Snippet!
Because V-Star said that she doesn't like Hr/D and doesn't think that there can be good Hr/D without it being sexual and she doesn't like Hermione sexualiness (did I get all that right?), I decided to gift her with Hr/D that is non sexual. It came out weird. Of course, that may have to do with the reason that I am feeling very pissed off at my sister. Just imagine... Mwahaha. ::cough::
So enjoy and... don't get squicked! It has no romance! None! A first for me I think...
Title: Echoes Of A Lesser God
Characters: Hermione/Draco (non sexual)
Rating: R - for disturbing content.
Notes: I'm sorry for this.. truly
The third step squeaked.
She knew of this misfortune as she had been the cause of such a noise ever so often. Now though, she was prepared, she could deftly move over the spot and avoid a cacophony. No one knew she was leaving. No one would ever suspect. Her clothes were pure Gryffindor colors, as he had requested, a red sweater and tan pants dark enough to be gold. The sweater had a low neck; he wanted to see the necklace. Slowly, she slipped through the Common Room, the last few embers of fire dying in the stone pit. It was early in the morning and she knew no one to be up. They were tired; they were sleeping. She rarely slept anymore.
They met in the prefect's bathroom, of course. She arrived first like she always did: eager. Her hands were wringing in front of her, teeth worrying her bottom lip and lightly humming in such nervous gestures that did not become her. Her footsteps echoed and the light reflected off the filled bath, making her face awash in rainbows. With a shaking hand, she pushed strands of straggly hair away from her face: it was sweaty at the corners. She bounced on the balls of her feet, pacing.
A whoosh and then - the door opened. Her heart stopped in her throat and for one crystal moment, she believed it to be someone else. Excuses ran rampant through her mind as to why she would be out so late and she shouldn’t be punished -honest!- and she was very sorry and-
The light of the hallway caught in his hair. It shone brightly like the trail of a slug, absent from so much product to slick it back, now just falling in random strands. She was frozen, staring at him, eyes wide, and mouth just a bit slack. There was a shining line of tension to his body, gleaming much as his hair had, nearing the breaking point so much that she knew they had gone too long without. His hands looked so large now, so very strong in their delicateness. Girls could blissfully discuss the perfection of his hair or the straight line of his long thin nose, but no one mentioned his hands. They didn’t know of the strength in them, didn't know of the spatters of blood he washed them in.
"You're late," she whispered quietly, fighting for the audacity that usually laced her words. Anger twists his gentle Aryan features into something menacing, something familiar. Her legs are shaking down and her reflection doesn't show cleanly in the water.
"I get here exactly when I am supposed to." His words were cruel, harsh, biting like his father’s collection of weapons. Her head bowed in consent. Time was draining and she was worried that if they didn't get started on time, they wouldn’t have time to finish it all. She wriggled a bit more, moving forward.
It began.
His hand lashed out and caught her throat, fingers tightening impenetrably. She gasped, sucking air in through her nose. He ripped down the front of her shirt, searching for his marks from earlier and his thin lips curved for a cruel smile. Along the collarbone were dark purple bruises, shaped like fingers in a necklace around her entirety. Her fingers scrabbled at his wrist, blunt fingernails causing no damage to the lily-white perfection of his skin. She made sure to cut them every night before coming. The line of her mouth was turning a pale blue that could only be from asphyxiation and he didn't like when she passed out.
They were in the bath now. He was straddling her legs, thin thighs caught between his powerful knees and his elbows pressing heavily down on her chest. Water sloshed out, splashing over the floor. It would be slippery. Her eyes were wide and brown under the water, hair floating aimlessly around her. He leaned over and breathed into her mouth for a moment, watching his fingers wind through her hair. It was easy to pull now, easier to yank out and her mouth opened in wordless cries. More air. His teeth were showing from the exertion; she blinked several times.
With a physical strength that she severely lacked, he hauled them both out of the water, tumbling along the floor until they held the same position as in the bath, only she didn't need air this time. Didn't need air. He brought up her hands, holding the wrists so tightly together that the bones scraped. There were no screams but soft gasps; he twisted them harder, watching the blue lines of blood shift through the pale paper-thin tissue. Suddenly, he slammed them into the tile floor; making her jerk upwards and he shoved her head back down. The ocher tile with little blue cornflowers cracked beneath her skull. He lifted her wrists again, slammed them again, the tile cracked again, he smiled again. It happened once more, and again, then another, until finally there was a pop and her wrists bent at awkward angles.
Blood had not spilled yet, and that seemed to incense him even more. His hands dragged her up to her feet, her legs skidding beneath her as she tried to get her footing. It was lost; she fell. An outburst of rage emitted from his lips, left holding a clump of dark brown hair that made him grab her arms, fingers able to completely circle their width. His fingernails dug, drawing fresh blood that made temporary tattoos on her flesh. She could feel their bones rubbing against each other, hers from lack of tissue and his from so many of these occasions.
Using his advantage, he moved her so quickly that her feet were still standing near the bath when he flung her into the wall. But her feet didn’t matter much hanging several inches off the ground. It was the only time that she was taller than he, staring down into his dark grey eyes. There wasn't enough blood to satisfy him. Again, he plowed her into the wall, waiting for something to issue from her lips, waiting for the telltale sign of red to trickle down from behind her. Nothing. Nothing at all. His face twisted again, he moved her onto the floor, listening to the satisfying crack her head made against the tile. This time, it seeped; spreading over the thin mat teachers had placed to prevent slipping. Her eyes were getting glazed, but she blinked constantly, driving back the numbness. The pain was here to be felt. His eyes nearly sparkled at the red stream and his fingers dipped into it, painting it over her face, over his own. It was the only time he used his artist hands.
"Passing... out..." she called weakly, trying to watch him marvel at the bright red dash of color across his palm. There was a furrow to his eyebrows and he lost that delight, replacing it with a more familiar emotion.
"Remember the last time you passed out." He warned menacingly, moving down her body so he could rip at the untouched flesh of her legs. All it took was a small piece of glass, just a small piece that could do so much damage. The cold hard edge of something foreign against her skin was almost too real, almost too sharp for this.
Her throat hurt when she swallowed. The last time she had passed out he had waited for her to regain consciousness, then had stabbed her below the sternum, leaving her bleeding and dying in the bathroom. She had managed to reach her wand lying in the sink before anything drastic occurred. Ever since he had held the threat over her head, promising that the next stab wouldn't be in such an easily repairable location.
Somehow she was standing; her feet wobbly under her, she closed her eyes when he slapped her the first time. The sting was fresh, making her turn her head. The second came with his dominant hand, using the full force of his body and cupping his hand. With an echo, the slap made her fall to a knee, wavering so that she even put out a hand to balance herself. He grabbed that hand and pulled her up. It was the first time they had locked eyes that evening without the barriers.
"I brought my dagger." He said simply. There was no room in his clothes for both a dagger and a wand, so she knew what that meant. If there was damage to be mended, she was to do it herself. Her hands were slippery from blood that he had drenched his in, making her wipe them several times on her sweater before pulling out her wand.
"You were angry." Absent-mindedly said, discreetness lacking, she tucked a strand of hair back and pulled the drain on the bath. She would need a shower to get rid of all the blood tonight.
He threw a piece of folded parchment at her, folding his arms. "Mother has managed to get me letters from my father during their conjugal visits. Azkaban has really taken a turn for the worse."
"What did he say?"
He waved his hand as if it was no bother. As if. "The usual nonsense. Join the Dark Lord, kill a few Mudbloods, exact my revenge on somebody. That shit."
"Mmh." She tested the taps, nodding a bit. He noticed her distraction.
"What are you brooding about?" To this, she just shook her head, removing the sweater and setting it delicately on the toilet. He snatched her hands and made her look up at him. "I know why you do this," he nearly threatened. "I know that you feel so above them and so beyond them that you need this pain to bring you back. I know that, so don't even try to act as though I know nothing. I know you!"
Her eyes were blank, far from his fiery winter storms. "I'm not sure there's a me to know."
With a hiss, he released her arms, stepping back. It was his fear, she knew, his fear to be the unknown. His fear to walk into this world and forget everything he was. By just touching her, would he be contaminated too? Would he forget who he was? Or would the bitter truth come out, that he had never known who he was to begin with. She was taking off her pants now, folding them, and placing them atop her sweater.
"Next time?" He asked, voice still withdrawn as he neared the door.
Distractedly, she responded, "After the next Quidditch game we win. Or when Harry gets more points or Ron... or... tomorrow?"
"Tomorrow's short notice."
This time, she did look up, looking into his eyes almost questioningly. "You would decline the chance to beat up a Gryffindor?"
He was again in her space, again right up next to her and his hands had found their familiar place in a bruising grip around her arms. "A Gryffindor, yes. You, Hermione Granger, never. Never you.” And with that, he pushed her a final time, heading out and slamming the prefect door shut.
When Harry sat next to her the following day, he didn't comment on the bruises that he couldn't see, the huskiness to her voice he couldn't hear, or the damage he couldn't feel. Inside she was beaten, inside she was broken, but as long as she was below the greatness that was he, it didn't matter. She didn't matter.
Hermione looked out across the tables mindlessly, drinking from her cup but finding the taste bitter. As she watched, a slew of Slytherins entered, led by the infamous Malfoy who's hair gleamed so brightly it nearly blinded anyone who looked at him directly. He sat down, conveniently right across from her. Their eyes met and for a moment, she detected pain, sorrow, pity, and the need to comfort. But no, she shook that out of her head.
She may not know who she was, but he did.
And that was not who he was.
I hope you enjoyed that, now, leave a comment!!
So enjoy and... don't get squicked! It has no romance! None! A first for me I think...
Title: Echoes Of A Lesser God
Characters: Hermione/Draco (non sexual)
Rating: R - for disturbing content.
Notes: I'm sorry for this.. truly
The third step squeaked.
She knew of this misfortune as she had been the cause of such a noise ever so often. Now though, she was prepared, she could deftly move over the spot and avoid a cacophony. No one knew she was leaving. No one would ever suspect. Her clothes were pure Gryffindor colors, as he had requested, a red sweater and tan pants dark enough to be gold. The sweater had a low neck; he wanted to see the necklace. Slowly, she slipped through the Common Room, the last few embers of fire dying in the stone pit. It was early in the morning and she knew no one to be up. They were tired; they were sleeping. She rarely slept anymore.
They met in the prefect's bathroom, of course. She arrived first like she always did: eager. Her hands were wringing in front of her, teeth worrying her bottom lip and lightly humming in such nervous gestures that did not become her. Her footsteps echoed and the light reflected off the filled bath, making her face awash in rainbows. With a shaking hand, she pushed strands of straggly hair away from her face: it was sweaty at the corners. She bounced on the balls of her feet, pacing.
A whoosh and then - the door opened. Her heart stopped in her throat and for one crystal moment, she believed it to be someone else. Excuses ran rampant through her mind as to why she would be out so late and she shouldn’t be punished -honest!- and she was very sorry and-
The light of the hallway caught in his hair. It shone brightly like the trail of a slug, absent from so much product to slick it back, now just falling in random strands. She was frozen, staring at him, eyes wide, and mouth just a bit slack. There was a shining line of tension to his body, gleaming much as his hair had, nearing the breaking point so much that she knew they had gone too long without. His hands looked so large now, so very strong in their delicateness. Girls could blissfully discuss the perfection of his hair or the straight line of his long thin nose, but no one mentioned his hands. They didn’t know of the strength in them, didn't know of the spatters of blood he washed them in.
"You're late," she whispered quietly, fighting for the audacity that usually laced her words. Anger twists his gentle Aryan features into something menacing, something familiar. Her legs are shaking down and her reflection doesn't show cleanly in the water.
"I get here exactly when I am supposed to." His words were cruel, harsh, biting like his father’s collection of weapons. Her head bowed in consent. Time was draining and she was worried that if they didn't get started on time, they wouldn’t have time to finish it all. She wriggled a bit more, moving forward.
It began.
His hand lashed out and caught her throat, fingers tightening impenetrably. She gasped, sucking air in through her nose. He ripped down the front of her shirt, searching for his marks from earlier and his thin lips curved for a cruel smile. Along the collarbone were dark purple bruises, shaped like fingers in a necklace around her entirety. Her fingers scrabbled at his wrist, blunt fingernails causing no damage to the lily-white perfection of his skin. She made sure to cut them every night before coming. The line of her mouth was turning a pale blue that could only be from asphyxiation and he didn't like when she passed out.
They were in the bath now. He was straddling her legs, thin thighs caught between his powerful knees and his elbows pressing heavily down on her chest. Water sloshed out, splashing over the floor. It would be slippery. Her eyes were wide and brown under the water, hair floating aimlessly around her. He leaned over and breathed into her mouth for a moment, watching his fingers wind through her hair. It was easy to pull now, easier to yank out and her mouth opened in wordless cries. More air. His teeth were showing from the exertion; she blinked several times.
With a physical strength that she severely lacked, he hauled them both out of the water, tumbling along the floor until they held the same position as in the bath, only she didn't need air this time. Didn't need air. He brought up her hands, holding the wrists so tightly together that the bones scraped. There were no screams but soft gasps; he twisted them harder, watching the blue lines of blood shift through the pale paper-thin tissue. Suddenly, he slammed them into the tile floor; making her jerk upwards and he shoved her head back down. The ocher tile with little blue cornflowers cracked beneath her skull. He lifted her wrists again, slammed them again, the tile cracked again, he smiled again. It happened once more, and again, then another, until finally there was a pop and her wrists bent at awkward angles.
Blood had not spilled yet, and that seemed to incense him even more. His hands dragged her up to her feet, her legs skidding beneath her as she tried to get her footing. It was lost; she fell. An outburst of rage emitted from his lips, left holding a clump of dark brown hair that made him grab her arms, fingers able to completely circle their width. His fingernails dug, drawing fresh blood that made temporary tattoos on her flesh. She could feel their bones rubbing against each other, hers from lack of tissue and his from so many of these occasions.
Using his advantage, he moved her so quickly that her feet were still standing near the bath when he flung her into the wall. But her feet didn’t matter much hanging several inches off the ground. It was the only time that she was taller than he, staring down into his dark grey eyes. There wasn't enough blood to satisfy him. Again, he plowed her into the wall, waiting for something to issue from her lips, waiting for the telltale sign of red to trickle down from behind her. Nothing. Nothing at all. His face twisted again, he moved her onto the floor, listening to the satisfying crack her head made against the tile. This time, it seeped; spreading over the thin mat teachers had placed to prevent slipping. Her eyes were getting glazed, but she blinked constantly, driving back the numbness. The pain was here to be felt. His eyes nearly sparkled at the red stream and his fingers dipped into it, painting it over her face, over his own. It was the only time he used his artist hands.
"Passing... out..." she called weakly, trying to watch him marvel at the bright red dash of color across his palm. There was a furrow to his eyebrows and he lost that delight, replacing it with a more familiar emotion.
"Remember the last time you passed out." He warned menacingly, moving down her body so he could rip at the untouched flesh of her legs. All it took was a small piece of glass, just a small piece that could do so much damage. The cold hard edge of something foreign against her skin was almost too real, almost too sharp for this.
Her throat hurt when she swallowed. The last time she had passed out he had waited for her to regain consciousness, then had stabbed her below the sternum, leaving her bleeding and dying in the bathroom. She had managed to reach her wand lying in the sink before anything drastic occurred. Ever since he had held the threat over her head, promising that the next stab wouldn't be in such an easily repairable location.
Somehow she was standing; her feet wobbly under her, she closed her eyes when he slapped her the first time. The sting was fresh, making her turn her head. The second came with his dominant hand, using the full force of his body and cupping his hand. With an echo, the slap made her fall to a knee, wavering so that she even put out a hand to balance herself. He grabbed that hand and pulled her up. It was the first time they had locked eyes that evening without the barriers.
"I brought my dagger." He said simply. There was no room in his clothes for both a dagger and a wand, so she knew what that meant. If there was damage to be mended, she was to do it herself. Her hands were slippery from blood that he had drenched his in, making her wipe them several times on her sweater before pulling out her wand.
"You were angry." Absent-mindedly said, discreetness lacking, she tucked a strand of hair back and pulled the drain on the bath. She would need a shower to get rid of all the blood tonight.
He threw a piece of folded parchment at her, folding his arms. "Mother has managed to get me letters from my father during their conjugal visits. Azkaban has really taken a turn for the worse."
"What did he say?"
He waved his hand as if it was no bother. As if. "The usual nonsense. Join the Dark Lord, kill a few Mudbloods, exact my revenge on somebody. That shit."
"Mmh." She tested the taps, nodding a bit. He noticed her distraction.
"What are you brooding about?" To this, she just shook her head, removing the sweater and setting it delicately on the toilet. He snatched her hands and made her look up at him. "I know why you do this," he nearly threatened. "I know that you feel so above them and so beyond them that you need this pain to bring you back. I know that, so don't even try to act as though I know nothing. I know you!"
Her eyes were blank, far from his fiery winter storms. "I'm not sure there's a me to know."
With a hiss, he released her arms, stepping back. It was his fear, she knew, his fear to be the unknown. His fear to walk into this world and forget everything he was. By just touching her, would he be contaminated too? Would he forget who he was? Or would the bitter truth come out, that he had never known who he was to begin with. She was taking off her pants now, folding them, and placing them atop her sweater.
"Next time?" He asked, voice still withdrawn as he neared the door.
Distractedly, she responded, "After the next Quidditch game we win. Or when Harry gets more points or Ron... or... tomorrow?"
"Tomorrow's short notice."
This time, she did look up, looking into his eyes almost questioningly. "You would decline the chance to beat up a Gryffindor?"
He was again in her space, again right up next to her and his hands had found their familiar place in a bruising grip around her arms. "A Gryffindor, yes. You, Hermione Granger, never. Never you.” And with that, he pushed her a final time, heading out and slamming the prefect door shut.
When Harry sat next to her the following day, he didn't comment on the bruises that he couldn't see, the huskiness to her voice he couldn't hear, or the damage he couldn't feel. Inside she was beaten, inside she was broken, but as long as she was below the greatness that was he, it didn't matter. She didn't matter.
Hermione looked out across the tables mindlessly, drinking from her cup but finding the taste bitter. As she watched, a slew of Slytherins entered, led by the infamous Malfoy who's hair gleamed so brightly it nearly blinded anyone who looked at him directly. He sat down, conveniently right across from her. Their eyes met and for a moment, she detected pain, sorrow, pity, and the need to comfort. But no, she shook that out of her head.
She may not know who she was, but he did.
And that was not who he was.
I hope you enjoyed that, now, leave a comment!!