A Wonderful Fortuitous Love

8. Thud

The whack of the door shutting startled Hermione so much that she shrieked, and the book that had been resting on her chest fell to the floor, completely forgotten. She went around the couch where she’d been snoozing, hand reaching for her wand.

She sighed in annoyance when she caught sign of the disturbance.

“It’s you,” she said bluntly. Glancing over at the poor door, it occurred to her that it had never properly been closed since a certain someone’s arrival. Briefly, she wondered how much more abuse it could take before she’d have to replace it.

“Don’t sound too thrilled, Granger. You might pull something.” Malfoy walked past her and clumsily up the stairs, where he stumbled every few steps. The stench of firewhiskey reeked off of him.

“Are you –?”

“Drunk? Not enough to have me crawling on the floor and quacking, but enough for your hair to have eyes.”

Hermione (glancing in a mirror at her eyeless hair) leant on the railing as Malfoy disappeared into his bedroom, disapproval etched onto her face. “May I enquire as to why?”

“No you may not.”

She paused. “Is it because of what – of what I said?”

“Noooo.” It became clear to her that, when drunk, Malfoy was a horrible liar.

“Listen, about that, I really think we need to discuss what –”

“We don’t,” he told her sourly.

From where Hermione was standing, all she could see of his room was one side of the bed and hastily shifted her gaze to her hands when she saw his pants and shirt being thrown off carelessly. Apparently, drunken Malfoys didn’t care who saw them naked either. Albeit, it wouldn’t have been a surprise to her if he was like this whilst sober too.

“You really shouldn’t get intoxicated to suppress feelings,” she said in what Ron would call her McGonagall voice, only quieter. But Malfoy’s sudden appearance and the dark look he was sending her way told Hermione that he had heard anyway.

Malfoy pushed his arm through the sleeve of his pyjama shirt, tugging it down. He then slowly and unsteadily trampled down the stairs. “You want me to express my feelings? Fine.”

And quite without warning, he was suddenly a mere foot in front of her. Firewhiskey engulfed her senses, and Hermione tried not to screw up her face at the smell. His cologne on the other hand… a musky spicy smell that she couldn’t name but for the spearmint, she liked very much.

Unexpectedly, he leaned in closer. His hand held a strong grip on her arm to prevent from any escape, his fingers digging onto the thin fabric her shirt as she felt his hot breath wisp across her neck. Hermione shivered when his lips were mere centimetres from her ear.

“I hate you,” he whispered, his mouth barely caressing her hair. “Every time I see you, all I can think about is how much you infuriate me. You don’t even know how much I never wanted to see you again. Once the war was over, that was about one of the few things I had to look forward to; the probability that I’d never have to see your stupid little bushy head again or hear your stupidly annoying, bossy voice echoing through the Great Hall.” His voice had turned bitter, and Hermione flinched at his next words. “But because life seems to enjoy fucking with me, I’m stuck again with you. Four years later, you’re still a filthy Mudblood and I still can’t stand you. I hate you Granger, so very much.”

Malfoy let go of her shoulder with unneeded force and took a step back, looking thoroughly pleased with himself.

Hermione didn’t know what to make of his words. Never in her life had someone been as cruel to her as Malfoy was. She was furious that he seemed to believe he could treat her this way, but she was also completely at a loss for words. Part of her desperately wanted to curse him until he was literally demolished; to just hit and scream at the prick until her words hurt him just as much as he hurt her. But she wasn’t that kind of person. She had control, and she didn’t want him to know he’d bothered her. Yet, Hermione felt that the look on her face had betrayed her.