A Day and A Night

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WARNING ON THIS CHAPTER: A/N: A slight warning for this chapter…I have never written a scene in any of my stories that glorifies rape, or abuse of women, and I never will. That being said, the first part of this chapter has a strong warning because it has a scene of rape, which I tried to handle without too much graphic detail, and in which I hope does not offend anyone.

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Chapter 22: A Dream and a Reality:

Draco ran his hands down Hermione’s body as she cried and fought against him. Though he was excited, he could tell that he repulsed her, repelled her, and instead of making him ashamed, it made him angry, which made him desire her even more. He pulled her violently toward him, because he didn’t care if she was afraid, and he didn’t care if she was revolted, he only cared about his own want, his own arousal, his fingers on her flesh, his mouth against hers.

He took a handful of her hair and pulled her head backwards so that her neck was exposed. He inhaled her scent, buried his head in the crook of her neck, parted his lips, and gave into the hunger and yearning. He bit down hard, drawing blood, and he sucked it in, desire sweeping him higher and higher.

“I want you so much, Hermione,” he growled. She cried, and fought against him, and it incensed him, and provoked him even more. He ripped her nightgown in two, pulling it off her body, exposing her swell of breasts to his mouth and gaze. He licked his way across the tops, even as he pulled the gown down her arms.

She slithered from his grasp, running for the door, but he was quicker, and he caught her. He slammed the door shut even as he pushed her against the back of the door. He spun her around.

“Stay away from me!” she yelled.

He reared back his hand and hit her across the face, so that she would just be quiet. He wanted her! Couldn’t she see that? His lust was fierce, and was all jumbled up with his frustration and anger. He felt every emotion tenfold, he did not understand why she did not understand what he wanted, and why she didn’t feel the way he did. Why was she still so afraid? She wanted this too! He knew she did.>

He dug his fingers into her upper arms, even as she kicked at his shins, and yelled and screamed. He turned her around and pulled her into the middle of the bedchamber. He yanked her head back again, even as he held her tighter against him. He kissed her so hard that he drew blood on her bottom lip, and then he licked away the blood. She wrestled one hand free and dragged her nails down his face, drawing his blood, which made him want her more than she could imagine.

He felt wild and insatiable. His clothes soon joined her torn nightgown on the floor, and somehow, they were suddenly in the chamber of the old castle. He backed her against the door to that room, even as she continued to beg him to stop. Her skin showed the signs of his cruelty…it was red from his kisses, bruised from his hands, bleeding from his brutality.

He picked her up and threw her on the hard floor, incredibly aroused. He joined her, his body enveloping hers as she pushed against his shoulders, and cried out in pain and anguish, but it fueled him even further. He was beyond all reason. His hands went from her breasts, to her waist, to her hips. Then he positioned himself at her opening, parting her legs with his own and he impaled her without warning, his mouth moving mercilessly across hers. He was vicious, mindless, intense, moved by violence, not love, not passion, nothing but desire and want. He plunged into her with sadistic, hard, angry strokes, seeking satisfaction, oblivious to her cries of pain.

When he was almost done, his anger ebbed away from exhaustion and overwhelming pleasure, he still felt empty, deprived, depleted, and he didn’t know why. He instinctively looked down at her, but it was as if she was no longer under him.

She was so still. Her hesitation, her paralyzing fear caused him to stop completely. His arousal ceased, as if someone had stabbed him with a knife. He looked down at her pale face, tears streaking her cheeks, eyes turned away from him, and he suddenly felt ashamed. He was still inside her, but he said her name, “Hermione.” He said it again. “Hermione, are you afraid of me?”

She looked up at him, and then, she shivered. She melted away, and he was alone.



Draco woke up with a start, confused and afraid. He looked out the window and saw that it was still light out, although it was late afternoon. He noticed that it had begun to rain. Sitting up on the bed, he wiped sweat off his brow and upper lip. He placed his feet firmly on the floor and tried very hard NOT to think of the nightmare he had just had. It was to no avail. He stood up, went over to the trash bin in the corner of the room, and vomited.

Then he sat on the floor, and cried, still confused, and still very much afraid.

Hermione sat in the window seat of the tower room, and she cried. She felt confused, and for some reason, afraid. She had been sitting in the same position for the last half an hour. When she first returned from the old castle, Milo had insisted that she see a Healer, which she had. Then he had insisted that she have some lunch, which she did. Then he had insisted that she have a bath, which she did.

Then she had insisted that he leave her alone, which he did. After her bath, she wandered down the long corridor from the bathroom, past the door of her bedroom, past the door of Draco’s bedroom, and stopped. She wondered if he was inside. She placed her hand on the flat wood and was about to knock, but inexplicably, did not. Instead, she went to the tower room on the third floor and decided to work on the case.

This was where she was still, except she hadn’t gotten any work done. Instead, she picked up the book of folklore and began to read. After reading two of the stories, she sat down on the circular window seat of the turret and that was where she remained. It had begun to rain, and she was watching raindrops race each other down the wavy glass of the old, tall, thick-paned windows.

She didn’t know what else to do.

Draco walked into the office, saw her in the turret, sitting on the window seat, and he almost turned around and walked away. She had her hand on the cold glass, her fingertips following the path of a raindrop. Her hair was still slightly damp, as if she had just taken a shower, and the room was cold, the glass of the window, foggy. He knew that she had heard him walk into the room, though she had yet to face him.

This was good; because he wasn’t sure that he could face her. He didn’t know what to do. He was afraid of hurting her again, yet somehow, here at Rhodeana castle, away from the evilness of that chamber in the old castle, he felt safer, so he knew that she was safer. He walked closer to her and, finally, he said, “Your hair is still damp. Did you take a bath?”

“Yes, I did. You’re so observant,” she said, while not even looking at him. She continued to look at the rain.

He stood close to where she sat, touched the window with his fingertip and he said, “Five sickles that the raindrop under my finger reaches the bottom before the one under your finger.”

She looked up at him and said, “You’re on, Malfoy.”

They both removed their fingers from the window and watched their own raindrops as they traveled down the glass on the other side, each one merging with others on their trek down the frosty glass. Then, in a cruel sense of irony, or a cruel sense of fate, the two dueling raindrops merged into one before either could win the race. The merged drops reached the bottom of the glass together, and then went to places unknown.

“I guess no one wins,” Hermione said.

“Just my luck,” Malfoy said. “I could use those five sickles, too.” He sat on the other side of the turret’s window seat, as far from her as he could, his recent dream fresh in his mind. “How’s your knee?”

“Fine, the Healer fixed it right up, as well as my hand.” Hermione looked at her hand, but didn’t show it to him.

“Do you know how Iver is doing?” Draco asked.

“I don’t know. I’m worried about him, but I don’t know,” she answered. “I asked Milo, and all he would tell me was not to worry.”

He sighed, and then said, “I just wrote an Owl to Harry Potter. I asked him to relieve us both from the case. We're to return to London the day after tomorrow, and then I asked him to send two other Aurors. Milo’s agreed to it.”

She moved her legs from the window seat, and leaned toward him and said, “You had no right! You can’t decide these things for me! If you want to give up, give up, but I’m staying.”

“You aren’t,” he insisted. “We aren’t. I told Potter everything. I think Iver is our prime suspect, and he’s probably going to be arrested, so there’s not much of a case left anyway.”

“You’re a fool if you think Iver is the murderer,” she said, but she said it without malice. She stood up and walked over to the table. She sat down, picked up a book and said, “Come here a minute.”

“No,” he snapped.

“Just come here. I want to show you something. It’s been bothering me, and I just want to show it to you.”

He stood up and shouted, “NO! It’s over. Stop looking for more clues. Iver is the killer and we’re getting the hell away from here!”

He stormed toward the door, but to his surprise, she was right behind him. She slammed the door shut as soon as he opened it. He whipped around to look at her and said, “What are you doing? Don’t slam doors shut when I open them!”

Hermione rolled her eyes and said, “Doesn’t feel good, does it?”

“Granger, we are not having this conversation,” he began, then he placed his hands on her shoulders and pushed her away from him, “and frankly, you're standing a bit too close.”

“Too close?” she argued.

“Yes, a bit too close!” he snapped back.

“How are we going to have a date tonight if I can’t stand next to you?” she spat.

He drooped against the door, his back against it, shocked. “You still want to go on a date tonight?”

Now she looked shocked. She moved over to the table, leaned against the side, and countered, “You
don’t still want to go on a date tonight?”

He took several steps back into the room and explained, “You were almost killed today!”

She waved one hand in front of her face dismissively. “I’ve been almost killed so many times since our little adventure here began, I can’t even count that high. What does that have to do with anything?”

How could he tell her that he was afraid that he might hurt her again?

“What did you want me to see?” He changed the subject, but she was getting her way, so she didn’t seem to mind. She stood from the table, sat in one of the chairs, and pulled over the book of folktales. She fanned through the pages of the opened book and stopped at a story.

She pointed to the title. He leaned over her shoulder and read aloud, “The Lost Prince.” He sat in the chair at the end of the table, directly to her right, and pulled the book to him. He began to read. A frown presented itself on his face, and became bigger and bigger. He slammed the book shut after reading only a few pages and said, “So?”

“That story sounds familiar, doesn’t it?” she asked. “It could be about you. Prodigal son, unaware of his heritage as the lost prince of one of the clans, comes back to claim what’s really his.” She took the book back from him and said, “I’ve been using my time wisely this afternoon, reading a couple of the stories from this book, and I think all of the stories are a bit too coincidental. All of them seem to pertain to us, or to Milo and Iver, to Cat and her father, to Andre and Katrina, even to Milo’s parents. A few, by the titles alone, even seem to be about the dead girls.”

He leaned back in his chair, the old wood creaking against the added weight on the back legs, and he crossed his feet, placing them on the corner of the table, his hands behind his head. “So what are you saying? Are we fulfilling some sort of destiny or something? Or that I really am Prince Rude?”

She swatted at his feet, pushing them to the floor, and said, “Rude is right.”

“What
are you trying to say then, Princess?” he asked snidely.

“This book is more like a clue than a prophecy,” she declared.

“That book is probably a hundred years old!” He grabbed it back from her and he added, “The binding's old and worn, the pages yellowed, and if you look at the publication date in the front,” he turned to the front, “it was first published in 1903.”

“Exactly, Malfoy, and why was there an old book on Glendora folklore in a bookstore in Dorchester that only had new books?” she asked.

“Maybe it was new at one time, but since everyone at Dorchester hate the people of Glendora, it’s been sitting on the shelf for years,” he reasoned.

“For a hundred years?” she asked. “Come now, this was written by a V.Edgewater, at least that’s the author’s name. That has to stand for Violet. That’s what we assumed in the beginning, remember?”

“Violet was named after a distant relative, apparently, and it was written by her relative,” he said, grasping at straws. “There are other names that start with V. Victor, Victoria, Vivian, Venus, Vincent, Vladimir.”

“Vladimir?” she asked. “That’s a good vampire name.” She smiled. “Seriously Malfoy, this was planted. This isn’t an old book, and I bet if I go into the village tomorrow and question some of the elders about the stories in here, they'll never have heard about some of them. I bet only the ones on Andre and Katrina are real. Violet couldn't talk about the people of this village so she wrote about them!”

“SO WHAT?” he asked, frustrated. He ran his hands through his hair. “What does a book have to do with anything?” He picked the book up again and tossed it on the floor.

“If someone is toying with evidence, planting false evidence, they might be leading us astray. There might be other false evidence. I want to do some tests on the pages of this book tomorrow, to determine if the parchment is old or not.” She leaned down and picked the book up from the floor. She placed it back on the table and said, “Now, what do you have planned for our date tonight.”

“Packing. We’re packing tonight, so that we can leave the day after tomorrow,” he said harshly. He put his feet back up on the table, pushing several of her folders off the table in the process.

“Why are you being surly again?” she asked.

“Surly? That’s a new one,” he said to himself. He looked at her and said, “Granger, you can take the book back to London, and decipher it, take it apart, and sew it back together, but from London.”

“I’m staying,” she said softly. “I’m employed by the University, not the Ministry, so neither you nor Harry can dictate to me what I do.” She stood up and walked up to his chair, placing her hands on his shoulders. He crossed his arms in front of him, in an obstinate manner, staring at the air in front of his face, keeping his feet crossed on the table. He was trying to ignore her.

She let one hand travel up from his shoulder to his hair. She ran her fingers through his hair, and it felt so soft and gentle that he closed his eyes for a moment.

She took hold of his trouser leg, from the leg that was on top of the other leg, and moved it to uncross his legs. She then moved his left leg to the floor, then his right. He moved willingly. Then to his utter shock and amazement, she sat on his lap.

From his lap she said, “Listen to me, Malfoy. We're on a case. We're onto something and we're staying. We are staying, not just me, but we. I need you here because I need you. Not to protect me, and not because I can take care of myself, although this is the point in the argument where I usually make the claim that I can, but apparently around here I can’t take care of myself very well, but still, we are staying.” She laughed.

He grimaced and tried to look away.

She grabbed his face with both her hands and forced him to stare at her. He placed his hands on her waist. “I need you here because I need you. As for the other thing, I know what’s worrying you, and as long as we stay away from that evil chamber, you won’t be tempted to hurt me again. I’ll help you control that side of you. I’m not afraid of you, and I know you won’t hurt me.”

“You don’t know that,” he urged. His voice sounded strangled, strange. “Not all my dark thoughts were while in that room.”

“But your dark actions were,” she reminded him. Hermione leaned forward, kissed his forehead, and added, “You can control your thoughts.”

“Right,” he dismissed. “What if I can’t?”

“You can.”

“But…”

“You can. And I forgive you for what happened, and I forgive Iver. Okay? Now, tell me what you have planned for our date tonight. Something terribly romantic, I hope.” She moved her hands from his cheeks to his shoulders.

He wanted to tell her if she kept sitting on his lap like this, there might not be a date tonight, because he'd have to spend the whole evening in a cold shower, but instead he said, “We could read your book.” He laughed.

“That would nice,” she said, seriously.

He shook his head slightly. “Only Hermione Granger would want to read a book on a date.” He touched her face, tentatively, and leaned forward. He kissed her right cheek and said, “My beautiful girl.” He kissed her left cheek and said, “My brave girl.” And then he kissed her lips swiftly and said, “My wonderful girl.”

“Am I yours, Malfoy?” she asked. She leaned forward in his lap and placed her cheek on his shoulder. Her hair tickled his nose.

“Am I yours?” he asked back, instead of answering.

“Not if you ruin our first date, you aren’t,” she answered.

“We could have our date right here, right now,” he decided. Hermione sat up, braced her hands on his shoulders again, her eyes questioning him, as he added, “Though I have to warn you, I’m not ready to sleep with you. I’m not some strumpet.”

“Strumpet?” Hermione laughed. “Fine, let me go change clothes, and you go get our romantic picnic together, and I’ll meet you up on top of the tower.”

She scrambled from his lap and ran toward the door. She had just pulled it open when he was suddenly behind her and he slammed the door shut. She turned around quickly. He trapped her against the door, his hands on each side of her head. “I’m a proper gentleman, Granger. There will be no meeting me here! I’ll pick you up at your door, However, I must warn you that I
don’t usually read a book on a first date. I do, however, usually sleep with the girl on the first date. Those are my conditions. What do you say to that?” He smiled, and raised one eyebrow. His dream from earlier flashed quickly to his mind, but he squashed it down.

“I thought you said you weren’t a strumpet, yet you want to sleep with me on the first date?” she inquired.

“Oh, I must not have known what the word meant,” he joked. “What I meant to say was that I only dated strumpets.” He placed his forehead next to hers and said in quiet tones, “We can stay, you know. I’ll try very hard to keep under control, and I really don’t think Iver is the murderer. I just don’t want anything to happen to you.”

The air between them was strained and unbearably tense. He lifted his hand and ran his knuckles down her cheek. He gently cupped her face with his hands, his thumbs rubbing small circles on her cheeks, and he leaned closer. She spread her hands on his chest right before he kissed her.

This time, it was not just a mere touching of lips, brushing of skin against skin. It was warm and moist, and he pulled and tugged at her bottom lip before he swiped his tongue against the top lip, then the bottom, then she opened her mouth, and he invited himself inside.

His tongue circled against hers, pushing, twirling, engulfing. He spent seconds, practically minutes, with his tongue dancing against hers, his hands around her, but not moving. He moved his mouth so that he rained small kisses across her cheek, even as she rained equally endearing kisses across the planes and valleys of his face. He pressed his lips once more against hers, and then he finally lifted his face. There…he had control. He could kiss her and not take it further. He could kiss her, and not hurt her.

They looked at each other with heavy eyes and then he smiled. She smiled back and said, “You are a strumpet.”

He laughed, pulled her away from the door, opened it and then pushed her out of the room before he said, “Damn straight.” He watched as she walked away. When she was out of sight, he wrote Harry Potter another note to tell him that they were staying after all. He only hoped that it was the right decision.

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