Collision Course
Draco
Draco leaned back in his usual chair in the middle of the cafeteria—busy with the incessant chatter of dinner time, one arm draped lazily over the backrest as he toyed with a necklace in his other hand. The delicate chain twisted and spun between his fingers, catching the light in flashes, as if mocking its owner’s absence. It was, frankly, a terrible trinket—cheap, scratched and not particularly pretty. It was so mundane that he had barely noticed it on her before, and he had noticed just about everything else by now. Often it had been hidden by a scarf or tucked inside the collar of the many variations of long sleeved shirts she seemed to own. Clearly its sentimental value far outweighed its worth.
It had been Theo's input on the subject that had brought it to his attention. When he had joined his friends for coffee, running into Granger head-on for the first time in days, he had felt restless with the need to escalate things. It was infuriating that she hadn't shown signs of wear or tear yet. She'd seemed a little brisker, more impatient—from what he had seen from his faraway vantage point, but even as she tried to salvage her scholarship with all the professors who held the most of her main needed curriculum in their hands, she had done it with the precision and poise of a goddamn business woman.
Then Theo and Blaise had imparted on him the discovery they made from their little tête-à-tête with her before his arrival—yet again a thought that had been hard to swallow, for some reason. He had known the jacket was special, of course. Nobody in their right mind would wear that monstrosity every day of the week for some misguided attempt at fashion. But the necklace... that seemed like a big score. The way Theo had described it to him, there was no doubt it was important. Really important. And if messing with her grades and her reputation weren't doing the trick, it was about time Draco tried hitting closer to what truly seemed to matter—even if he didn't understand the sentimental value of junk.
And his hunch had proven right. It had been fun to take, to add one more notch in a game that had become increasingly entertaining. He would've preferred to have done it himself, but Blaise had been emphatic burning down the jacket was the little extra touch they needed to make it memorable, and if a fire needed to be set, nobody—not even Draco—would have been able to keep his friend on the side-line. If any of them had thought once that his fascination with flames was just a phase, they knew better now. So Blaise had been the one breaking in while Hermione was in her shower, doing what needed to be done. And once Draco had had the precious trinket in his hand, the state of his mental chessboard felt glorious once more.
The one downside to his games, though, was seeing the ripple effect they had on others. He had asked Blaise to start the rumours—he was, after all, the best suited to get people talking. And it had all gone according to plan, whispers spreading all over the campus in a matter of a day or two. Perfect. Except now he couldn’t turn a corner without catching some idiot ogling Hermione as if she were a prize to be won. Every smug grin, every too-bold comment he overheard, gnawed at him in a way he couldn’t quite name—or didn’t want to. It annoyed him enough that he’d found himself breaking into her dorm room more than once over the past week, stealing little pieces of her. As if owning more parts of her could somehow settle the gnawing in his chest whenever someone else gave her too much attention.
Now, her scarf, a shirt, and a collection of other small, insignificant things sat in a drawer of his desk like burning reminders of how far this obsession was starting to spiral. It was pathetic, and quite frankly didn't settle the restless maw in his chest like he wanted it to. Her scent on them had started to fade with time and now even looking at the closed drawer felt like a punishment he somehow inflicted on himself.
And then there was the black hair tie he had taken from her desk—for no other particular reason than because he could. It rested snug against his wrist, just beneath his expensive watch. He’d told himself it was practical—his hair had grown long enough to tie back, and having it on hand was convenient. But the truth sat heavy beneath that excuse, especially when he’d taken to snapping the band against his wrist whenever another man’s gaze lingered on her for too long. The sharp sting it left behind was a small, grounding punishment for a feeling he refused to acknowledge.
Blaise, seated to Draco’s left, flicked his lighter into the air, the tiny flame sparking briefly before he snapped it shut mid-spin. His grin was sharp, satisfied, as he caught the lighter and tossed it again.
“You’ve got to admit...” he said, the amusement clear in his voice, “the look on her face when she finds out? It's gonna be so worth it.”
Theo chuckled softly, his attention split between the conversation and the cards he was idly shuffling. “She’ll burn through every logical explanation first.” he said, his tone almost clinical. “She always does. But once she realizes? That’s when it gets interesting.”
Draco smirked but said nothing, letting the necklace slide between his fingers one last time before slipping it into his front pocket. It wasn’t about the trinket itself, not really. It was about what it represented: control, power, the satisfaction of knowing he was in her head. All the little things he had stolen were minuscule parts of her, parts that didn't matter, parts that barely satisfied him to own anymore. This, this felt like holding a crucial shred of her in his palm. His now. As it should be. She was always so composed, so infuriatingly unaffected. And now, piece by piece, he was unravelling her. The thought alone was enough to brighten his otherwise dull evening.
The cafeteria doors slammed open with a force that silenced the room, the hum of conversation dying mid-sentence. Every head turned toward the source of the commotion, and Draco’s smirk widened instinctively. Of course, it was her.
Hermione Granger stood in the doorway, her chest heaving, her eyes blazing with something that looked like it had clawed its way out of the deepest pits of hell. Her hair was soaked from the rain, droplets of water sliding down the strands and finishing their course into the cotton of her shirt. The burned jacket hung loosely off her shoulders, the charred hole on the front unmistakable. The faint scent of smoke and lavender wafted in the air at her entrance, a heady mix that settled deep in Draco's chest.
She looked feral. Unhinged. Absolutely glorious.
Blaise let out a low whistle, leaning forward slightly as if to get a better view. “Well...” he drawled, “Someone’s in a mood.”
Theo raised an eyebrow, his shuffling slowing but never stopping. “Interesting.” he murmured, his gaze sharp as he watched her storm across the room.
Draco’s smirk didn’t falter, but something in his chest tightened. She wasn’t supposed to look like this. Anger, sure, he’d expected that. But this? This raw, burning fury, this barely contained chaos—this was new. And it was… intoxicating. Standing there with her eyes on him, she looked like a goddess pulled from a battlefield of Tartarus itself, her rage boiling hot enough to thaw even the icy depths of the Ninth Circle. Draco had never seen something—someone—so... raw. Beautiful. Suddenly he wanted to break her again and again and again, just to see this look on her. He hadn't moved, hadn't blinked, had barely taken a breath in that long second since she'd entered the scene and yet now he craved this like a searing physical pain in his chest.
Hermione didn't bother looking around the room, she didn't set her sight on anybody or anything else. The second she had busted through those doors, her eyes had locked onto them—onto him. Now she made beeline for their table, her steps measured but heavy, each one carrying the weight of a woman who had absolutely nothing to lose. Even that much was hypnotic, the way her whole body—who had always been so tense, bracing for impact in everything she did, in every breath she took—now had a sharper edge punctuating every step. The cafeteria remained silent, the air thick with tension as students watched, too stunned to do anything but stare.
When she reached them, Blaise’s lighter was mid-air. Her eyes flicked to it in a rapid movement and without breaking stride, she reached up and snatched it out of the air, her fingers closing around it with a snap that echoed through the room. Blaise blinked, caught off guard for the first time in what felt like years, and made one move to get up, unamused, his perpetual smirk falling dangerously off his features. Draco gestured one hand in his direction, his friend staying put but looking less and less pleased about it with each second that passed where his precious lighter was in someone else's hand.
“Granger.” Blaise started between his teeth, but whatever remark he’d been about to make died on his lips when she turned to Draco.
The full weight of her attention was suddenly narrowed on him in its absoluteness. She didn’t say a word. She didn’t have to. If she had looked enraged, unhinged from afar, it was nothing compared to the utter fire he could see in her eyes from this close. Mesmerizing. His lips twitched, starting to form a satisfied smirk on his suddenly dry lips. His mouth never had the time to settle in its familiar curve however.
Her fist connected with his jaw before anyone could process what was happening. The sound of the impact was sharp, brutal, and it left the room in stunned silence. Draco’s head snapped to the side, a metallic taste suddenly filling his mouth. For a moment, he didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Didn't breathe.
The audacity of it was staggering. She had punched him. Him. Not a slap, palm open, hitting the skin with a sharp clap. A full blown punch she had clearly put all of her weight into. The entire side of his face burned hot, pain tingling his nerve endings. And she just stood there, her chest heaving, her hand still clenched into a fist, looking like she was ready to go another round.
Slowly, almost disbelievingly, Draco raised a hand to his lip. He fought back an audible wince at the stinging pain as his fingertip brushed the plump skin. His fingers came away red, the sight of his own blood sending a spark of something electric through him. He turned his gaze back to her, and for a long, agonizing second, no one in the room dared to breathe.
Then, he smiled, pulling the split skin taut. Slow and dangerous, the kind of smile that promised retribution.
“My turn.” he said, his voice low and laced with something sharp.
Before she could respond, he was on his feet, towering over her, her eyes following him up, her entire body bracing—not to run, but to take a hit, to fight back. It was maddening in its effect. But hitting her wasn't on his agenda. There were many, many ways to bring pain or fear—all of them far more satisfying than punching a woman, even if she punched first. In one fluid motion, he grabbed her by the arm and hauled her over his shoulder like she weighed nothing. Her indignant shout was muffled by the collective gasp that rippled through the cafeteria.
“We're done playing nice then.” Draco announced, his tone cutting through the silence like a blade. He turned on his heel and strode toward the exit, Hermione thrashing against him the entire way.
She was trying to contort her body in ways Draco didn't even think possible in that position and quite honestly she was stronger than her petite frame let on—which only made his grin widen. She was harder to hold onto than he thought she'd be but he tightened his arm around her body, putting more bounce in his steps than necessary, knowing each one would press his shoulder deeper into her stomach and force her to stay still, even if for a second. Blaise and Theo exchanged a glance before following, their amusement evident in the faint smirks they wore.
“Put me down, you psychotic bastard!” Hermione roared through her teeth, her fists pounding against his back.
She twisted, kicked, did everything she could to make it difficult for him, but Draco didn’t falter, though he bit back more than a couple groans, knowing some of those hits would inevitably leave bruises. With one hand keeping her securely in place, he used the other to wipe the blood from his lip, the gesture leaving the back of his pale hand smeared red.
He continued his way down the corridors and out onto the quad barely deterred by her attempts and insults. In between two steps, a sharp, tingling pressure against his side started to spread outward like a wildfire, electric and impossible to ignore. For half a second, his mind couldn’t quite register it, the unexpectedness of the feeling sending a jolt up his spine that was equal parts pain and something uncomfortably close to excitement. Then the pain sharpened, and realization struck him like a slap. Her teeth sank deeper into his skin through the thin, taut fabric of his shirt. He swore loudly, his steps faltering as the sting radiated into his ribs.
"The bitch bit me!" he snapped, glaring down at her as much as his position allowed. His voice dripped with equal parts disbelief and outrage. "Are you feral? What the fuck!?”
Hermione didn’t dignify that with a response other than another groan as she wiggled once more. He couldn't see her face and what kind of expression her features had displayed after her little stunt, but Blaise's loud, boisterous laugh behind him was all he needed.
“The little kitten's got spirit!” Blaise said, clearly enjoying the spectacle. “Careful, Drake. You might actually lose this one.”
“Shut up, Zabini.” Draco growled, his grip tightening on Hermione as she squirmed.
By the time they reached one of his cars—a favourite and the only one he usually parked on campus, his patience was wearing thin, but the thrill of the chaos kept him steady. Blaise opened the door with a loud click and Hermione, who hadn't stopped fighting since he'd picked her up, went very very still in his arms. With a small groan of effort, Draco slid her off his shoulder and, leaning forward, he dumped her unceremoniously into the backseat.
Instantly, Hermione bounced back on the seat and tried to lunge for the opposite door with a speed that was almost impressive, only to find Theo already waiting to open the door and slide himself inside. Blaise scooted next to her from the opposite side of the car—effectively trapping her, while Draco slowly made his way around the vehicle and settled himself into the driver’s seat, adjusting his rear-view mirror, with meticulous precision, to get a perfect full view of her at all time
Blaise leaned lazily against the backrest, flipping his lighter—that he had managed to snatch from Hermione's hand somewhere between the cafeteria and the car—a small smile tugging at his lips, his foot tapping rhythmically against the floor. Theo, on the other hand, had one elbow propped against the base of the window, his chin settled on his closed fist, eyes scanning the side of Hermione's face.
"Let me out!" she demanded, kicking at the back of Draco's seat hard.
Draco, instead, started the engine with a roar that made his entire body ease, the familiar feeling of the rumble of the car under him making his palms tingle as he gripped them around the steering wheel. Gods he fucking loved cars. Having the infuriating woman perched on his backseat was thrilling in a way he didn't account for.
For a second—just a second, really—his mind wandered somewhere he had tried not to allowed himself to go often since his obsession took root. Images of Hermione, breathless and covered in a sheen of sweat, moaning, her back arched over the deep emerald covering of his backseats. His gripped tightened around the wheel as he willed himself to banish the thought, even as heat already started to pool low in his belly. He glanced at her through the rear-view mirror. Her defiance was still there, burning bright, but her eyes weren't fixed on him, vowing murder like he would expect. They were glancing around, almost frantic, her whole demeanour laced with something else now. Something... fragile? He had never seen that on her face, he wasn't even quite sure what that was, but it wasn't exciting the way her fury had been.
And for the first time that night, Draco wondered if, maybe, he’d gone too far. The thought didn’t last long. After all, this was war. And in war, there was no such thing as too far.
As he steered the car to life, pulling it onto the road in a swift motion, the tension in the vehicle became a living thing, thick and oppressive, pressing against every surface like a second skin. Draco gripped the steering wheel tightly, his knuckles whitening as he navigated the dark, winding roads leading away from campus, letting the feeling of the car soothe his nerves. The engine growled low, a counterpoint to the silence that had taken root inside the vehicle. Silence, of course, except for Hermione.
She was twisting and squirming like a trapped animal between Blaise and Theo, leaning over them to pound her fists against the door on occasion, and when that didn’t work, she turned to verbal assault.
“You’re insane.” she hissed, her voice sharp and trembling, though whether it was from rage or fear was anyone’s guess. “You’re all fucking insane. Let me out of this car right now, or so help me—”
“You’ll what?” Blaise interrupted, his tone smooth and condescending. He leaned back against the seat, utterly at ease despite her proximity. “Break the window? Bite Theo this time? Face it, kitten, you’re not going anywhere.”
Hermione’s glare could have melted steel, but it did nothing to rattle Blaise, whose smirk only widened. Theo, meanwhile, was uncharacteristically quiet, his gaze flicking between Hermione and the road ahead. His sharp blue eyes narrowed slightly, but he said nothing, a contemplative air settling over him like a shroud.
Draco’s jaw ticked as he glanced at the mirror, his gaze catching Hermione’s reflection. She was breathing hard, her chest rising and falling with the effort of holding herself together, her eyes darting around to the doors, the windows, the windshield. Anywhere but him. The sight should have been satisfying—he’d wanted this, hadn’t he? To see her break, to watch her defiance crumble. But something about it felt… wrong. Off. It was fear, alright. Despite how hard she tried to clung to whatever semblance of composure she had left, he could recognize the emotion from a mile away—after all striking fear in people had been a pass-time of his for a long time. But this wasn’t the type of fear he’d been chasing. It wasn’t the sharp, cutting panic of someone bested in a battle of wits. This felt deeper, more visceral. And it made him feel… what? Uneasy? No, that couldn’t be right.
“Stop the car.” Hermione demanded, her voice cracking slightly at the edges. She looked at Draco through the mirror for the first time since he'd started driving down the road, her eyes wide and burning with an intensity he hadn’t seen before. “I’m serious, Malfoy. Stop the fucking car!”
“Or what?” he asked, his tone calm but laced with irritation. He didn’t look at her, his focus remaining on the road, but his grip on the wheel tightened further.
Hermione’s lips pressed into a thin line, and for a moment, she seemed to falter, her shoulders shaking so discreetly he almost missed it when he chanced another glance. Then her gaze darted to the window, and she tensed like a runner on the starting block. Draco’s stomach twisted as he realized her intention a second too late.
“You’re not that stupid.” Blaise said, his voice low and warning, as if reading her mind. “Don’t even think about it.”
“Watch me.” Hermione shot back, her voice shaking as her hand reached for the door handle over Blaise's body.
Blaise and Theo moved at the same time, each grabbing one of her arms and pinning her back against the seat. She struggled fiercely, her movements wild and frantic, and Draco swore under his breath as the car swerved slightly. The soft hiss of rubber sliding against asphalt as he steered the car back in a straight line with a jolt instantly made her stop moving entirely, her whole body so taut she looked like a goddamn statue.
“For fuck’s sake, Granger!” he snapped, his voice louder than he intended. “Sit still before you get us all killed.”
Her head whipped toward him, and the venom in her gaze was palpable. “Stop the fucking car! Let me out!” she spat. The tremble in her voice was becoming all too noticeable now. This wasn't like her. "Let me out... Let me out..." she started to mutter under her breath, eyes darting back to the windows and then the windshield, her lips moving but barely any sound coming out.
Draco exhaled sharply, his patience wearing thin. He took a sharp turn, the tires skidding slightly on the wet pavement. Hermione flinched, her whole body tensing again as her eyes squeezed shut for a second. When he glanced at her through the mirror again, her breathing had become shallow, her hands trembling where they were pinned by Blaise and Theo.
“You okay there, kitten?” Blaise asked, his tone mocking but not entirely unkind. “You look a little pale.”
Hermione didn’t respond. She opened her eyes, staring straight ahead, her jaw clenched so tightly it was a wonder she didn’t crack a tooth. But it wasn’t Blaise or Theo she was looking at. It was the windshield, the road, the blur of headlights flashing past. And suddenly, Draco understood.
She wasn’t afraid of them. She was afraid of the car.
The realization hit him like a punch to the gut. He didn’t know why, didn’t know what it meant, but the raw, unfiltered fear in her eyes wasn’t for him or Blaise or Theo. It was for the vehicle hurtling down the road at high speed, for the turns he took just a little too sharply, for the brakes he applied just a fraction too late. And somehow, that made it worse. He wanted her to be scared of him, of what he could do to her. But that fear—primal, raw, unsettling—was focused on the road ahead, like it was the only thing she could see, the only thing she could acknowledge. Her eyes were glossy, red. Like she was fighting a losing battle against tears. What the fuck? Hermione Granger wouldn't cry. She couldn't. It wasn't in her nature—he was so damn sure of it.
“D.” Theo said quietly, his voice cutting through the tension. It was the first time he’d spoken since they’d left the cafeteria. “Maybe ease up a bit.”
Draco glanced at him, then back at the road. His jaw tightened and for a second he pressed his foot harder on the gas instead, taking a turn next to the cliffside just a little sharper than necessary just to prove he could. He was a fantastic driver, he had honed the skill and wore it like a badge of honour. And he thought scaring her more would remind him this—her fear—was what he had wanted all along. But a whimper—an actual fucking whimper—came past her lips, barely audible and broken but there nonetheless, heavy in the space between them. One single, thick, tear clung onto her eyelashes for dear life. And it unravelled an ugly truth in him. That wasn't the kind of fear he wanted. He hated what he was seeing, what he was feeling. How could she be this... vulnerable.
With a silent 'fuck' on his tongue he finally let his foot off the gas slightly, the car slowing to a more reasonable speed. Hermione didn’t relax, but the shallow, panicked edge of her breathing seemed to ease just a fraction. Blaise raised an eyebrow but said nothing, his smirk fading into something more neutral.
The rest of the drive passed in strained silence, the only sound the hum of the engine and the occasional hiss of tires on wet pavement. When Draco finally pulled into the warehouse lot, the tension in the car was so thick it felt suffocating, and the one lodged deep in his chest somehow felt worse.
He killed the engine and turned in his seat, his grey eyes locking on Hermione. She was still pale, her hands clutching the edges of the seat so tightly her knuckles were white. Her eyes met his for a brief moment, and what he saw there made his stomach twist again. This wasn’t the woman who’d stormed into the cafeteria with fire in her eyes and fury in her fists. This was someone else entirely. Someone he wasn’t sure he liked seeing. Small, scared, shaken.
“Get her out.” he said finally, his voice sharp but quieter than usual.
Blaise opened his door, almost hesitantly, then slid a hand around Hermione's arm like a silent demand for her to follow. Hermione didn’t move at first. Then, slowly, she uncurled her fingers from the seat and climbed out, her movements stiff and deliberate. Blaise and Theo followed her, her body small between their two tall frames, their usual smirks replaced with something more subdued. Draco exchanged a glance with them as he slid himself out of the car, pressing a button with his thumb to lock it with its' usual beep.
“What now?” Blaise asked, his tone light but lacking its usual edge of amusement.
Draco didn’t answer immediately. His gaze lingered on Hermione, who stood by the car with her back resolutely turned to it, like she didn't even want to have to look at it. Her arms were crossed tightly over her chest, one of Blaise's hands still resting around her upper arm. She looked tiny and cold, so empty of the fire that had punctuated every single word she had said to him, every look she had given to him since the day he first met her, and it unsettled him in a way he couldn’t quite articulate.
“Bring her inside.” he said finally, his voice cold. “We’re not done yet.”
The warehouse was cold, echoing with the sound of their footsteps. The air was thick with the metallic tang of oil and rust, and the faint hum of fluorescent lights overhead buzzed like a swarm of angry bees. Hermione’s wet shoes squeaked faintly against the concrete floor as she was half-dragged, half-pushed forward by Draco. Her arms were crossed tightly over her chest, more out of instinct than defiance, though the tightness in her jaw suggested she hadn’t fully resigned herself to the situation.
Draco’s hand tightened firmly around her upper arm, his fingers pressing just hard enough to keep her moving but not enough to bruise through the fabric of her jacket. That wasn’t the point, after all. The point was control, and he wanted her to feel every ounce of it. But as they reached the small utility room tucked into the corner of the warehouse, he couldn’t ignore the way her silence gnawed at him. She'd been quiet since they had left the car, her shaking slowly subsiding with each step he forced out of her. He had watched her—studied her—so much over the days that he knew, deep in his bones, this wasn’t the silence born of fear that she had clung to in the car. And it certainly wasn't the silence of defeat.
It was the silence of a storm gathering strength, and it set his teeth on edge.
He shoved the door open with his foot, putting more force than necessary into the movement, the creak of rusted hinges slicing through the quiet in a painful shrill. The room was small and sparse, its only furnishings a mostly empty shelf with remnants of car parts strewn about and a rusted radiator with pipes jutting out of it, slithering along the walls. He didn't bother turning on the flickering overhead light, letting the small space be dipped in shadows, the only brightness coming from the open door at his back.
Draco manoeuvred Hermione toward the biggest pipe along the far wall, his free hand reaching up to his throat and skilfully hooking his finger above the knot of his tie, sliding it free with a graceful swipe of his hand. The silk felt cool against his fingers, a sharp contrast to the heat rising in his chest.
“Stay still.” he ordered, his voice low but dripped in command all the same.
Hermione glared at him but didn’t argue. She stood unmoving, her back against the wall, her arms still wrapped tightly around herself. He saw her eyes dart to the door and then to each corner of the small room in rapid succession, like she was taking inventory of her surroundings, a small glint of something—was it recognition?—passing briefly in her eyes. Gone was the soul-crushing fear he had seen in her earlier—erased from her features so thoroughly it was almost enough to convince Draco he had imagined it himself. It wouldn't be the first time thoughts and images of her assaulted his mind, even in broad daylight, unbidden. He took one more step, crowding her personal space. His movements were precise as he slid her arms down her side and, slowly, behind her back, looping the tie around her wrists and securing them to the pipe, the repetitive motion of tying the perfect knot grounding him. He didn’t speak, and neither did she. The silence felt heavy, oppressive, like a third presence in the room.
When he finished, he stepped back and straightened, his gaze lingering on her for a moment longer than he intended. Her hair was still damp, curling slightly at the edges, and her shirt clung to her frame in a way that should have made her look small. Vulnerable. But there was nothing vulnerable about the way she held herself, not anymore. Her chin was tilted up just enough to make it clear she wasn’t broken yet.
This was the Hermione Granger he had wanted to see. The Hermione Granger he had wanted to break.
He could've stared at her like that—furious and tied in place, his to toy with—for hours, he unfortunately knew that all too well. But he wouldn't let himself. Draco turned on his heel and left the room without a word, the door slamming shut behind him, drowning the whole closet in pure darkness. The noise echoed through the warehouse, drawing Theo and Blaise’s attention from where they lounged on the worn leather couch in the main area.
The room around them was a patchwork of chaos: half-repaired cars scattered across the space, some pristine and ready to roar, others with open hoods and missing parts, their guts spilling out like mechanical cadavers. The air smelled of oil and metal, mingling with the faint tang of cigarette smoke. Empty crates—once holding brand new car parts—were strewn about, used as makeshift tables and chairs in a corner opposite the old leather couch they'd once decided to install there for a touch more comfort, despite how out of place it seemed in the emptiness.
Their shared love of cars was one of the few hobbies the three of them really had in common—other than spreading chaos for the sake of it, of course. Blaise preferred the satisfaction of fixing them, of turning broken machines into polished masterpieces, only to bet recklessly on their limits later. Theo, surprisingly, had been the one to drag them into the world of street racing during one of his unmedicated stints, a period that had since burned itself into Draco’s memory—for the better and for the worst.
At that time it seemed Theo had been driving for the thrill, for the rush of emotions he couldn't quite grasp when he was on his meds. Recklessly, almost like he actually wanted to crash just to see how it'd feel. Draco? He had fallen in love with the drive itself—the rush, the control, the moment when everything blurred except for the line ahead. There were very little feelings comparable to it.
Blaise had a cigarette balanced between his fingers, the smoke curling lazily upward, while Theo shuffled his ever-present deck of cards with the ease of someone who had been doing it his entire life. Both of them looked up at him expectantly.
“Handled, then?” Blaise asked, not bothering to hide the amusement in his tone.
Draco didn’t answer immediately. The sting in his side finally resurfaced now that the adrenaline of the drive—and of Granger's simple presence—was starting to ebb away. He let his face morph into a wince for a second, teeth slightly clenched against his tongue as he unceremoniously pulled his shirt open, tossing it onto the arm of the couch, just to inspect the damage. The faint imprint of teeth was stark against the pale skin of his side, a bruise already beginning to bloom around the edges. Blaise let out a low whistle, leaning forward to get a better look.
“Well, that’s a work of art.” he said, his grin widening. In a swift motion, he slid his phone out of his pocket and before Draco could even move, the sharp flash of Blaise's camera illuminated the space as he took a picture of the red mark on his skin. “She’s got a good bite on her, doesn’t she?”
Theo raised an eyebrow, his shuffling slowing slightly. “You should probably disinfect that.” he said, his tone flat, factual.
Draco ignored both of them, grabbing a clean grey t-shirt from the duffel bag near the couch—the one they had taken to keeping there after one of them, usually Blaise, had fallen asleep on said couch one too many times after pulling an all-nighter working on cars. He pulled it on with sharp, jerky movements, his mind replaying the events of the car ride and Hermione’s reaction.
Her fear had been palpable, tangible in a way that had felt wrong. He never imagined fear could bring those kinds of emotions in him. He loved to see fear in the eyes of people, strived in it, had gone out of his way to induce it more times than he could count. He had wanted to see it in her expression too. But that experience had been miles away from the one that had haunted his daydreams—and more than one or two of his fantasies, whether he wanted to admit it to himself or not. The truth had become apparent: he wanted her defiance, her fire, the part of her that fought tooth and nail to keep him from winning. But the woman in the car hadn’t been that. She’d been raw, exposed, like a wound laid bare. He had hated it in a way he didn't know he could hate something.
“She was terrified.” Theo said suddenly, breaking the silence.
Draco’s head snapped toward him, his eyes narrowing. “Of course she was scared.” he snapped. “She’s tied to a pipe in a warehouse, in the middle of nowhere. I’d be worried if she wasn’t.”
“Not of us." Theo’s gaze didn’t waver. He shook his head like it was so obvious he shouldn't have to voice it aloud. "Not of being here. In the car. She wasn’t looking at you. She was looking at the road.”
Blaise exhaled a long plume of smoke, tilting his head slightly. “I noticed that too.” he said casually, though his tone carried a note of intrigue. “You think she’s got a thing about cars? Maybe a bad crash or something?”
Draco didn’t answer. He didn’t want to think about it. Didn’t want to care. Whatever was going on in Hermione Granger’s head wasn’t his problem. She’d declared war, and he was just playing his part. Right? Slowly being consumed by an ever growing obsession about her didn't mean that much had changed, didn't mean he had to feel things when she was hurting or scared. No, he didn't. And if he needed to repeat that to himself a dozen times in his head to believe it, so be it.
“Well, whatever it is...” Blaise continued, his grin returning, “At least the jacket thing worked. Did you see her face? Priceless.”
Draco felt the tension in his jaw ease slightly, the image of Hermione storming into the cafeteria flashing through his mind. That was the version of her he wanted. The fire, the fury, the woman who punched him in the face without hesitation. Nobody ever punched him in the face. Some had tried, some—a long time ago—had even succeeded and none of them had stayed around long to boast about it afterwards. But none of them had done it with the proper wrath of a war goddess. Nobody had made exhilaration course through his veins with a hit. No punch had ever made Draco Malfoy want to follow up with a burning, all-consuming kiss instead of another swing. That was all her.
The goddess. The lioness. The queen.
He didn’t know what to do with that other woman, the one who had stared out of the car window like she was bracing for impact. The one whose eyes had been one blink away from being overtaken by tears. Who had shaken like a small, fragile leaf threatening to be taken by the wind. He couldn't think about this version of her, it made a sick feeling creep in his chest and he had no intention of acknowledging it. Not now, not ever.
“She’ll snap out of it.” he said finally, his tone clipped. “She always does.”
Theo didn’t look convinced, but he didn’t argue. He returned to his cards, the sound of shuffling filling the silence as Draco turned toward the utility room. He paused outside the door, his hand hovering over the handle. For a moment, he hesitated, the memory of her wide eyes and trembling hands gnawing at him. Then he pushed the thought away and stepped inside. She still remained a puzzle he was set on solving. He had questions and Hermione still had to learn her place. The car ride had changed nothing.
The light flickered above with a insistent buzz, casting harsh shadows across the room. Hermione's body had slid down to the floor, sitting on her knees, hands still firmly clasped behind her back, locked in place by his tie biting into her skin. She didn’t look up when he entered, her gaze fixed on some invisible point on the floor in front of her knees, her damp hair falling in waves, obstructing her face. Her silence was louder than any insult she could have thrown at him, and it grated against his nerves.
“Well, kitten.” he said, his voice dripping with mockery as he used the new nickname Blaise seemed to have taken a shine to. “Have you retracted your claws yet?”
Draco leaned against the cold metal frame of the radiator, watching Hermione in the dim, flickering light. Each sputter of the overhead lightbulb made her shadow elongate or retract, making her seem like an otherworldly thing, a figure that was there, but not quite there. Her gaze remained firmly fixed on the floor, her posture unnervingly still. It was infuriating.
He wanted fire. That venomous wit she’d wielded against him like a blade so many times before. He wanted to see her hate him, spit cutting remarks at him, click her surprisingly sharp teeth in his direction like she wanted to bite his head off. A lioness more than a kitten. But instead, he was met with silence, her stoic exterior a mirror that reflected nothing back at him.
“What’s the matter?” he asked, his voice carrying a lazy drawl as he crouched down to her level. “Finally run out of things to say?”
Hermione didn’t respond. She didn’t even look at him. Her hands shifting slightly, the only sign she hadn’t turned to stone like the statue she clearly was trying to portray herself as. Draco’s lips twitched into a smirk, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes, a single tick of irritation making a muscle flutter in his cheek.
“Oh, come on. Don’t tell me the big, bad Granger has finally been tamed. That’d be a real shame.”
Still nothing. Just the slow, steady rise and fall of her chest and the maddening sound of her silence scratching against the empty walls and the last nerve Draco still possessed. Fine. Let's see if she could still give him the cold shoulder if he pushed her closer to the edge. This was still a game she was trying to play with him, he knew it. She was trying to win. Even now, in her silence, she was trying to one-up him. Not tonight, not ever.
His hand drifted to the back pocket of his fitted pants, fingers brushing against the cool steel of the pocket knife he didn't usually keep on him often—but for some reason had felt compelled to for the last few days. He pulled it out slowly, letting the blade catch the light as he flicked it open. The faint snick of metal against metal echoed in the small room.
“Let’s play a game.” he said, twirling the knife lazily between his fingers. “I’ll ask a question, and you’ll answer. Simple, right?”
Hermione’s gaze didn't flick up like he thought it would. The sound of a blade was pretty unmistakable—surely even if she had never heard it in person before, even her could recognize it. Yet her shoulders stayed even, her breathing slow and her eyes just as glued to the cracked floor as it had been moments before. It was enough to spur him on, the now familiar embers of irritation glowing dangerously in his chest, ready to ignite. He had pulled the knife out to scare her, a little prop to strip that silent streak out of her, see her brown eyes flash towards him in fear and anger. But if she needed a bigger push, she could only blame herself.
“Let’s start with the basics.” he continued, his tone conversational. “We both know you're hiding a dirty little secret under that filthy jacket you’re so fond of... How about you tell me about it, hmm?”
When she didn’t respond, Draco sighed dramatically. “No? That’s fine. I’m a man of initiative.”
He reached out, his fingers brushing the charred fabric of her jacket. She didn't move, not a breath out of sync. His smirk widened as he pushed the material off her shoulders, as far as her restraints would allow. His fingertips slid all the way down the rough fabric, deliberately slow, until they reached the edge of her shirt, the hem tattered and worn. Every step of the way he expect her to flinch, to shy away, to curse. He almost held his breath in the anticipation of it. But every step of the way she stayed still and silent.
Without hesitation, he placed the glinting blade of his knife against a particularly frayed edge along the hem of the black fabric. Pinching it taut around the blade, he let the knife make the first cut in the cotton. She didn't gasp. Didn't scream. Fine. With agonizing slowness, her moved the pocket knife upwards, slicing through fabric. He could feel it—very, very subtly, the way the cold metal barely grazed her skin underneath. Not enough to cut, but enough to be felt. It sent a thrill through his entire body, and not the bad kind. But even then, she didn't flinch. She could feel it, she had to and yet she gave him nothing. How could such a small woman remain stone still, breathing evenly, with a knife running along her flesh?
As his blade neared the collar of her shirt, the silence in the room thickened, her breathing shallow but steady. In one last flick of his wrist, he cut through the remaining piece of fabric, the two sides of her shirt slightly retreating from each other at their middle. Slowly—so slowly it took all his control to achieve—he pushed the ruined shirt aside, his fingertips barely brushing against the warm skin underneath and yet sending a burning shiver down his spine all the same. In one long, smooth gesture, he finally exposed the flesh of her shoulders, chest and stomach, the only remaining barrier a black bra that gave her some semblance of decency still. He leaned back ever so slightly to admire it, assess it. His breath caught.
Scars. Everywhere.
Draco had known she had more than a few of them sprinkled all over the skin of her right shoulder and upper arm—and he had surmised that those might extend a little further than the small patch of skin he had seen then. But he hadn't, in a million years, expected this. The marks crisscrossed her skin like a map of a warzone, some thin and faint, others thick and jagged. The patchwork of wounds told a story he couldn’t begin to piece together. For a moment, he was still, lips slightly parted, his usual bravado faltering as he took in the sight before him. There was almost no patch of skin untouched, the variously sized scars running all the way down, disappearing under the waistband of her jeans. And somehow—for the briefest of seconds—he found her even more beautiful.
“Well.” he said finally, his voice quieter than he intended—speaking up like his own voice might be the only thing capable of snapping him out it. “This is one hell of a secret, isn't it?”
Hermione didn’t move, didn’t speak, didn’t give him the satisfaction of a reaction, dissipating whatever was left of his stupor. He wanted her to fight back, to scream at him, to do anything but sit there like a doll on display.
“Got nothing to say?” he demanded, his voice sharp. “No clever retorts? No righteous indignation? Nothing?”
“You wanted to see.” she said evenly, her voice so low he had to lean slightly closer to make out the words—and yet her silence had been so complete before that the sound took him by surprise. Her eyes, her body, nothing moved. Nothing tilted up in his direction. Just the slow, calm hum of her voice drowned out by the buzzing of the overhead light. “Now you have.”
The simplicity of her words sent a wave of irritation through him. He wanted to provoke her, to unravel her, but instead, it felt like she was the one pulling the strings. Somehow she was still the one in control. Bound, laid bare, at his mercy on the stone cold floor. And it still felt like the winning piece was in her hands. It was fucking maddening. His grip tightened on the knife, the frustration simmering just beneath the surface. He needed to push harder. Go further. He needed her to react.
“I wonder...” he said slowly, his gaze drifting lower, settling right below her navel, where a long, thin scar disappeared under her waistband. “Does it go further? Are there more scars hiding under there?”
His hand moved to her thigh, sliding up the denim of her jeans, fingers clenching onto the curves harder than they needed to. The heat in his belly was alarmingly present now that his hands were on her—regardless of the situation. He couldn't afford to let his fantasies, the desire that had been festering for her—unbidden and unwelcome—for days take the better of him. Not yet. Draco let his fingers glide against the roughness of the denim until he reached the waistband. He hooked them around the button skilfully, popping it open with practiced ease.
His lips parted, another taunt forming on his tongue, the very edge of his fingertips sliding along the rim of her jeans, ready to grab onto the material to pull it down. Only then did Hermione's head snap up, their eyes meeting, stilling him in place. He almost smirked. Almost. He finally had gotten the better of her nerves. Or so he thought. But the sense of victory died—as did the growing smirk—quickly, and painfully.
Before Draco made a single move or uttered a single word, her head lunged forward, colliding with his with a force that sent stars exploding behind his eyes and a loud crack echoing against the walls. He reeled back, a sharp curse tearing from his lips as he staggered, his hand flying to his nose. Blood dripped between his fingers, warm and sticky, pitter-pattering to the ground as pain radiated through his skull.
“You crazy bitch!” he snarled, his voice muffled by the hand pressed to his face.
Hermione didn’t respond. She spat to the side, a small streak of blood landing on the floor, oozing from her lip that had split from the impact, red smudged over the plump skin. He looked at her through the fingers pressed against his face and—in all the glory and venom of a death goddess—she smirked.
“If that’s how you want to play.” he said, his voice low and dangerous, his gaze a shade of grey so dark it contained a storm of its own. His fingers curled and tightened around the handle of his pocket knife, letting blood trickle down his nose freely now. “Fine. Let’s play.”