would skin me alive.” Hermione looked at him now, her bright eyes pleading. “Why would we change it? I wouldn’t survive…” She swallowed hard. “I wouldn’t survive losing you.” She quickly looked away, staring over the half-frozen lake.
He looked at her, hard grey eyes turned soft by her words. “Losing me?,” he repeated. Hermione merely kept staring in front of her. “Hermione, look at me,” he said. When she didn’t react, he grabbed her hand. “Look at me!” he demanded. She turned her face towards him, but looked at the snowflake in between them instead of looking into his eyes. The tragedy on her face was so beautiful. He reached for her chin, cupping it gently as he brought his lips to hers. She was startled by the softness of the gesture, but as she felt the ache in her stomach, she pulled him into the kiss deeper, her hands in his hair, begging him not to leave.
New beginnings always seemed to start with a kiss.