Silver and Gold // Dramione

Grey

Quick Authors Note:

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6th Year, November 25th

Why the hell had he asked for a chance?

Since when did he bloody care what Hermione Granger thought of him? Or rather what anyone thought of him? Furthermore how was he even going to prove it, if he decided that he could make such a choice? The confines in which he existed were so transparent he was sure that the mythical limbo did exist, and he was in it.

He still had his blasted mission to off his Headmaster, despite the old bat knowing his estranged sister was living in the castle, and he and Snape have some duality between them.

Draco Malfoy was under the firm belief that even if he had the chance, he didn't bloody deserve it.

Within the next few months he was going to kill Albus Dumbledore, one of the greatest wizards in the entire Wizarding World. What he did in the months that predicted his death would ultimately mean nothing to anyone once the task was complete.

He especially didn't deserve a chance from the witch who had given him one. The witch he'd tormented for years with slurs about her blood status. If anything, Draco beloved she had every right to deny him anything she wanted. If she asked him to move out of the common room he would begrudgingly agree. Hmerione Granger giving him a chance at anything seemed impossible to him. Impossible to imagine, and impossible for him to ever deserve it.

No Draco Malfoy was fairly certain that even if he was able to prove to HermioneGranger that him existing in some little "grey" area was good enough, anything he said would be void the day he let a group of Death Eaters through the castle via a secret Vanishing Cabinet.

Draco Malfoy did not think he should have a chance, but he desperately wanted one. He wanted out of birthrights and debts, and Dark Marks. And he didn't have a clue why he wanted any of that.

He just wanted an escape.

The week that followed Hermione's conversation with Draco was no less a disaster than the weeks that preceded it.

Despite knowing that Hermione wasn't going to hex him into oblivion, and that she could comfortably be seated in a room with him reading a book or drinking tea. Draco could not.

The idea that she didn't hate him sparked a new hope inside his chest that he was not eager to explore. She didn't hate him, but that certainly did not mean she liked him: in Draco's eyes.

Every second she was around him, or he was around her, was like a drug in his system. The smell of her soap seemed stronger than it ever had before. The intoxicating sweetness was permanently fused in his head. He was addicted to her, and he was still avoiding her.

He'd found himself completely inebriated by her in classes. He could barely make it through a day without escaping to the familiar cold drizzle of the showers where he could succumb to his thoughts and fantasies under the downpour, surrounded by the scent of Honey-Soap.

It became a religious routine. He would wake up before the sun rose every morning, when he knew she would still be fast asleep across the room, and he would escape to his curiously entanilizing fantasies. Every day it took less and less to get him off. The images of her soft hips, and wild coffee curls growing stronger and more vivid the longer he let himself exist in her presence. By a week later, only a few short tigs lubricated by her shampoo was all it took to be finished.