By the Way Chapter Eleven

By the Way

By: Provocative Envy

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Author’s Note: You all may hate this chapter, simply because it’s so convoluted, but it’s my absolute favorite. Possibly of any of the stories I’ve written on this site. It’s…evocative. It also marks the beginning of the end for Hermione. How perfectly lovely.

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CHAPTER ELEVEN

It was midnight and I was alone.

The air was crisp, cool, and clean: it smelled so pure, so fresh, as if the rain that had fallen so steadily throughout the day could dispel all my regrets, all my mistakes, all my sins. And as I tucked my feet underneath my body, staring out at the glassy surface of lake, everything everything everything came back to me, all at once, all of it, all of it.

There I was, crying myself to sleep at eleven years old, wishing for a friend, a confidante, someone besides myself to wile away a Sunday afternoon with; there was Malfoy, mocking and cruel and oh, so very, very spiteful, saying my name with a little derision and a whole lot of hatred; there was Viktor Krum, looking into my eyes and telling me he liked me for all the reasons girls like me don’t want to be liked—oh, Hermione, but you have such personality.

There was Ron, lips red and puffy, emerging from that unused classroom, a giggling Lavender clutching his hand even as he wiped his mouth with it; there was Ron, staring at me with wonderment, or was it surprise, or was it excitement, I couldn’t even remember, but it was something, and he was coming towards me, the mistletoe above us brushing the top of his head even as it descended, our breath swirling together with so much heat, so very much heat; there was Malfoy, smirking, grinning, laughing, at us, at Ron, at me, at everything; there was Ron turning purple with rage, his arm tightening at my waist as Malfoy’s rich, superfluous chuckle permeated my sense of romance, tainting it, it seemed.

There was Ron, looking uncomfortable, pained, apologetic, even as he broke my heart, even as he broke my spirit, even as he normalized our entire relationship with those words that I would never forget, never be able to repress—it’s not you, really, it’s me; there was Malfoy, brimming with insincerity, begging me not to cry anymore, facilitating my collapse, my dreadful, agonizing collapse; there was Malfoy, baiting me, baiting me, standing in front of a window, until it started to rain; there was Malfoy, needling and taunting and provoking me, right up until I snapped, right up until I let go of that tiny piece of heartbreak and turned it into senseless, disparaging anger.

There was Malfoy, telling me I was perfect, answering all my questions just because I asked, and wasn’t that just the clincher for my insanity, all that simplicity, all that affirmation; there was Malfoy, calling me average, a stereotype, even, and then taking it all back, complicating things with his honesty; there was Malfoy, looking at me, looking through me, understanding the most basic of all my weaknesses—I was selfish, so selfish, so imperfect, but it didn’t signify, not to him, or was I just realizing the subtext of his words now, had he not really said that, oh God oh God oh God.

Malfoy, Malfoy, Malfoy: no, Draco.

Draco.

Draco.

He had so much power over me, always had, and it had never occurred to me to wonder why someone I expended so much energy reminding myself I hated, so much precious energy, could have such lasting, profound effects on me.

But then I heard footsteps on the wet, springy grass behind me, breaking into my reverie, my memories, causing me to look over my shoulder and gasp at who had materialized, as if by magic.

“What are you doing here?” I blurted out, immediately coloring.

He just shrugged, continuing to walk towards me until he reached my side and plopped onto the ground.

It didn’t seem to bother him that our thighs were touching: I felt every square millimeter of bodily contact so strongly, so intensely, that my heart felt as if it was spiraling out of control, dancing, dizzy, spinning and spinning and spinning.

“Why are you here?” he finally asked me, turning to look me in the eye, only to discover that our faces were close, too close, and I was so so so aware that his lips looked incredibly soft, that his cheeks looked scratchy, surely he needed to shave, but why was I even thinking about that, and why was I noticing, and why did I want, so very much, to reach out and touch him and feel that roughness for myself, and why couldn’t he just be straightforward again?

“Why are you making it so hard?” I whispered passionately, my eyes trained on his mouth, which was opening to reply, his tongue rolling forward to form a word, his lips pursed to form a question.

“What are you talking about?”

But he knew, I could tell he knew, just by the way his own gaze dropped to my lips, my mouth, just by the way his eyes swept across my skin, my face, my hair.

“Why are you making it so hard to hate you?” I burst out, my voice strangled.

And that was when I started to laugh, desperately, because I had all but admitted that I didn’t hate him, not anymore, which made no sense at all, since he’d been so horrible, so awful, so petty and mean to me for so long now, and turned me into this defensive, pathetic person that I couldn’t even recognize, let alone accept, and what did it say about me that I couldn’t even despise him for all that?

“Hermione.” Just my name, just once, so quiet, so unreal, so unfamiliar coming from him.

“What?”

“Nothing. I just like saying your name,” he responded softly, a half-smile decorating his face. “It’s…melodic.”

Before I could stop myself, I reached forward and trailed a finger down his jaw, marveling at how warm he was, at how much I wanted to push just a little more, until our lips melded and our breath mingled and I could feel him, all of him, against me, on me, in me, everywhere, everywhere.

I jerked backwards.

“I just want everything to go back to normal,” I pleaded, knowing even as I said it that nothing would ever be normal again, nothing would ever be the same, and wasn’t that just the most terrifying thought I’d ever had?

But it was too late to take it back, because his eyes had already darkened, and he was taking back the distance between us with a vengeance, his hands moving to my shoulders, his head angled as it descended to mine, and then he was kissing me, kissing me, kissing me, and it was so perfect, so delicious, so astonishingly amazing that the only thing I could do was kiss him back, arching into his embrace even as he pulled me backwards, on top of him, our hips grinding together as our lips fit together like puzzle pieces, over and over, our lungs on fire from lack of oxygen, but what did that even matter, really, when there was so much going on in other parts of my body that if I’d expired on the spot I don’t think I would have noticed, not really, especially when his hands were wandering, moving, whisper-soft against my skin, right until I felt his fingers pull the drawstring on my pajama bottoms.

And then I’d shoved myself off of him, my breath coming in short, awkward gasps, his own no better.

“Is that normal enough for you?” he inquired harshly, the sting of my rejection like a heady perfume in the night air.

I couldn’t even think, let alone speak in coherent sentences, and didn’t respond.

He snorted, disgusted: with himself or with me, I didn’t know.

“Don’t touch me again, Granger. As it is, I’m going to have to spend the next month in the shower to get clean,” he spat out, turning on his heel before he could see my reaction.

Which was odd, since he usually always liked to stay and savor his victories. His triumphs. His conquests.

But I couldn’t think of any of that just then.

It had started to rain, and the only thing I could think to do was run for cover, for shelter, for protection.

From the storm, of course.

Of course.

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