Adult-FanFiction.org : Harry Potter

Twisted	By : BB_Rosie & ArielKidd Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Draco/Hermione Views: 31731 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 6
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. I don't make any money from this story. I own nothing.

Chapter List
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“Let me see it,” whispered Harry. He and Hermione huddled together at the far end of the Gryffindor table. He had been called away the day before by Dumbledore, and they’d yet to inspect their stolen object.
“Not here,” she hissed. “Honestly, Harry. We’re in the middle of the Great Hall. We can’t just pull out Malfoy’s–”
“Malfoy’s what?” Harry and Hermione looked behind them to see Ron, stuffing his face with cauldron cakes. Ron’s orange eyebrows furrowed together at the suspicious behaviour of the two. “Mate,” said Ron. “Malfoy’s what?”
Harry opened his mouth to answer, but Hermione cut in, “Malfoy’s an arse.”
Ron stared at her, taken aback. It was the first time she’d spoken to him since their quarrel in the corridor, weeks ago. The fact that she’d looked him in the eye and said actual words to him made Ron overlook their suspicious behaviour.
“All right,” he said. He shrugged and bit into a dry, crumbly cauldron cake. “Still on for practice later, Harry?”
“What?” Harry blinked. “Oh – Quidditch practice … Yeah, mate, we’re still on. I’ll see you in Potions.”
Ron nodded slowly and stepped away. He looked a little hurt that he’d been asked to leave in a roundabout way. Once he walked out of earshot, Hermione and Harry resumed their huddle.
“Give it to me,” said Harry quietly.
“I can’t, Harry,” sighed Hermione. “It’s not like I carry it around with me. It’s in my trunk in the dorms.”
Harry looked at her incredulously.
Hermione explained, “If Malfoy suspects that I stole his wand, he’ll come looking for it. If I have it on me when he does –”
“I get it,” mumbled Harry. Thoughtfully, he glanced at the Slytherin table. Malfoy wasn’t there, neither was Zabini or Nott. But Harry scowled at the table anyway. “So we’ll do it tonight?”
“Yes,” said Hermione. “We’ll see what he’s been up to. I’ve been thinking of spells, but I can only come up with the Reverse Spell. If he’s been using his wand to do whatever he’s up to, we’ll get a good idea of what he’s planning. But if he’s not using his wand, then we won’t learn anything.”
“Not using his wand?” repeated Harry.
“Well, we took it yesterday,” explained Hermione. “He’s not confronted me yet. Maybe that’s because he hasn’t used it yet, so he doesn’t know it’s missing.”
“Maybe,” said Harry, doubtfully. “Or maybe he doesn’t want to you confront you. What if he’s got other plans to get it back?”
The bell rang. Hermione and Harry left the Great Hall and went to the dungeons for double Potions. Malfoy, Zabini and Nott were already in the classroom when they arrived.
“Into pairs, please!” Slughorn asked. He was peering down at a bubbling cauldron on his desk. “Quickly.”
Ron and Harry paired up, and Hermione took the empty table behind them. Slughorn noticed. “No, Miss Granger, that won’t do. I need you in pairs today.” He peered over his glasses at the other students. Malfoy, Nott and Zabini were together at the back table. Malfoy went to offer himself as Hermione’s partner, but not quickly enough. “Ah, Mr Zabini! Yes, you, boy. Join Miss Granger.”
Zabini cocked his eyebrow and grabbed his things. He sauntered over to Hermione, unaffected by the glowers he was subjected to from Harry, Ron and even Malfoy. Hermione glanced at Malfoy and felt a lump swell in her throat at the amount of anger radiating from his eyes. She swallowed and moved down a seat to make space for Zabini.
“Granger,” he greeted indifferently. He tossed his things onto the table and sat down. Instinctively, Hermione went to return his greeting, but she then remembered his alliance with Malfoy. She sat stiffly in the chair instead, not oblivious to the burning heat of Malfoy’s stare piercing the side of her red face.
An hour into the class, and Hermione’s hair was a bushy hedge atop her head. The strands had dried out and frizzed. It reminded her of an afro. Ron and Harry squabbled at the table in front, both with mop-like hairstyles. Zabini, on the other hand, had sleek black hair that remained swept to the side in an effortless combed do. Only a light sheen of sweat glistened on his tanned chest, where he’d unbuttoned the top four buttons of his shirt. She studied him out the corner of her eye. She admitted inwardly that she could see the attraction. He was an Italian Stud. But a mere caramel coated version of Malfoy. At least Malfoy didn’t pretend to be warm and suave – he showed the iciness within.
“You know,” said Zabini as he stirred the cauldron, “I do appreciate your acknowledgement of my handsomeness, but your staring has caught the attention of a fellow classmate.”
Hermione’s eyes bulged a little. Her cheeks flamed. “I wasn’t staring.”
“Yes, you were,” he said. “But do not misunderstand me.” – he smirked at her through the rising vapours from the cauldron. – “I am not under any false apprehensions of your motives.”
“Meaning?”
“I know you’re observing me,” he explained. “Not appreciating the beauty I am.”
She snorted and added toad slime to the cauldron. He stirred.
“Observe away,” he continued. “But would you mind telling me what you are searching for, exactly?”
“Nothing,” she said honestly. “I was wondering how you could be cool and charming on the outside, and even pretend to be that way, but you’re just as cold as Malfoy on the inside.”
He smirked and said nothing about the comparison. He only said, “Speaking of Draco, as I mentioned already – he’s looking at you.”
Hermione didn’t need to check to know he was right. She could feel his stare piercing into the side of her face.
“I hope you haven’t gotten me in a spot of trouble,” he said lightly. Though, his dark expression spoke of a genuine concern.
“You’re afraid of Malfoy,” commented Hermione.
“I would be a fool to cross him.” Zabini added salt to the cauldron. He stirred thrice as he added, “I am not afraid of Draco, but I recognise the threat he could pose to me if he saw me as a threat.”
Hermione was surprised. She would have thought that Zabini was afraid of Malfoy. She would have thought everyone was afraid of him. Or was that just her?
Against her better instincts, Hermione looked over her shoulder at Malfoy. He had his hands pressed flat against the table and his murderous eyes glued right at her face. They swarmed with dark silver and her breath rattled in a shaky exhale.
She turned back to Zabini. She asked in whisper, “What does he want with me?”
The normally composed Slytherin froze. For the first time since she’d ever crossed paths with Zabini, she saw that he looked uncertain and shocked. The moment quickly passed. His eyelashes fluttered as he looked at her and said in a low voice, “That is not my business to share – not my question to answer.”
She narrowed her eyes at him, like slits. “But you do know what he wants.”
“Yes,” he said, even quieter than before. “If you asked him, he might tell you himself.”
“I’ve tried speaking to him,” she hissed. “Mostly when he’s cornered me.”
“That’s exactly your problem,” he replied coldly. “You use Gryffindor courage and brashness to interrogate a man who operates on lies, mistruths, and cunningness.”
She mulled his words over for a second. “So you’re saying I’ll get more information if I think like a Slytherin?”
“I’m saying,” he corrected delicately, “that Draco will respond better to you, and treat you better, if he thinks you’re … warming to him.”
“Warming?” she seethed. “To that despicable, vile–”
“Granger,” he interrupted. “I don’t care what you do. But there’s more at stake here than your pride. When it comes to Draco, he’s accustomed to getting what he wants. Not working for it, but taking it. He won’t concern himself with building a rapport with you. He’ll only retaliate if and when you resist. And resisting is all you do. When he looks at you, you look away. When he speaks to you, you spit words at him, even when you’re afraid. That’s all he sees, and he responds accordingly.”
He paused and took in her concerned expression. Hermione became so lost in her thoughts, she forgot to add lime drops to the potion, and it was therefore ruined. Neither of them seemed to care.
Zabini leaned closer to her to reach the rack of spices in front of her. But he whispered in her ear, “I am not a supporter of the Dark Lord. I do not wear his brand on my arm. But when the time comes, I will follow him. Not because I believe in him or his fight, but because it will be far easier and more profitable to reap the rewards of choosing the winning side.”
He pulled away, and took the lime drops with him. He added them, fifteen seconds late. The potion turned purple instead of green. He didn’t care.
“I’d die fighting for what’s right,” Hermione said eventually.
“No, you won’t,” said Zabini. “But you’ll wish you had.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“When the time comes, and the Dark Lord wins, his loyal followers will be rewarded. It is then that you will wish you’d died in the battle. And every day after. But you can stop that from happening.”
“How? How can I stop it?”
“Prepare now,” he said. “Prepare for your defeat.”
“But you said I can stop the defeat.”
“No,” he smirked dryly. “You can stop your misery and sentencing to eternal pain. But you cannot stop the war, or the fall of the Order.”
“We’ll see,” she snapped.
“Oh, before I forget,” added Zabini, ignoring her confident reply. “Draco seems to have misplaced his wand.” Hermione paled. “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?”
“No,” she lied. “Why would I know-”
“Because you took it,” he interrupted and smirked. “Draco suspects you of it.”
“Well if Malfoy says I did it, it must be true.” She rolled her eyes.
He used her own reply against her, “We’ll see.”
The Gryffindor common room was quiet. A few first years slept on the couches, but everyone else had retired for the night. Except Harry and Hermione. They stood by the fireplace, the map spread open on the coffee table, invisibility cloak draped over the armchair, and a black elegant wand in Harry’s hand. It was a beautiful wand, if one was partial to sleek darkness. Hermione was not fond of the wand and didn’t see its beauty.
“Ready?” whispered Harry. He glanced at the map briefly.
“Ready,” agreed Hermione. She aimed her own wand at the black one in Harry’s palm. “Prior Incantato.”
Vapour came from Malfoy’s wand, and seeped from the tip. It morphed into a cupboard. Again, a vapour came, but in the shape of a twitching third year, followed by Neville Longbottom being chased by his own bogies. Finally, the last image came. It was the cupboard again.
The vapours dispersed, and Harry looked deflated. “That’s it?”
“Yes,” said Hermione, disappointedly. “What were you expecting?”
“Something,” said Harry. He shrugged. “Anything.”
“The cupboard came up twice.”
“A stupid cupboard,” he mumbled. “I’ve seen it before at Borgins and Burkes on Knockturn Alley.”
“A dark object,” said Hermione thoughtfully. “Maybe that’s something to go on.”
“What?” he scoffed. “Malfoy playing around with dark objects? What’s new? I bet he does it all the time. It’s probably his hobby.”
“Odd, though, isn’t it?” mused Hermione aloud. “You said you’ve seen the cupboard in Knockturn Alley. But we were shown Malfoy’s last four spells he cast with his wand. How could he have spelled the cupboard if it’s in Knockturn Alley? He couldn’t have left Hogwarts, so he hasn’t been there for at least four months.”
Before Harry could reply, a knock rapped at the portrait door. He went to answer it. Hermione heard something speak, and the exchange of paper took place. Harry came back.
“Dumbledore’s back,” he said excitedly, but worriedly, too. “Do you mind?”
“Go,” smiled Hermione. “I can watch the map while you’re gone.”
“Ok,” said Harry. “Don’t do anything without me. If you see Malfoy’s name, wait for me to come back, alright?”
Hermione nodded. Harry left.
She sat down on the armchair and watched the map. Hours passed and she dozed off at some point in her crinkled uniform. When she woke up, she checked the map. Low and behold, Malfoy’s name wandered through the castle to the seventh floor. Hermione jolted up from the armchair, alert. Her hands snatched the map from the table and her honey eyes followed his name moving across the pages – slinking. She could see him, in her memories, the way he walked – arrogantly, confidently, but not a swagger. It was a simple walk, step after step, refined and somewhat graceful, but commanding and intimidating.
Hermione chewed her lip and looked at the clock. It was 3AM. Harry wasn’t back yet, but he’d left two hours ago. Maybe he’d gone with Dumbledore somewhere. Hermione had promised – or agreed to – not to do anything in his absence. But the opportunity presented itself. She snatched the cloak, draped it over her body, and swept out of the common room.
Hermione, holding the map beneath the cloak, slowly followed where she had last seen Malfoy’s name: the seventh-floor corridor. But he’d reached the corridor five minutes ago. Since then, he just … vanished. He’d done it before. As she got closer to the corridor, she slowed down. She folded the map and tucked it in her skirt pocket. The cloak covered her whole body, and she crept around the corner.
Before she could take her next step, a tall figure moved out of the shadows and pulled her back against a chest. Hermione yelped, a surge of panic shooting down her. Her throat clenched as an arm held her in place--She knew who it was the second he whispered those words into her ear as if he was speaking to a lover;
“Need something, mudblood?”
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