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Red Summer of 19	By : bk11 Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Draco/Hermione Views: 2142 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor any of the characters from the books or movies. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-Red Summer of 19
- 2-part 2
- 3-part 3
- 4-part 4
- 5-part 5
- 6-part 6
- 7-part 7
- 8-part 8
- 9-part 9
- 7
- 8
- 9
Disclaimer: Don't own them. J. K. Rowling does.

Title: Red Summer of 19

Email: bkeleven11[at]yahoo[dot]com

Rating: R

Spoilers: Anything. Everything.

Summary: Boy meets Girl again during the summer of twenty-three. And they remember the summer of nineteen. When there had been a war.
Notes: Posting up these two chaps as one last �hooray!� before school starts and you never see hide nor hair from me for months at a time. I�m hoping that that won�t happen, but for some reason, the Man doesn�t give you your cool shiny degree if you . . . flunk all your classes.

For this chap, I must thank Wynn (check out her stuff!). Without her, there would be no tainted Pooh Bear.

Alert! ALERT! Self insertion! Self insertion!!!! I work at a pharmacy, and I�m TOTALLY the checkout girl!

Heed the R rating, kids.

- - - - -

Part 8

- - - - -

He knocked on her door:

If she were a smart girl, she would�ve thought to grab the pepper spray from her purse right after she slipped the piece of ribbon in between the pages of her book. Or maybe, if she wasn�t such a dumb little thing, she would�ve clutched the hardcover book and bash the intruder on the head with it.

Bash him good. Teach him a lesson about disrupting another�s life. Show him how it feels.

But she was just so surprised that she had some sort of visitor.

She half-expected the guy that worked the front desk, who had an affinity for naked blonds (and she was safe because she wasn�t blond, or naked).

So she got off her bed and accidentally tripped over her discarded jacket on the floor. She fell and nearly smacked her soft face against the hard brass doorknob. Fortunately, she was too short and just grazed her forehead against the lock.

Ow.

And then the bastard behind the door started banging on it.

Then she remembered the guy that worked the front desk, who had an affinity for naked blonds.

Then she went for the pepper spray that she had bought at the corporate grocery store down the street.

- - - - -

He had a beautiful smile:

�Okay, Hermione, c�mon. This is important.� He reached out and grabbed her hand, squeezed it softly, softly, sweetly. And then he slipped something cold into her palm.

�Harrrry,� she said in a sing-song. �It can�t be that hard. Look, the directions,� she pointed to the small words on the bottle, �basically says to aim and shoot. Just like a wand. Just like--�

�A gun?� he said curiously.

She shrugged. �Well, yeah.�

And then his larger hand clamped down on her elbow and twisted it back. He stepped in close and bent it upwards and pushed it against to her body, so that the bone threatened to snap out of the cartilage. So that it sadistically rubbed together. So that she was stuck and couldn�t move at all. And her arm started to tingle. Then it started to hurt.

Crap.

Stupid Harry Potter and his utter stupidness!

�Did I just prove a point, Hermione?� He laughed into her ear. �Spray me, now. C�mon. I dare ya.�

She frowned miserably. And then she dropped the pepper spray from the hand that Harry had twisted up into an obscene angle. She felt, rather than saw, his face turn to watch it fall. And, unfairly, she tried elbowing him in the gut with her other arm, and kicking him in the crotch with the bottom of her foot.

So she fought dirty (courtesy of a Ronald Weasley). So what?

Harry was just too damn good and sidestepped so that all her foot got was thin air.

He laughed at her again and let her go. She rubbed her sore arm with a frown. �That hurt.�

�S�pose to, Hermione.�

�You didn�t have to push so hard.� She pouted.

He smiled. Such a pretty boy. �Oh, but I didn�t. That�s the point. Maximum damage with minimal work.�

�Lazy butt,� she accused.

Harry shrugged and grinned sheepishly. �Y�know, I could�ve feasible snapped it out of the socket if I just pushed up a bit more.�

�I know,� she muttered mutinously.

�Want me to teach you?�

She nodded. �Yes,� she said seriously.

�So you can defend yourself from short-range pepper-sprayers,� he responded, with a grin.

She smiled back, a little sadly, a little nervously. �Yes. Point-blank pepper-sprayers.�

He took a little step forward and scrunched his eyes up behind glasses. With a sigh, he lifted up her face with a solitary finger. Also with a sigh, he rubbed her sore arm. �You�re a sweet little thing, you know,� he said quietly.

And for a moment (she had so many little moments like these, with him) she wondered what if. What could�ve been? If she wasn�t so close to him. If he wasn�t the guy who saw her puke her guts out after one long-island iced tea. If he was just a nice-looking bloke off of the streets . . . maybe . . . well maybe she got used to Harry Potter being her ideal.

Maybe if she had the guts to lean forward a bit, she could�ve kissed him. And maybe he would�ve kissed back.

And if she had, perhaps things would be vastly different now.

- - - - -

She�s really the biggest idiot in the whole fucked up world:

She was stupid enough to fall for his little trap. She opened the door and saw him there.

Oh. Hello, Draco Malfoy. You seem non-threatening and ferret-like. Come in!

And she didn�t think that he could still be a threat to her well-being. She dropped her pepper-spray hand.

She dropped it.

You never drop it, Harry had said.

I know, I know. I�m not an idiot, Harry. Honestly. Stop babying me.

Malfoy was just standing there, shocked that the door had opened (though what else did he expect, after the ruckus he made?). And she sort felt . . . sorry for him.

�What are you doing, Malf--"

And then he attacked her!

She should�ve sprayed that bastard while she still had the chance.

- - - - -

The post-war world:

You would think, after all that�s come before that moment--the fighting, the deaths, the cruelty--that when it was all over (all over, what a crock!) you�d get to stand in the middle of your city (your conquered city), and the whole damn thing would be illuminated with a picturesque rainbow. Everyone would be rejoicing like the little Whos in Who-ville who got their fucking Christmas.

(I didn�t get my fucking Christmas)

(Granger didn�t get her fucking Christmas)

Was a fucking rainbow so much to ask for?

All I got was a face full of dirt. I slept right through the liberation bit--the conquering one�s enemies part--I napped through the parts where Potter was hoisted on their shoulders and they chanted his name like he was something special, or something. I just woke up, and maybe I found out that it really had been one long horrible dream.

Enemies were dead.

Potter shoved Lupin away when he tried to hug him and ran out the door. Didn�t see him again for a good week. He turned up one day, and all of us pretended that he didn�t shove Lupin away and hide from the post-war world.

Though they did chant Potter�s name.

Harry Potter . . . wow.

He�s so friggin� cool!

I wonder if he�s seeing anyone.

I wish I were like him.

Never again. Never again, Drakey boy.

I should have known. Face full of dirt. Not just once, Drakey boy. Over and over and over again, Drakey Boy. Yours is a life that always fell in the fucking dirt because you could never get your ass in gear, Drakey Boy.

Do you get it?

It�s over, Thomas had said, standing over all tall and blocking out my sun. Bastard.

Apparently, �over� meant many more weeks and months of sending in people to take back burnt land. Many more arguments over the ethics of speed (to spare as many of the lives as possible) versus human rights (you can�t just plow over them. It isn�t right!). Too many days of fighting over money.

Can we afford this?

Hey, this place will pay us this much if we gave them this other place.

What if we paid them?

(Then can we steal their lives?)

What if we paid them?

(Would that make up for the fact that we have stolen their lives?)

What if we paid them?

(Would it be enough? Would it ever be enough?)

Honestly, all of that talk really made me hate money.

Though I didn�t hate it enough to set it free (love something enough to set it free--what a crock). It�s still sitting in Gringotts for later, because I�m that much of a jerk.

Fuck the orphanages and the starving children. Fuck the people who were accused of wrong doing when they did nothing wrong. Forget that we grabbed all of the house-elves and giants, and shoved them into camps (to teach them a lesson. To re-teach them the real lessons of life). And they learned it alright (just not from us, not from us).

I won�t give up my money. I might just need a hip replacement when I hit fifty.

Isn�t that how it�s supposed to go?

- - - - -

His voice is raw:

"Aw, shit," he says when he pulls away.

He sees swollen eyes. Edges lined pink with red accents. He sees glazed-over eyes. Now-tanned skin with freckles not completely hiding hollow darkness underneath. Sleep? Does she sleep? He sees damp hair, dark-almost black now-hanging in clumps, framing empty face.

"What the fuck!" she screams in his face.

Apparently the clumps and exhaustion doesn�t stop her from mustering enough energy to get mad and possibly beat the fuzz out of him.

�Granger! Sorry!�

Ahh, now he remembers his line.

�Yeah!� she yells.

�Completely!� he yells back.

�Well!� she yelps. �Well--"

And he grabs her again. Honestly, he doesn�t know where any of this is coming from.

He shoots out his hand and makes a move to take her arms, and for the most part, he succeeds. Except for the part where his left hand is too spastic and miscalculated. He sort of ended up half punching-half grazing her right breast.

And it was sort of thrilling.

God, he is some sort of sick, demented, psycho--

She�s already halfway there when he ducks his head to catch her mouth. She already had her lips parted. She already poked out her little pink tongue out. For him.

Fucking hell. He�s in the Twilight Zone.

He kisses her. Deeply, he kisses her. Immediately, their awkward tongues crashes into each other and simultaneously pulls back. He doesn�t care, he just takes his hand and pulls her face as close as she would go. Pushing his mouth so tightly against hers that there was no time to breath, feel, see.

He gasps when he feels her arch up against him. His heart hammering in his chest, threatening to crash through his ribs and bullet out onto the floor. She doesn�t care (maybe she doesn�t realize his heart is about to kill him by jumping ship) because her fingernails rasp against his fleshy stomach (he didn�t even realize she had pulled the tails of his shirt out of his trousers). He convulsed and blew an explosion of air into her mouth.

She breaks away to cough, and he latches his teeth, his mouth, into the pulse point of her neck, sucking. Hands wander all over, over the places he�s not allowed to touch. His fingers skim over the curves of her breasts, down her ribs, ducks under her shirt, pushes her bra out of the way. She groans and pushes herself into his hand.

Oh, my God! his messed up head screams.

�Oh,� she breathes.

And she grabs his wandering hand and tugs it away from her chest (not without on last ditch protest from said hand, though) and pushes it down towards the waistband of her shorts.

�Oh.�

No way! his head screams.

Then all of a sudden, she�s hissing into his ear, grabbing his head, grabbing the walls, grabbing the rickety dresser, going back to grabbing his head.

Fucking hell, I�m feeling up Hermione Granger! I�m feeling up Hermione Granger! a voice in his head yells.

Granger�s wet! the same stupid voice in head yells.

He tries to lift her onto the dresser, but she distracted him by being so fucking tight, and instead, he causes the both of them to trip over the small can of pepper-spray on the floor

They crash into the sidewall and she chokes out a mangled laugh.

�Sorry,� he mutters.

�S�okay,� she says hurriedly. She ducks her head and catches his mouth with hers again, making little noises in the back of her throat as his hand did something in the dark of her pants.

Her mouth is just so wet. This is important to him because a lot of girls he has kissed had slippery mouths because they liked to slick up their lips with that glossy stuff that never tasted as good at the label said it did. Some of the girls he has kissed played coy and did the ol� escape and evade thing with their tongues. He used to find that annoying as all hell.

Granger was all confrontation.

�Oh, my fucking God,� he mumbles against her lips. He could smell her.

She is the first to pull away, short of breath and flushed. He pulls his fingers out of her shorts and carelessly rubs them on the seat of his trousers. And then both of his hands glide up to her face, cradling it, caressing her skin. "Sometimes I think of you," he confesses. "I think I might be going crazy."

�You�re crazy,� she mutters, pulling his head down. Kissing everything--anything. All of him, clutching him close, taking as much from him as she could. Her mouth leaves his and starts to trail wet open mouthed kisses down his neck. Damp neck against damp cheek.

She groans when his spastic hand accidentally socks her in the stomach.

He absently replies with, �Oh, er, sorry.�

- - - - -

When she imagines the land of Limbo:

She imagines a crowd of people, each in their bathing suits, sitting in their individual identical lawn chairs. Of course, there�ll be icy non-alcoholic pina coladas in coconut shells. And of course, the drinks will have little umbrellas in them of every color of the rainbow and some in betweens.

And of course, Calypso music.

And she imagines that they all sit around and chat about where they�re going, and what they�re going to do once they get there.

She imagines telling a bespectacled old lady that she plans to learn how to play the cello, now that she has the time.

She sees her mother in Limbo.

That�s what she wants to see, when she imagines Limbo.

- - - - -

He wonders if she�s understanding his sorries:

He�s not sorry because he accidentally hit her in the gut, or that he kinda accidentally touched an inappropriate place inappropriately (over and over again). Though he is sorry for all of those things.

He just really wishes hard that she understands that he�s sorry for all the times he had wronged her. Wrong the world.

He suspects that she�s not getting that part because he�s not conveying that so great with his grunts and . . . erratic breathing.

�Um,� he breaks out in between panting breaths. He sees her, with her mussed up hair and her bright eyes (so bright in the dim lights), with her pink shirt pulled halfway off. He sees the off-white bra . . . and he sort of wonders if whether it had been his hands that had tugged her shirt up like that (�cause he sure as hell doesn�t remember doing it).

There used to be a fascination, once upon a time, about the naked kind of girls (truth be told, he doesn�t think he has grown out of the fascination yet). He remembers nights in his common room . . . with his buds . . . dirty magazine in the middle of a circle. And all of them, Zabini, Crabbe, Goyle, and Drakey especially, would all stand around awkwardly, acting all cool and suave and unaffected to it all. They�d all say stupid things like, �Dude, this chick�s tits are uneven!� and they�d laughed over it, marveling at how mature and cool they were--not getting fazed by that elusive thing they called �sex.�

Then the next day, after a night of jacking off, Draco would purposely choose the seat next to Pansy, in Potions. And then he�d spend the whole lesson sneaking glances in between the flaps of her neckline. Later on down the line, he got a taste of the real thing as Pansy lay on his bed, naked, posing like one of those girls in the dirty mags because she thought it was the right thing to do.

He can honestly say that before this night, he didn�t ever think of Granger naked. Not really. Not as much as he thought of Parkinson naked. Brown naked. Patil naked. Bones naked. Abbott naked.

Granger was too fucking annoying to do anything for him, for the most part. Though, he secretly admits to himself, he did get flashes of Millicent naked (was intensely disturbed) but all the same, he thought it. And so he resigned himself to the fact that he would forever think of all the women in his life naked, at one point or another, because it was in human nature.

He wanted to gouge out his stupid brain that one time, lying in his bed, he thought about his mum naked . . . and then his mum and dad having sex . . . and whether they were having sex right at that moment. He hid up in his room for a good four hours because of that, because smart as he was in those days, he had actually reasoned that his parents only had sex TWICE in their lives. Once during their honeymoon. And the second time to conceive him. It blew his mind (and grossed him out) when he realized that his mummy and daddy probably still got down and dirty on occasion. It made bile flip around in his tummy when he started to recall all the times he might�ve walked into . . . something . . . accidentally. All the times he threw open their bedroom door without knocking and his father quickly flipped over and pulled the blanket up.

Granger was too fucking annoying to do anything for him, for the most part. Though, he secretly admits to himself, there was one day when she tripped down the stairs and her skirt sort of flipped up all the way. He had watched in the shadows, so she couldn�t yell at him. Ernie Macmillan, that Hufflepuff, had helped her up. Though Draco couldn�t help but notice the way Macmillan had stared at her ass after she thanked him and rushed off to the library. That following night was the only time Draco jacked off to Granger�s face, he swears!

�Malfoy, why did you stop?�

He swallows away the dryness in his throat. He looks at her. It makes him cough.

�Malfoy?�

Be the better man, Draco. Tell her.

He swallows again. �Forgive me for being something like . . . the girl here--"

She looks down at him from where she�s perched directly (innocently, there�s still one barrier left) on top of his hips and twists her face in displeasure. �That�s a stereotype--" she begins.

And he�s seriously kicking himself for starting something. �Granger,� he says, grasping her squirming body and pushing it still for just one freaking moment, pushing it harder against his, and . . . baaaaaad idea. �This is wrong,� he forces out, intensely hating himself for saying anything. �We�re moving . . . too fast.�

Shit. He�s such a fucking pansy.

�And it�s bad, and sick, and dirty, and it goes against nature,� she finishes, smiling a little.

�Yeah,� he replies dumbly.

And she shakes her head. �Please don�t.�

�Don�t what?� he says softly.

�Don�t change your mind,� she says, leaning down to press her lips rather sweetly to his. It makes him burn. �It�s going to be okay. I promise.� She pulls back and moves to sit upright atop of him. She pulls her shirt off. And she grinds down hard.

It sort of makes him want to cry.

What a fucking pansy.

- - - - -

This is the reason:

REMEMBER THIS:

Four years ago, he stood at his Rubicon. It was dark. Inky blackness with cold walls. The world around him had exploded in red chaos and he stood in the eye of it, silent and frozen.

He stood at his fucking Rubicon and he didn�t cross.

He fucking drowned in it.

- - - - -

She hits him at one point:

It was after he reaches out to hold the side of her face in his hand. Through glazed eyes, he saw an almost-naked version of Granger. Somewhere along the way, one of them had unsnapped her bra and carelessly tossed it on the floor. Somewhere along the way, he had lost all of his clothes.

And he was lying on his back in a shady motel room. Naked. With a girl.

Shit. He must�ve been butt-probed by those alien-things. They were making him do this. �Ah, we can�t do this!� He groans melodramatically.

Be the better man, Draco.

�Sure we can,� she says, flushing red. �We�re . . . doing okay, so far. Right? I mean . . . I�m doing . . . stuff . . . correctly, right?� She begun it with bravado, but somehow, it ended in a hesitant question. She inhales deeply.

He stares at her in shock. She looks a bit shell-shocked, herself. �Yeah,� he finally whispers, combing his fingers through her (now-short) locks. �You�ve been doing great.�

And he thinks it�s sort of . . . sweet . . . how she wants so badly to be the pretty girl who got all the pretty things in the world.

So why the fuck is she looking for the pretty things in him?

Granger must�ve gotten butt-probed, too. Because somewhere in between fighting the good fight and running from the good fight, she got stupid. He doesn�t remember Granger being stupid.

�So why did you stop again?� she asks.

He�s wrong though. If he were to ask her about it, she�d tell him she was an average girl, who just wanted something from the world.

�This is bad, Granger,� he begins. �You�ll wake up in the morning, and I�ll be there, and you�ll remember what the fuck you did, and you�ll start wailing, and I�ll wake up to your fists beating the shit out of me, and then you�ll have a dead man on your hands, then you�ll have to get rid of a body, and unfortunately my boss will start wondering when I don�t come into work, and then the police will find out, and do you really want to be a fugitive running from the law for the rest of your life?�

He had looked at her full-on, completely serious, as he was babbling along. It makes her wonder what exactly it was, that had happened to him, that made him so . . . scared. She knows her past, and she already knows what makes her scared (I�m sorry Mummy. I�m so sorry). But him--she wishes she knew his reasons (boom).

�. . . and prison food is shit. I actually know this for a fact. I�ve been in prison. Technically it was just for three days, but it was horrible, Granger. You don�t want that.�

She hadn�t realized that he had still been babbling away while she had her own thoughts.

�Shut up, Malfoy.� She grabs both of his hands in her smaller ones and gently inched them to her hips, letting his fingers graze the fabric there. �Get the hint?� she whispers.

�Granger. . . .� he whines, running his fingers over the material anyways. It makes her shiver. �We shouldn�t.�

She�s straddling him in just a pair of pretty (or plain) cotton knickers and he�s still babbling like a freaking girl (that�s sexist, Hermione!). It makes her . . . so frustrated.

She�s so frustrated that she dares to finally (directly) look down at the face of the person she was intimately pressed again. And . . . and . . . he has nice eyes. His eyes makes her whimper a little. From his eyes, she scans over his nose, wet mouth, stubbly chin, Adam�s apple, down the pale plains of skin . . . down down down till she got to the place where her Pooh Bear knickers covers that baaaaad part from her eyes.

Shit. She can feel the baaaaad part up against her, centering her, so hot and suffocating.

Experimentally, she lifts up a bit, gets a peek, and immediately falls down (he groans--stop, Granger)--her facing burning--horribly embarrassed.

�Nice girls don�t look,� she says to him.

He knows exactly what she�s talking about. �And you�re a nice girl.�

She frowns mournfully. �Yeah.�

�It�s a sucky double standard,� he says. �I�m allowed to look,� he says directly to her face, �but you can�t.�

He gets it, she whispers to herself.

Wow.

She leans down a bit and rubs her breasts against his bare skin. Skin against skin, and the contact does enough to alleviate the pressure in the pit of her stomach, but it kills her. It really kills her because it�s really not enough at all.

�Shit,� he grounds out. �Wait. Granger. Stop.�

She does stop, because contrary to popular belief (heh, joke), she doesn�t force blond boys into sleeping with her. Though this is where she hits him. With her head.

Well, it wasn�t a hit, per se. A head butt, maybe.

His hand leaves her hips to rub at his forehead. �Ow! Granger. Stop. Get off of me. Now.�

She painfully stares back at his annoyed eyes and awkwardly rolls off.

�Granger. . . .�

And she freaking hates it that the back of her eyes are burning from something. Can�t be tears. Couldn�t be tears. She isn�t going waste none of it on him. She turns her face away, a little ashamed that she had been giving it up so easily, and he doesn�t even want it, in the end.

He looks at her bare back, all curled up. Lying like that, it reminds him of how physically small she really is. He sighs. �You don�t get it,� he says to the ceiling with the water stains.

�What?� Her voice is too husky and low. �What don�t I get?�

�It�s not that . . . I don�t want to,� he says quietly. If he had the guts, he�d reach out to her bare back and run his hand up and down. Something to sooth and comfort. But he�s a shitless kind of coward, and all he can muster the courage for were empty words. �But fucking shit. Hasn�t it occurred to you that we�re in deep shit if, nine months from now, you spawn something with my face and your sweet disposition?�

She stops breathing.

That had never occurred to her.

�Granger?�

�Oh,� she says, suddenly embarrassed to be almost naked on top of the covers with a boy who was fully naked. Painfully embarrassed that she is so stupid. She can�t even roll over to look at him. �You don�t have . . . anything?� she says quietly.

He lets out a choked laugh. �Um, no. Sorry.� Then he mentally crosses his fingers, hoping really hard that she understood the hidden meaning in that one.

�Go to the grocery,� she finally says. �It�s just down the street.�

�What?�

�Go to the grocery,� she repeats, enunciating.

He looks confused when she finally screwed up enough guts to turn around and face him. �But why?�

She crosses her arms over her chest, because she hates how exposed she felt to the stagnant air of the room. Again, her face flushes because it realized that if it were to tilt down just slightly, it�d get an eyeful of Draco Malfoy�s goods. She blushes again. �You know why. God, how stupid are you, Malfoy?� Still red. Still never as confident as she tried to pull off.

And then it dawns on him. �Ohhh.�

�Yes. Hurry up.�

�The checkout girl will know exactly what I�m going to do after I leave the store if I just go in to buy a box of condoms,� he says.

She squints at him and her jaw flaps in the non-existent wind. �So?� It was almost loud enough to be a shriek.

�You won�t change your mind?� he asks.

�Why would I?�

He shrugs. �I don�t know. You might.�

Her hand shoots out and shoves him off the bed, towards his trousers and shirt. �Just go, you freaking girl!�

- - - - -

After an awkward moment with the checkout girl:

Truth be told, she was very professional. Didn�t bat an eyelash as she glanced at the box and scanned it. Though, he had to wonder, as she was looking for the barcode, whether she turned it over on purpose to get a look at the size.

She had wished him a �great night!� as he walked out.

Stupid checkout girl.

And now he stands at the same door. This time with a baaaad box.

Run away, Draco! Run far away!

Be a better man, Draco.

And he really should. He should be the better man and pretend none of it had happened. Do her a fucking favor.

He knocks on the door.

- - - - -

In retrospect:

It probably wasn't a good idea. Not that it matters, because she has already decided that it was inevitable from the start.

She had never liked that idea. Predestination. Fate. Destiny. She had believed in free will and believed that every decision is a cause and effect and that the laws of physics dictated that every reaction had an equal unreaction times E equals mC squared ad infinitum.

But now she thinks that freewill is baloney, and that whatever she was meant to do at a particular time, she will do, because then otherwise . . . what if?

He, however, didn't put too much stock in either pile. Whatever, he says. I don't care, he says. As long I have my telly and my munchies, I'm happy. And that was how it had gone for him.

But as she was pulling him on top of her, and again when they were both naked and she was trying to hide her tears in the bed sheet as he ran his hand over the scars on her hip and ribs, he couldn't help but think that maybe it had all been inevitable from the very beginning. This moment forever destined to follow: No one asked your opinion, you filthy little Mudblood.

- - - - -

�Is--is this okay?�

�Yeah.�

�Oh, God. Granger.�

�Shh.�

- - - - -

(09-10-04)
Ha! Punks! I fooled all of you into thinking this was something deep and heavy, but no! It�s just a fancy porn stor-eeeeee.

Annnnnd REVIEW. Review LOTS, be like Jana and review FOUR times (heh, I love you, Jana), stop reviewing stupid Sags and come over to this camp. Do it enough, and I might flunk all my classes, just for the hell of it.

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Red Summer of 19