Tainted - {d.m. & h.g.}

nine - carriages | chills

    (lol i am so sorry about this)

song: r.i.p 2 my youth - the neighbourhood

HERMIONE

HERMIONE

She's standing in front of the full-bodied mirror that's set caddied in the corner of her room— still clad in the green jumper.

Malfoy's green jumper.

The drip of her wet hair has now soaked through the backside of the thick fabric, droplets pooling into small puddles around her bare feet; the moisture creating a chilled environment that's catalyzing her jaw to tremble in response to the cold.

She's examining her reflection, eyes roaming up and down her physique in engrossed scrutiny. Studying the way, the hem of the cloth brushes delicately across her mid-thigh, the way the sleeves drape easily way past her fingertips that lay flat at her side; the D.M. stitched small-scaled into the pocket that's positioned on the left of the chest.

This would all be rather precious, in a quaint teen romance novel type of way— a boy lending his specially personalized jumper to a girl in distress. In said novel's plot, this little interaction might even be the spark that begins the two main character's faultless love story— typical, yet affectionate.

But this is anything but precious— because this is Malfoy's jumper; not some fictionally delightful boy that will be careful with her feelings that's fruitfully described within the pages of a light-hearted novel that fantasies such an unrealistic romance.

It's Malfoy.

A novel written of his passionless intimacy wouldn't be on the shelves with the rest of the romance genre with happily ever after painting the endings. No, his story would be housed in the dark corners of the libraries where spiders have spun their webs— corners where the horror stories too ghastly to read enjoyably reside, dust accumulating on the spines and pages browning from remaining untouched for such prolonged periods of time.

It's Malfoy.

Pathetically cruel— savagely inconsiderate. Inhuman in all ways that define the word. He only loaned the article of clothing to rescue the students occupying the corridor from seeing her naked body— or to create some sort of debt she now owed him; there was never anything he did without some sort of crude intention or reward.

She feels odd, and out of place in the deep grassy shade of the knit— but something in the way the Slytherin green makes her eyes glow flecks of brilliant moss, something in the way the sleeves are long enough to bunch comfortably into her fist; almost perfectly made to do so, and the way his initials are embroidered bold in black into her chest— like the letters will remain branded permanently into her flesh when she removes article of clothing— like a tattoo she'd eventually regret. It all makes her feel unusual power in ways nothing else ever has. Bad—like she's still a pre-teen going through her angsts-ridden stage, getting high as the heavens from breaking rules and social norms.

Because she's never seen any other girl that graces the corridors of this castle clothe themselves in any garment that takes a normal reside in Draco Malfoy's wardrobe— not even his most customary conquest, Pansy Parkinson. It's blatantly clear that his clothing holds a high regard in his priority— never a lose thread or wrinkle in sight...ever.

It's knitted from a thick thread— not itchy, not soft, hard, and rough; obvious the material costs a pretty lot of galleons—much like him in that way.

She slowly lifts a hand, the sleeve bunches loosely around her forearm as she does so; and she lets her index finger drag lazily over the fair ring of yellow that's nastily decorating her jaw, it's faded into a barely their water-colored hue; but with the way her damp hair is glued down flat to her back has exposed it into crystal view. She drags her finger lower down her neck toward the stitching— entranced by the feeling of the smooth thread that mounds over the small, embroidered lettering.