Nobody's Girl

Draco lay across his bed on his stomach, his face against his arms but his mind back in the bathing room downstairs. Why did he walk away at the sight of her balled up in despair? Maybe his father was right after all. Maybe he was weak.

He had intended to shame her, embarrass her, as punishment for having the audacity to strike him. Instead, he had put himself in yet another predicament. Watching her had affected him in some way that he didn't quite understand yet.

Whatever he had thought before, he definitely saw her as a woman now. Her image had been carved into his mind, and he wondered if he would ever forget it. He had been with girls before, other Witches who were close to his social status, but none of them looked anything like Hermione.

Hermione's form was small and delicate, milky-white skin tinted slightly pink. It was like something from an overly dramatic romance story, like something from mythology. Draco wasn't even aware that a real creature could look like that. It was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.

He rolled over onto his back and stared at the ceiling. How could he be thinking these thoughts? She was a Mudblood first, woman second. What she looked like shouldn't matter to him. But it did matter, and every time he examined her features as he remembered them his heart began to pound harder. His body reacted to his thoughts and he couldn't stop it.

She was like the ultimate forbidden fruit, something he could never have and shouldn't even want. To touch her would be to contaminate himself, not to mention break the law. For a Wizard to mate with a Mudblood would be a horrible offense. Tainting a pure bloodline was punishable by death.

Unfortunately, all this only made him want her more. He wanted that delicate form in his arms, to make it his. He owned her, true, but she was like a doll owned by a child who could never play with it. It was torture.

A little voice in his head whispered "What about her? What about Hermione's feelings?"

Draco almost laughed. Why would he care about her feelings? She was his slave, a Mudblood. She didn't even have the right to have feelings or opinions. But then the image of her curled up on the bathing platform, shaking with sobs, appeared in his mind. A sharp pain shot through his head, as if a migraine were approaching fast. He idly wondered if perhaps his body was punishing him for his cruelty since his conscience had failed to do so.

For an instant, he questioned his ideals. Why should such a lovely creature have to suffer because of the way she was born? What gave him the right to be so barbarous to her? He shook his head. He couldn't entertain such thoughts. If his father knew he was thinking like that, he would surely be thrown out of the house, and Hermione put to death.

No matter what he thought about, he still couldn't focus on anything but her. He was beginning to burn for her, and he had to keep himself under control. He grumbled as he got up from the bed and paced the room, trying to erase her from his memory. Doing so only frustrated him more. He wanted to see her again. He wanted her back in his room. He wanted things to be back as they were, when he still thought of her as nothing more than a slave, and she obeyed him with only a quiet sort of rebellion.

After much thought, he finally told the servants to bring her up to his room. He decided that he would act as if nothing had happened, and he would change his mind about the punishment. He would just give her a painful curse that had temporary effects and let it go at that. That way, things could go back to normal.

When the servants brought her up, she walked in slowly, like a zombie. She looked at the floor and never lifted her eyes to him. Her cheeks were tinted red, surprising him that she was still embarrassed, even though she was back in her robe. Also surprising him was the fact that he kept imagining her out of the robe.

"Well, I hope you've learned your lesson. Maybe you'll behave from now on," he said.

She nodded without looking up.

Her reaction was disappointing, to say the least. Was she pouting? "It's rude not to look at your master when he's talking to you," he told her grumpily.

She lifted her face and looked him in the eyes. If he had less self-control, he would have gasped. The look in her eyes, of shame and sorrow and hopelessness, was enough to drive a spike through the hardest of hearts. They were still glossy from all the crying, and her lips quivered ever so slightly. It hadn't dawned on him that she'd had a horrible day. Waking up on her hard cot after spending the night in his soft bed, being told she would be punished for nothing, being struck by him, finding out she would be sent to the half-blood servants downstairs for their pleasure, and enduring the horror of the bathing incident of earlier that afternoon.

He remembered his first thought when he was buying her, that it would be enjoyable to break a rebellious Mudlbood in. Well, it looked like he'd broke her in all right, and somehow he could get no joy whatsoever from it.

Hermione couldn't hold his gaze much longer before she weakened and looked back down. Instinct told him to apologize, but he couldn't do that. He couldn't prove his father right. She was just a Mudblood. He shouldn't even care.

"We're going to continue with the experimental cursing, which will include your punishment. I decided against sending you to the servants for now. In your state you'd probably bore them to death."

Hermione nodded. The slightly good news didn't help her mood much. A glint of worry entered his mind. What if he'd driven her insane? What use would she be then? He put a hand on her shoulder and shook her slightly. "Hey, are you all right?"

She looked back up at him for a moment. "I'm fine," she said, and her voice was unbearably small and cracking. She looked so fragile.

He realized he hadn't removed his hand, and impulsively put his free hand on her other shoulder. One hand slid up her neck and to her chin. He lifted her face back up. It was so beautiful, and her skin felt so warm against his. He leaned in closer, desiring to feel her short, surprised breaths against his face. Her lips were quivering more than before, and he wanted nothing more than to smother them with his own.

In a second of weakness, he pressed his lips fiercely to hers. Her mouth was so warm, so delicious. Her lips twitched against his mouth, her eyes slid closed. He'd never kissed anyone like that before, and from Hermione's trembling, he was sure she never had either.

Suddenly he realized what he was doing and he pulled away, shoving her back a few steps at the same time. His hand went up to his mouth and wiped vigorously, as if to rub her germs away. They still burned from the heat of her lips. For the first time he noticed what a striking difference there was in their body temperatures. He had always been a cold-natured person, but his whole family had been too. Hermione was the warmest person he'd ever come into contact with.

She looked utterly shocked, staring at him with wide eyes and a gaping mouth. He couldn't tell whether she looked frightened or offended, and he told himself that he didn't care. He'd had a taste of her, and he wanted more. She was his, after all! Why shouldn't he enjoy her for all she was worth? She was no child, and she was not a cripple. She was a healthy Mudblood adult. What would be wrong with it?

He walked over and grabbed her shoulders again. He cast a sideways glance to the door, making certain that it was locked, then looked back at her face. She seemed to have regained some of her spirit. "What are you doing?" she asked uneasily.

He didn't have an answer for her, or one for himself for that matter. All he could think of was how much he wanted her. He looked her in the eyes through strands of soft, silver hair. "Take off your robe," he whispered.

Hermione panicked, knowing then what was going to happen. She shoved his hands away. "No! You humiliated me once already today!" she cried, stepping backwards.

He stepped toward her again. "You can't deny me. I'm your owner," he said, "and besides, I know you're attracted to me."

Despite her best intentions, her cheeks went red. "What are you talking about?!"

"In the bathing room, I saw your eyes when the water knocked you down. I saw why you were so humiliated, I saw you blushing. I'm not stupid."

Hermione shook her head. "Anyone would be embarrassed in such a situation!" But nevertheless she blushed even more furiously.

Draco smiled. He had been right. In truth, he had only a small suspicion that she felt attraction for him, but her behavior had verified it. He clasped his arms around her firmly, his hands working at the buttons of her robe. Hermione wanted to yell or fight, but no matter what she told herself, Draco had been right. She was attracted to him. Despite that, she didn't want this. She didn't want it to be like this. This way would be humiliating and the complete opposite of all the romantic daydreams she'd entertained as an early teenager. She wasn't ready for this, but how could she resist? He was her owner, and more powerful than she. All she could do was cry silently, and look at the door that seemed so very far away.

Draco unfastened the final button of the robe and pulled it from her shoulders. She shivered, the room was still very cold. Her cheeks were getting redder by the second. Within moments he had removed the rest of her clothing, save for her white cotton socks. He looked her up and down, and in shame, she held her face in her hands.

He pulled her hands away and looked her in the eyes. She was more beautiful now than ever. With every touch, every kiss, he felt that he was sealing his doom, but he didn't care. He'd rather die than deny himself this. He ignored her tears, telling himself that they didn't matter, but what was left of his conscience cringed ever time another tear ran down her reddened cheeks.

He pulled her to the bed and lifted her onto it. He tore off his robes, eager to be free of them, and watched Hermione's eyes roam over him, her face becoming redder by the second. Her tears stopped for a while, as he crawled onto her and kissed her passionately. But when his hands began groping again, they returned.

He made use of her entire body, exploring it and enjoying it in every way he could think of. She struggled some, at certain times. Sometimes she cried louder, but eventually she just became still and allowed him to have his way with her. Her situation was hopeless anyway.

When he finally entered her body, which rejected him all it could before he forced his way in, he felt her tense up, and fresh tears escaped from her eyes. She looked away from him, closing her eyes tightly and presumably trying to imagine that it wasn't happening.

He gripped her face in his hand and turned it to him. "Open your eyes," he said huskily.

She refused, squinting her eyes more tightly shut. He intentionally gave a painful thrust inside her. "I said, open you eyes!"

She did so, and again he found himself staring at the very image of despair. Her eyes were so beautiful, especially when they were so painfully sad. A part of him wanted to hold her gently and tell her everything would be okay, but he mentally destroyed that part as soon as it surfaced. He just kept reminding himself that she was his slave, and he was her owner. He stared her in the eyes until he finished, at which point he let go of her face and she turned it away quickly.

He got up from the bed and pulled on his slacks. He reached over and pulled a sheet over her body. She was trembling, and curled up as she had been on the bathing platform. He felt a twinge of pain in his head again. He leaned over her. "If it's any consolation, this won't happen again."

She couldn't bring herself to look at him, but she nodded.

"When you feel like it, call for the servants and they'll clean you up and give you fresh clothes. You dinner should be waiting in your cell. I'm off to scrub myself until I'm rid of your Mudblood germs. See you tomorrow."

He started to go for the door, but he paused at the sound of her tiny voice. "Not if I can help it."

He turned. "What did you say?"

"I said, not if I can help it," she repeated, still not looking up from the pillow.

"Don't tell me you're planning an escape."

"An escape from your house? From slavery? No exactly," she said tonelessly, clutching the sheets in her shaking hands. "I'm planning an escape from life."