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

seven - lessons of lust | lies

song: little dark age - mgmt                        
HERMIONE

HERMIONE

She's certain of it.

She's always made excuses in her head— reasonings. It was never quite one hundred percent— never absolute, never quite definite enough to fixate herself in the opinion.

She used to utilize the singular redeeming deed he had executed during the war of failing to identify Harry in the heat of Bellatrix's threats and interrogations as leverage to not be finite in belief.

But she's secured it into her judgement now— she hates him. She absolutely loathes him— detests; every word in the English dictionary that describes distaste could be compiled together to describe just how she feels about Draco Malfoy.

She's additionally positive on a further matter.

She sees it.

Not only does she see it— she understands it, feels it.

She sees what the other girls see— understands precisely why their eyes have always lingered on him for just a few moments too long in quick passing along corridors, or across tables in libraries. She used to think they just saw what she saw— a disgustingly dreadful boy with daddy issues, a boy they should run away from, fear. But no— they feel greed in their lower abdomens— an animalistic emotion that we're told no young girl should ever experience. They see his jawline— so sharp as if crafted for the sole purpose of splitting them open and ripping them apart. They see his hands, fingertips so rough, yet so tantalizing as they trickle promises of pleasure while they gracefully trace art into their skin, and poems of satisfaction into their minds. They see a lithe waist wrapped in elaborate belts, fitted suits— broad shoulders. They see a situation ending in flames— which is stimulating in ways that aren't expressible with words.

The whispers and prattles that would float around in lavatories and late-night sessions of girl-to-girl chatter— describing fingers in mouths and tongues on inner thighs, they all make sense now.

He's godly— in the physical realms; no more, no less.

He's not charming, or endearing— no, he's unapologetically sadistic— wicked in all the right ways to be a token for lustful daydreams. He's glacial. Hauntingly beautiful. Lucifer before the fall.

Things she's always seen.

But before their little dispute over past traumas, she didn't see it in the slightest— she assumed people only truly desired him because they craved the title of being the one to tame the beast— or the co-spender of his hefty inheritance.

But no— things have transformed into dazzling shambles in the deepest, darkest fragments of her mind. Yes— she thinks Draco Malfoy has educated her about lust by just simply wrapping his hand around her neck.

And she hates herself for it— hates him for it.

She had no idea the skin that stretches over her throat was so responsive to touch— so wanting fingertips to dig into the flesh, aching for lips to latch onto the skin— sucking until purple rings are left decorative in winding trails up along her jaw.

She tried to occlude it— in the moment, but she was tranced— in a hypnotic state from the waft of his even breaths causing electricity to run through her veins as it fanned across her skin. Tried to push the ache in between her shaking thighs away— clear her mind. Tried to ignore the voice in her head telling her to just let herself feel it— feel every segment of pleasurable pain.