Adult-FanFiction.org : Harry Potter

Bittersweet	By : valkyrie136 Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Draco/Hermione Views: 32796 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 2
Disclaimer: I do not own anything that is Harry Potter or Harry Potter related nor do I profit from any of these stories. They are purely for fun.

Chapter List
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It was two months since school had started and all Ron seemed to do was persistently drive little daggers into her heart every time he appeared with Lavender Brown.
Harry could provide little succor, and all Hermione could do was try to smile while cheering in the stands during the season’s first game—Ron was keeper and Harry was captain how could Hermione not be there?
Today’s match was against Slytherin, and Hermione saw Harry and Malfoy exchange words, as usual, but she had eyes only for Ron.
It was a terrible game—Slytherin won and there was nothing she could do to help Ron this time.
But it was only one match and there were always more to make up the loss.
Neither boy would speak to her in the common room; Ron wouldn’t even speak to Brown, so finally irritated she had left to find someplace less gloomy to be.
She wandered down to the lake, and it was only as she settled down for a good read of her favorite, Hogwarts, a History, that she heard a shrill giggle that caused her to drop her book.
“Mmm, Malfoy, you’re so good.”
Oh God, she thought, her face flushing. Never had she overhead anyone in…well, such a position before.
But for it to be Malfoy…Ugh.
Her body literally shook in its revulsion.
Carefully, she tried to slink away, but it was not to be done.
“Malfoy, that mudblood is here. Ugh,”
Pansy Parkinson.
She went to stalk away, but Pansy and Malfoy were already sitting up—apparently the tall reeds that grew so near the lake had been hiding them—and pansy was holding Draco’s oxford shirt to his body.
Hermione did not even glance at him, instead keeping her gaze glued heavenwards, and moved back towards the castle.
She made it only a few yards when something struck her from behind and she went sprawling face first in the dirt.
Dimly, she was aware of laughter, “Draco, she’s as filthy as her blood now!”
Forcing herself to stand, her hand near her wand, she continued walking, not looking back once.
She was going to burst into tears any minute, and she would be damned if she cried in front of Parkinson and Malfoy.
She should have been more alert, but she was more distraught than she realized from Ron’s involvement with Brown. There was also all her work and…
Stop making excuses.

Later that evening, Malfoy was relaxing in the Slytherin common room, resplendent in black, and tried to understand his unusual reaction to the mudblood.
He had let Pansy fondle him, and his response had purely been that of a guy responding—he in no way was particularly attracted to Granger—and he had patiently waited to cum while Parkinson sucked him—but then he had seen Granger, looking like she always did in her uniform.
She had glanced out at the lake, and the wind had stirred her frizzy hair—a barely contained mass of curls pulled back in a tie—before collapsing in a graceless heap in the grass.
She had looked so delicate and artlessly pretty in that moment—yes, he remembered thinking, pretty, before forcing Pansy to take him deeper and thrusting rather roughly into her mouth, all the while watching Granger and then an explosive orgasm shot through him, shaking him in its power, and very nearly causing him to cry out.
He had forgotten Parkinson, until she had brought attention to the fact that Granger was present, and like a guilty boy afraid of being caught doing something shameful, his response had been decidedly more violent than he normally would have dared so out in the open—if she told, then it would mean severe consequences.
But she had walked away—her head held high—like her sensibilities had been offended and that made him want to slap that look off her face.
How dare she presume to consider herself better than him?
She’s nothing but dirt, he bitterly thought, and she should feel honored to breathe the same air I do, let alone attend the same facilities.
He took a swallow of firewhisky, and felt himself involuntarily stiffen as he imagined putting real fear into her.
A slow smile began to take form on his lips—this was something that would alleviate some of the pressure from the Death Eaters, who seemed to constantly pester him with ways to kill Dumbledore.
Draco could not stop himself; he began to plot.
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