Anchor and Rose | Dramione

Ninteen.

ABOVE ARE A FEW ARTBREEDERS OF HOW I IMAGINE CERTAIN CHARACTERS. YOU CAN CONTINUE TO PICTURE THEM HOW YOU PLEASE BUT I TEND TO WRITE ABOUT THEM HOW I PICTURE THEM SO THIS MAY HELP VISUALISE.

She shouldn't have kissed him.

She shouldn't have let him touch her.

She shouldn't have allowed him to make her come.

Hermione nearly threw up when she woke. She had tried to convince herself it had been a dream-a nightmare. She tried to believe that it did not happen, that she had imagined everything because she was drunk. Though, her eyes fell to the half-empty bottle of Fire-Whisky that lay ajar on the dining table. She knew it had not been a dream.

The taste of his tongue still lingered in her mouth. The ghost of his fingers still remained in the space between her legs.

No. No. No. It was a mistake.

Hermione cursed herself for not believing her own thoughts. She pressed the balls of her palms against her eyelids and tried to drill the ideology into her head.

Mistake. Mistake. Mistake. Mistake.

But if it had been a mistake, why did it feel so good?

Ruefully, she had just ruined nearly everything. If anybody found out- Nobody would trust her anymore. Not Harry, not Ron, not Ginny or Seamus or even Neville.

Hermione had kissed the enemy. Hermione had kissed a servant who had been more than loyal to the Dark Lord. At least Loyal enough to hold a wand in the face of Albus Dumbledore at the age of sixteen.

She stood against all of those things. She stood against the Dark Army, against Voldemort, against Death-Eaters and all their brittle ideological ideas on "Muggles" and "Half-Breed's" and "Mudbloods."

Hermione sat on the edge of the sofa and tried not to cry.

"She's against it on principle, but life isn't-"

Hermione felt herself growing pale as the quote written by Margaret Atwood ran through her head like an electric shock. It was from the book she had brought in Greenwich. The book she had brought while Draco had lingered by her side.

She hated that she understood it.

She was against everything Draco Malfoy had ever stood for. Yet, life had still allowed her to become shacked up with him in this fucking safe-house and life had allowed her to kiss him like he was the only person in the world.

She was against kissing Draco Malfoy but life wasn't.

For a moment. Hermione considered leaving. Maybe it was a sign it was too much. She and Draco had already been treading on uncertain waters by staying in each other's occupancy-maybe this was the delve to tell her it was too much.

Yet, Hermione didn't want to leave.

It hit her. She did not want to leave. Because for the first time in what felt like years-she felt safe. Safe sleeping by the fire on the sofa in the house, safe with her wand, safe with...Draco's company.

Hermione still hated him. But she liked that she hated him. She liked that she hated everything he was.

Because he was Draco.

And Draco was there.

He was there when she ate breakfast. He was there when she had nightmares. He was there even when she didn't want him to be-In his black sweatshirt or his silk pyjamas, with his white hair and then his black hair and his brittle skin and marble features.