Adult-FanFiction.org : Harry Potter

You Won't Know	By : avatar006 Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Draco/Hermione Views: 30859 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: I do not own the Harry Potter series or fandom, nor do I make any profit from these stories. If you have bought this fanfic or seen it posted anywhere else, you have been RIPPED.

Chapter List
- 1-You Won't Know
- 2-2
- 3-3
- 4-4
- 5-5
- 6-6
- 7-7
- 8-8
- 9-9
- 10-10
- 11-11
- 12-12
- 13-13
- 14-14
- 15-15
- 16-16
- 9
- 10
- 11
“Fucking bitch! Cunt! Whore!” Malfoy shouted this at the unconscious body of Hermione, anxiously shaking her by the shoulders in the process.

She was very much unconscious, and why shouldn’t she be? He’d bloody nearly strangled her.

Nearly killed her.

He closed his eyes and cradled her against his chest. He couldn’t imagine a world without Hermione, even if he could barely stand a world with her in it.

She was alive, that much was sure, but he needed to—God, he needed control. He needed to stop fucking her every time he had ten minutes alone with her.

He put his head in his hands and resisted the urge to cry. When the moment had passed, he set her away from him and stood, all seriousness.

“Hermione, why do you and I always wind up falling into the same old trap?” He was staring into the mirror, and used his wand to murmur a quick drying off spell.

Now that his clothes were dry—the low quality and decidedly unfashionable clothing that Weasley preferred to wear, he watched with disinterest at the effects of the polyjuice potion on his appearance.

Red hair. Freckles. He was one ugly bastard.

“Why do you love him?” Malfoy muttered to no one in particular, then glanced at the reflection she cast in the mirror.

Limbs splayed out on the bathroom floor, her skin pale and almost glowing from their lovemaking or the lights—he had almost killed her; but she looked like an offering to some sort of god. It reminded him of old days when mudbloods were sacrificed to wizards—at the time believed to be gods.

Mine, he thought, inexplicably. Of course.

Glaring, he turned and punched the mirror, shattering it into dozens of fractured pieces and watched the blood trickle down his hand. God he needed a cigarette.

She had said I love you.

But to who?

To mother-fucking-Weasley, that’s who.

Malfoy wanted blood. He wanted it so bad he could taste it.

He stared at his own bloodied hand and felt a grin, an ugly one, split his face. Time do go-a-hunting. The eats would be nice.

Without a backwards glance, he strode from the room, leaving her there.

_____

Still disguised as Ron, Malfoy near skipped down the street, twisting down alley-ways, belying his intent. It was dark out, and he needed, he needed—

He spotted his quarry.

A girl and boy—perhaps not much older than eighteen, strolling hand in hand. Only a couple years younger than himself.

He saw her turn to kiss her lover.

Anger, and frustration raged through him.

Everyone, it seemed, had the freedom to do what they wanted, to be with who they wanted, except for him.

But not Malfoy. Never Malfoy.

They turned into an alcove, and that was when Malfoy chose to pounce.

He came up behind the young man and hit quite hard in the face—did he break his jaw?—he hoped so.

There was so much blood—blood everywhere, and she, the bitch, was screeming.

Running a hand through his too-short hair, and inexplicably angrier that it wasn’t his own hair but that fucker’s hair, he began kicking the bloke in the stomach.

It felt good, to let out the anger, to let the rage out.

She was sobbing, and she tried to raise her wand but he muttered an immobilizing spell.

All that filled the air was his grunts, and the moans of the boy, the sound of flesh meeting flesh and broken bones.

Gasping for air, Malfoy spit on him, then turned to leer at his girlfriend.

She didn’t look anything like Hermione. She was blond. Blond, and pretty, if one liked one’s women shapeless and skeletal. Thin, too thin.

He towered over her, and hated her for loving, he looked deep into her eyes and hissed, “Just think of what I could do, and don’t, you whore.”

He strode off and left them there, quickly before the potion wore off.

He hated them all. He wanted them all to die.

__

At that same time…

Ron came home from work, tired, and made his way upstairs. He saw the bathroom light was on, the door open, and walked by—froze, then took a step back to see if what he was seeing was real.

Hermione was sitting on the floor, naked and staring into her space. And her body—there were bruises on her hips—but most frightening of all was her neck—it looked like someone had tried to kill her.

He stumbled into the bathroom, horrified for her. Who had done this? He would find them and—

She scrambled back against the bathtub and looked at him, her eyes wide with fear and…distrust?

“Hermione?” He whispered, taking a step foreword, then stopping.

The floor was covered in broken class. He looked at the mirror. A few pieces still hung in there. Then his gaze pivoted back to her.

“What happened? Who did this?”

She was trembling, but started shaking harder.

Ron, you ass.

Hurrying from the room, he returned with a blanket and tried to wrap it around her, but she evaded his touch.

“Hermione, let me help you.” He pleaded. Hell, what could he do? What had happened? Who had hurt her?

She started to cry, shaking and crying but no sound came out.

He was so angry he wanted to punch a hole in the wall but he didn’t want to scare her. He felt useless. He had been out, feeling miserable and here hell had been happening.

Who the fuck had done this? He wanted to kill who had ever done this to her—tear them apart—perhaps it was an animal rage—but he could hardly sit still and yet she wouldn’t tell him anything.

“Don’t touch me—“ She held a hand up, “Don’t touch me, don’t touch me.”

He shook his head, “I’m going to call Ginny.”

He put his fist in his mouth and bit it hard to keep from biting it. He wanted to tear his skin off he didn’t know what to do.

What did a guy do in a situation like this? He didn’t want to think of what had happened. He could not think of what had happened.

Every time he did, his brain just stopped and something red and violent threatened to seize him.

Someone had hurt his fiancée. His wife in everything but legality. The mother of his child—and he had not been here.

Shaking, he picked up the phone and called Ginny. She would help…
- 9
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You Won't Know