Draco thumbed the book's spine and examined the cover critically, searching for any clues as to why Granger was so anxious for him to read it.
It seemed innocent enough; the main cover a still, Muggle photograph in black, white and all the shadows of grey in between. The main focus was a seemingly educated, dark-skinned man – evidently a Muggle by his attire – with an expression that seemed worn with wisdom and experience. He checked the back and noticed it wasn't technically an autobiography, more a collection of this King bloke's writings and letters, arranged by another man called Carson. There wasn't really an explanation of what the book contained, which irritated him, but he was ridiculously intrigued about Granger's interest in the text.
With a stubborn huff, he tossed it aside and buried his face in his palms, digging his fingernails into his scalp and wondering when all this would end. He heard Granger leave her room and head to the bathroom for her shower, just like she did every other morning. He yielded to his own disturbing routine, and left the bed to slump against the usual wall, cocking his head so his ear would tingle with the vibrations of her inevitable sounds.
A few moments later, with the musical hum of pulsing water to accompany her, Granger began to feed is unhealthy obsession. Just subtle gasps and morning-raspy purrs to begin with, a build-up to her crescendo of moans that always dragged him back to this place. He inhaled a calming breath as his headache eased to her noises, and allowed himself to be lulled into a dazed state.
As he always did.
But...
But something within him stirred; a warm little twitch just below his naval that sent fast and eager blood between his thighs. He knew the feeling well, but it had been a while; being forced to plot a man's death tended to consume the mind and steal any thoughts of release, and six months in hiding had hardly helped.
Still a little lost in Granger's moans, his hand moved instinctively and absently to the growing bulge between his hips. His fingers barely managed a pleasing stroke before his eyes shot open and he snapped his hand at his side with horror carved into his features. He tore his body away from the wall with an undignified jerk and slammed his palms over his ears. He was shaking with self-loathing and shock as he desperately tried to shove her out of his senses, clenching his eyes shut and grinding his teeth.
In a trembling heap at the foot of his bed, he didn't move; didn't dare move, until the click of the main door slipped through his fingers and told him that she'd left for classes. He opened his thunderstorm eyes and his arms fell from his head as his chest heaved with revulsion and panic.
What the HELL was that?
His forehead was glossed with a mist of sweat, and his throat was scratchy and dry from his mortified panting. He felt dirty; sullied by the way his body had reacted to that fucking bitch. Merlin's grave, what was wrong with him? Had his psyche become that withered in this Granger-infested cell that he would actually respond in such a sickening manner?
NO!
No.
No, it didn't mean anything. Not a sodding thing.
It had been long months since he'd gained any physical satisfaction, and that wasn't counting the fistful of times he'd tossed off in the Scottish shack when Snape had left to get provisions. It was only normal that his baser instincts should come into play when he was living so closely to a female.
Mudblood or not.
It was inevitable, but he could control it. He had to.
He raised his head and found King's autobiography near his feet. With a loud swallow to get rid of the sandy edge in his throat, he grabbed the book with still-quivering fingers and flicked to the first page. Distraction was essential.
.
.
"Reading?" McGonagall echoed with a thoughtful expression. "Yes, I suppose that would be an ideal way for Mr Malfoy to keep busy."
"I have given him some of my Muggle books," Hermione confessed. "I...I thought I could perhaps change his view on Muggles-
"I admire your tenacity, Miss Granger," she sighed, leaning back in her chair. "But I would advise you don't get too carried away with that idea. Mr Malfoy seems pretty fixed in his ways-
"I know that," the brunette cut in. "But I don't think he's as bad as he makes out. He's intelligent, and I think if I could just feed that seed of doubt, he might see some sense."
The Headmistress pursed her lips and tapped her finger pensively against her chin. "Your opinion on Mr Malfoy has changed," she said slowly; a statement, not a question.
"Well," Hermione started awkwardly. "I just think I understand him a little better, and I think he's adapting well to me too. I'm pretty sure his perception of me has changed in the last month, so maybe I could convince him that his prejudices have no basis."
McGonagall considered the younger witch carefully. "If you must," she breathed hesitantly. "Then I would recommend that you don't get your hopes up and just be careful. But I trust your judgement, Hermione."
"Thank you," she nodded with a small smile. "That means a lot, Professor."
"And how has he been doing otherwise?" the older witch asked. "Any odd behaviour, or outbursts of any kind?"
.
.
.
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