Never Mind Affection

Hermione Granger had done all the right things. She had made O.W.L.S. in all of her subjects. She was quite active in student politics. Loyal to her friends. Loyal to the Order. Head Girl. Resistant to vanity and the lasciviousness that tended to beset her demographic. She prided herself on being a completely levelheaded girl. Until now. And until now, she had also been completely in loathe with Draco Malfoy. He was an evil, corrupt, bastard of a human being. Completely ignorant of kindness. His intelligence was the only quality Hermione respected about him, though there were some things Hermione thought impeded his mental acuity. His arrogance, for one, his conceit and--as has become painfully obvious over the past few weeks--his randy, perverted and libidinous mind. She just couldn't fathom from were his sudden obsession came. Well, let's not say sudden. She'd noticed him glaring at her across the Great Hall or in potions all of first term. But she had assumed it was because she had made Head Girl and he hadn't been made. . . well, anything.

That day, the first time he kissed her, it had been after a particularly harrowing potions class. N.E.W.T. level was a killer--even for Hermione. She had stayed after class to argue a point with Professor Snape. By the end of the meeting she still had the same grade and 10 points had been taken from Gryffindor.

"Because of your insolence, girl!" Snape had hissed before turning her out on her ear. She had been fuming when she stepped outside of Snape's classroom in the deserted dungeons. Deserted, but for a solitary Slytherin. Draco Malfoy sauntered over to her offering his monogrammed handkerchief. She refused it, of course, but he cornered her--looking as though possessed--forcing his mouth onto hers. She had been shocked, appalled.

Aroused.

Which was extremely odd because she hated him. Her feelings based purely on the fact that he routinely threatened her life. The lives of her friends. To Draco Malfoy she was dirt. So, naturally, his repeated attempts to soil himself threw her off her center.

She needed him to act normal, again.

But more importantly, she needed to know why the hell he was acting like a muggle drug addict. A crackhead was what they called it in the States. And it was this need that allowed her--against her better judgment--to go along with Ginny's plan.

Curse that abominable Ginny. She was on the fast track to becoming a career criminal, Hermione could tell. Shifty eyed Ginny had assured her that the worst that could happen was that she'd get year long detention testing anti-venoms in Snape's dungeon or something.

She never thought she'd be removed as Head Girl.

Ginny apologized profusely. Groveled, really. Harry and Ron entreated Dumbledore twice a day for a week on the grounds that "Malfoy was a slimy git who needed to have his jewels ground up and transfigured into pixie dust." The quidditch team threatened to go on a hunger strike. Luna Lovegood actually did. All of the houses--except Slytherin, of course--were behind Hermione. But the fact of the matter remained. Hermione had acted in a manner that was unbefitting a Head Girl. The faculty took a vote.

"The operative word here, is head, Miss Granger," McGonagall said as she explained the verdict. "You were to lead and not to follow. You were expected to be a cut above, my dear. This sort of wanton behavior is exactly why Malfoy was not chosen as Head Boy." Hermione's face had been awash in tears in that meeting. How could she have let things get this far? How could she have allowed Malfoy's madness to infect her own mind? Now she was Head Girl-less and unable to concentrate on the simplest of things. She couldn't even enjoy her current fascination with female pirates.

"So?" Ginny Weasley invaded the solitary space Hermione had carved for herself in a dusty old section of the library no one ever visited, Historical Use Of Part-Human Bodily Secretions In Ancient Magical Household Remedies, except Hermione. And now, bloody Ginny Weasley.

"So, what?"

"So . . . You know what." Ginny kept glancing over her shoulder. As if anyone would be caught dead near these stacks.

"Oh, have a seat, will you," Hermione said irritably. "And since when did it become alright for you to speak to me, again?"

Ginny slumped down in a rickety old chair and flopped her bag onto the table, removing a brown paper sack. Placing it lovingly on the table, she waved her wand and the bag began to glow red. As it returned to its normal color, the smell of freshly roasted peanuts wafted over the two girls.

"Madam Pince will be beside herself, you know."

Ginny breathed deeply and dipped her hand into the warm bag, extracting a shelled peanut, which she promptly cracked, placing the contents in her mouth with satisfaction. She chewed for a moment and took another one from the sack before addressing Hermione.

"Look, Hermione, I would never have guessed you'd be sacked. For the love of chocolate, it's you! And it's . . . it's him!"

Hermione leaned forward, laying a hard gaze on Ginny. She regarded her peanut crunching mate for a moment before her look softened.

"Well, I suppose none of this is your fault, is it? Or Malfoy's, for that matter. It's mine for letting him--"

"Snog you senseless?"

"Ginny."

"I hate that smarmy prat, but I must admit he is altogether lovely."

"Ginny."

"Pretty. Like a girl, even. And those eyes!"

"Really, Ginny . . . yes, they are quite nice, aren't they?"

"MmmHmm. I wouldn't be upset with you, either, if you," Ginny leaned in conspiratorially, lowering her voice, "enjoyed it a bit."

With a wink, Ginny leaned back in her chair, feet propped on the table. Hermione chewed on her lip as she contemplated what she was sure Ginny had only meant as a taunt.

"The truth is," Hermione began, blowing out a long held breath, "I enjoyed it a bit more than a bit. I . . . it took my breath away."

Ginny stopped chewing.

"Honestly, Ginny, it's not like I planned it, or anything. It's just that. He was so. . . I don't know, and . . . and your brother has never really . . . I just . . ." Like being wanted for a change, Hermione thought. Really, really wanted. Passionately wanted. For a minute, nothing else had mattered to Malfoy, except being with Hermione. Not his father, not being evil. A roll in the hay with Hermione Granger was his singular, obsessive focus. Granted, he hated her and she him, but at least she knew where Malfoy stood. Which is more than she could say for Ron Weasley.

"It's insane, Ginny, I know, but. . . he was so. . . exciting."

Ginny twisted her lips to one side. "That doesn't seem to me, enough."

"Enough."

"To contemplate what you're contemplating. To consider what you're considering."

"I'm not. I'm not contemplating anything."

"This is me, Hermione."

"What are you a legilimens, now?"

Ginny did not answer. She simply reached into her sack of peanuts, pulled out a nut and slowly liberated the contents from its shell. Hermione sat back in her chair. Arms crossed. Brows furrowed as she watched Ginny chew with unblinking eyes.

And pick her teeth.

And flick a bit of dust from her robe sleeves.

Would she just say something, already? She was just sitting there, eating those wretched nuts like a blasted cow chewing its godforsaken cud! I know she's judging me. Everyone thinks I'm perfect. Hermione Granger, Bloody Patron Saint of Pedantry, and all that! Well . . . saints have needs, too.

"Okay, I admit it!" Hermione hissed. "I want to have sex, damnit, and with Malfoy to boot! At least with him I have the hopes of losing my virginity before the age of 30! If I ever reach 30 . . . or 20 for that matter!"

Ginny merely nodded at Hermione's outburst.

"Sex between two people that love each other is great. But sex for its own sake is just. It's meaningless. And how does that help end this war, Hermione? How does it help Malfoy become an actual human being? How does it help any of us?" Ginny Weasley folded up her sack of peanuts, dropped them in her bag and left.

Hermione just sat there, her hands folded demurely on the ancient table, considering the implications of her confession. And realized--with sufficient horror--that Draco Malfoy knew her better than she knew herself.

******

For the first time in his life, Draco Malfoy was unnerved. Jittery. Unsure. His fort had been compromised. He got up from the common room sofa where he had just finished reading his father's latest correspondence. Needless to say, father was not pleased with Draco's public debacle.

Draco,

At this crucial period in the movement, our cause needs as many capable operatives as possible. The only thing you have proven capable of is drawing attention to yourself. A skill, I assure you, He does not appreciate. This is no time to behave like some hormonal adolescent, boy. I expect a proper explanation in your next letter--as opposed to hearing about your exploits from the mothers of your schoolmates.

Lucius Malfoy

Surely, Draco had his plate full now. What with pursuing his . . . special purpose and fulfilling his destiny and all. He crumbled the letter in a clammy fist and walked over to the brown leather wing chair that stood by the fire. He sighed, chucking the letter in. He slid his hands along the buttery soft leather, allowing his fingers to graze the nailhead trim. Draco loved the feel, the smell of leather. He inhaled deeply, allowing the scent to calm him. Clear his head.

The sound of male voices snapped Draco to attention. He sat down hastily and grabbed a book that had been forgotten on the end table. Affecting an air of confidence and superiority that he presently did not feel, Draco began flipping through the pages. Feigning engrossment just as the voices entered the room.

Blaise Zabini and Theodore Nott walked casually into the dungeon and, upon seeing Draco perched by the fire, immediately headed his way. They both knew he never read for pleasure, nor did he ever study in the common room. A game was afoot and they'd be damned if they didn't stop and play a little.

"I see you're reading the classics, Malfoy," Blaise said, bending down to catch the title of Draco's book. "Pirate's Booty: Tales of Nautical Naughtiness on the High Seas. Excellent choice." Draco peered over the volume with poisonous eyes.

"Indeed, Malfoy, is this the sort of thing in which your Mudblood has you reduced? Leering over seedy novels?"

Maintaining his composure, Draco closed the book--damned first years--and gently replaced it on the end table.

"Gentlemen," Draco said while leaning casually on his palm, "to what do I owe the displeasure?"

"Nothing of consequence, really. Theo and I were just wondering if you've reclaimed your manhood, yet."

"Not to mention your pride."

"Well, then, you both should be pleased to know that I am . . . well endowed . . . with both." Draco inserted his trademark sneer for emphasis.

"Are you?" Theodore folded his arms, looking at Draco askance.

"Of course. I am, after all, a Malfoy."

"Isn't," Blaise paused for effect, placing a finger on his chin, "isn't your father a Malfoy, as well?"

"I do believe you're on to something, Blaise."

"Am I? Heavens, Theo, do you think Daddy Malfoy might be on to something as well?"

"On to something, Blaise? Do you mean like the facts that his only heir has been cavorting with a mudblood? And that he--he meaning you, Malfoy--allowed himself to be publicly debased by that same mudblood? Well, people do talk."

Blaise and Theodore moved from their positions in front of Draco to lean malevolently against either side of his wingchair. Blaise made little circles at the crown of Draco's head with his wand. Draco sat silently listening to their taunts, his fingers curling about the arms of his chair. It was clear his housemates were relishing the fall of his mighty, but he was determined to maintain the integrity of his façade.

Utilizing his seeker reflexes, Draco deftly relieved Blaise of his wand. Dignity. Always dignity, he told himself as he stood to face his tormentors.

"Excuse me ladies, but I don't have time for girl talk. I--unlike the two of you, obviously--have more important matters in which to attend." Draco tossed Blaise his wand and began to leave the common room.

"Worried, Malfoy?" Nott said as Blaise played with spinning his wand on his fingertip. "Afraid that your position with the Master has been forfeited?"

Draco paused and turned his head. So this is what it has come to.

"Everything is going according to plan, dear Nott, and my position, as you so delicately put it, is quite secure. Thank you for asking."

"Really. And what else are you planning to do, Malfoy," Blaise inquired somewhat absently as he continued his attempts at wand spinning, "locate your evil todger and present it to your Mudblood as a pledge that you've forsaken your dastardly ways?"

"Todger, Blaise? Is it that you're trying to be like a Weasley?"

"It's a funny word, Theo. Todger. See?"

"Honestly, Malfoy, your lust for this girl has made you utterly daft. You are no longer a formidable foe. You're just an asinine, sex addled shadow of your former self."

"I'm just killing two birds with one stone, so to speak. Have a little fun at her expense and spy on Potty. Spy on Dumbledore's minions. That's all."

"Of course. I'm sure He would appreciate relevant information, Malfoy. However, I don't believe He would appreciate such a blatant example of your. . . impotence."

Draco quietly willed away the hotness that was forming under his collar.

"Pity," Blaise laughed as the two slid past Draco into the boys' dormitory, "I'll bet this is the one time you wish you were a Weasley."

**********

Draco was still steaming over Blaise's comment. Draco Malfoy a Weasley! The thought made him retch. He made his way out of the dungeons. Out of the castle. It was dark and late and no one would see him. No one would inquire after the precarious nature of his estranged meat. It had been two days since the accursed incident and he still had yet to discover the whereabouts of his manlings.

Wished he were a Weasley! Please. In a test of inches Draco surely had the Weasel by a good three. Draco's jaw tightened. At least Weasley had one. If he were a Weasley, he'd have the Mudblood Granger and all of Pothead's secrets. Salazar, he did wish he were a Weasley! Damn that Granger. He would tear her apart with his bare hands . . . and teeth. Dear Merlin, what was the matter with him? He couldn't even conjure a proper evil thought, but amazingly--even without his love muscle--he was still extremely randy for his mudblood.

He had walked to the far edge of the forest where the grass was tall and leaning. He took off his cloak, and laying it down, spread himself upon it. His hands cradled the back of his head. His eyes transfixed by the magic of glittering stars. When had it all begun? Oh, yes, fourth year. The Yule ball. When Granger had managed to look like something other than a rabid chipmunk. She was stunning, actually. Her hair was sleek. Perfect. Her face glowed. That night he saw in her dignity, poise, beauty. He had never noticed it before. And when he saw her stroll in with that oaf, Krum, he was speechless. Not one insult. Not one snide remark. Not one malicious comment would stumble across his lips. Pansy had to close his mouth for him. She wouldn't speak to him for the rest of the evening.

For the next three years, whenever he encountered Hermione, Draco was always reminded of that night. Though she hasn't maintained that sort of grooming, she does at least groom, now. Her wild, frizzy bush has been replaced with sleek, tousled ringlets. She never wears make-up, but she at least manages to transfigure her one eyebrow into two. Instead of biting her nails, she bites her bottom lip, which gives it a lovely pout and a rosy hue.

And he hated her for this. For making him feel . . . this way . . . about a mudblood. About her. He just wanted to understand. To know her from the inside out so he could prove once and for all that she was not special; she was not different. But that she was worthless trash that shouldn't be allowed the use of a wand. Just as his father had taught him all these years . . .

"Am I that beautiful?"

Draco scrambled to a sitting position, having been startled out of his rumination by . . . Granger?

"I can read your mind, you know."

"What?"

"Your mind," Hermione said as if speaking to a five year old," I can read it."

"I know. I mean, I didn't know . . . but how?"

Hermione laughed at his sudden lack of sophistication. She leaned back on her elbows and stared up at the clear night sky. Her hair fell away from her shoulders, cascaded down her back. Draco couldn't tear his eyes from her.

"The spell. It's about your brain, not your penis. But since an adolescent boy's brain and penis are virtually inseparable . . . Well, you see what happened." Grinning like the Cheshire cat, Hermione turned to look at Draco who was now turned on his side, twirling a piece of Hermione's hair on his index finger.

"So it was a mistake."

"No," Hermione said mischievously, "just an added bonus."

Draco knew he should be angry, but he wasn't. He knew he should commit murder, muggle style right now, but he didn't. Instead, Draco lay on his back once more, enjoying the idea of having Hermione in his head.

"Did you find what you were looking for?"

Hermione didn't answer immediately. She turned on her side so she could look in his eyes. Those entrancing pools of gray. Her lips turned up in a rueful smile as she tickled Draco's nose with a blade off grass.

"Yes. What do you suppose I found, then?"

"The truth, I suppose." Draco swatted her hand away and repositioned himself so that they were now eye to eye."

"Yes. I found that."

"And what do you reckon?"

"You are infinitely more screwed up than I'd imagined."

Draco grabbed hold of another of Hermione's curls and began to twirl it about his finger, again.

"No one's supposed to know what goes on in there."

"Hence, the spell."

"You play dirty, Granger."

"You give excellent lessons, Malfoy."

They stared at each other for a long moment. Each marveling at the fact that the other hadn't attacked by now. A cool breeze invaded the high grass and the two shivered, gathering their cloaks about them for warmth. Draco looked down for a moment.

"This would be easier if I were Weasley, wouldn't it?"

"Yes, and a bit more interesting, as well. Draco Malfoy in the body of Ron Weasley!"

"My worst nightmare," Draco paused. "So . . .So, how do I find it?"

"Well, you don't, really. I . . . I sort of . . . lied about that."

"What?! You have it?"

"Well, no . . . not really. You'll find it. You'll find that it just came back, now that I've finished plundering your mind. The point was to keep you distracted so you wouldn't feel me poking around in there."

"So I'll be, you know, normal again, then?"

"As pompous and diabolical as ever."

"Just the way you like me."

"Yes."

Draco's eyes widened.

"You . . . you like me?"

"I'm as surprised as you are."

"But you hate me."

"And you hate me."

Draco reached out tentatively to cup her face. Hermione eyes dipped at his touch and he traced the line of her jaw with his thumb. Their noses were inches apart. Silence filled the short distance between them. Their lips touched softly, tentatively. It was different. And a torrent of. . . of something. Passion like water came rushing at them. And it was like they were drowning. Neither could breath. Neither could take in enough air to save their lives. And they inhaled and tasted and drank each other. They saved each other. Killed each other. Bodies became entwined beneath the stars, caressed by the crisp wind. Limbs tangled in a desperate embrace. And the two became one.

*******

Draco awoke with a start. His heart hammered at his rib cage. His cheeks rosy and hot. The feeling of another's touch on his skin. Another's scent in his nostrils. Vanilla and jasmine like a drug awakening his senses. Sweating and panting as if he had just . . . With . . . The remnants of an intense dream failed to ebb.

He remembered. He remembered everything.