Disclaimer: Everything (except my ideas) is the property of J.K. Rowling, and I'm merely borrowing it for my own, non-profit amusement.

The first time I hit her, she cried. It was slow to come—the shock had to wear off first, I think—and even as the tears started rolling, she was quiet. I think that was what surprised me the most. After all, I am a Malfoy; everyone knows our anger has a cold, bitter edge. But Hermione Granger was all bright hot fire, not to be silenced by the icy dagger of anyone's frustrations, not even a Malfoy's. Or so I thought. I was wrong.

That first time seems so long ago, now—it was the day I first brought Hermione back home to the manor for Lucius and Narcissa. They were all cold smiles and false manners while Hermione was in the room, but as soon as she had to go to the bathroom, their sneers and cruel words lashed into me. I had brought shame upon the honorable Malfoy name (yet again). I had failed them as a son. I was stooping to the dregs of the earth with this vile excuse for a witch. The insults became more and more biting as my father's voice grew quieter. Hermione reentered the room after a few minutes, and the insults ended mid-sentence. Narcissa even had the nerve to compliment the dress she had just declared unfit for a house-elf. Hermione just smiled and thanked her, oblivious as always. Stupid little fucking mudblood.

She just made me even angrier. She shouldn't have said anything nice about them when we apparated back to the house. She should have known what to expect from them. But no—my pretty little stupid Gryffindor had her bushy little head in the clouds, as usual. She murmured, sleepy from the white wine she'd had at dinner, that they were nice. She told me I shouldn't have worried about their reaction to her at all. She went so far as to giggle at my anxiety from the past couple weeks.

I couldn't stand it. I had to tell her. I had to be honest with her. I told her that they had hated her. She just laughed and said I was imagining things. She told me that they were quite polite and she would be happy to have dinner with them again. I don't know where it came from—the firewhiskey I'd had encouraged my hand perhaps, or maybe Malfoys just wouldn't stand to be laughed at, or maybe it was always going to happen eventually—but before I even fully realized what was happening, my fist was breaking into that beautiful tinkling laughter, my darling was sprawled on the floor, head still turned to the side and smile dying on her face, and it was as silent as death in our large bedroom.

I never apologized that first time, or any other. If I said sorry, it would become too real, too tangible. The faint trace of a bruise that was left after I healed her eye was enough for that. I never promised not do ever do it again either. I couldn't lie, not to my precious Hermione. She meant way too much to me to be dishonest. Instead I just held her as she cried and then cuddled her to sleep. The next morning, she woke up to the newest edition of Hogwarts, A History, which wasn't scheduled to come out for another day (I had to twist some arms and cash in some favors for that one, you'd better believe) and a bouquet of freshly picked wildflowers. It wasn't nearly enough, but Mudblood as she is, she loves the simple things, and the night before was forgiven and forgotten by breakfast.

The second time didn't happen for a few weeks. It was after she had dragged me to Harry fucking Potter's birthday party. Her hand slipped from mind after less than five minutes at the Burrow as she bounded off to greet the Weasley's and the WonderBoy (much more enthusiastically than I did, feel sure). She stayed a distance away from me for the duration of the party. I, left to my own devices, took to downing shots of firewhiskey while watching her glow like a firefly in the dark across the yard. She was the life of the party, beaming at everyone, sipping her glass of wine, laughing every few minutes at yet another joke from yet another cute young wizard. I was the cold iron anchor, dragging her down from my dark corner and wishing her close every instant.

I watched her every move. I saw as she was led out to dance again and again. By Harry, by Neville Longbottom and by Seamus Finnigan and Dean Thomas. By Ron Weasley… once, twice, three times… I lost count. And I did nothing. Just simmered and tossed back more and more of the burning liquid that so easily became my biggest vice. I was furious, and the whiskey only strengthened the feeling. That was my girl, my woman, and she was in the arms of that tall, gangling pathetic excuse of a pureblood. And she was completely oblivious. She couldn't even see that he was completely in love with her. I could tell. It was in the way his eyes crept over every inch of her deliciously creamy skin, the way his hand slid so easily over her slender waist, the way he grinned so confidently as his eyes met mine across the yard. I hated him all over again. Instantly. The boyish hatred I had for him as Potter's sidekick back at Hogwarts was child's play compared to this. This was the hatred of a man, of a Malfoy man no less, and it was a cold steel wrath. And even more than I hated him, I hated her for twisting my mind so. She made me weak and I despised her for it. She made me second guess everything I knew, and I fell passionately in love with her for it.

We were fighting the second we got back to the house. Why did she dance with that idiot six, seven, eight times and never look my way once? She was just having fun celebrating; if it bothered me so much, why didn't I come out to dance? She looked me in the eye, her own eyes flashing in a challenge. It was as if she knew what my hands were itching to do and she was daring me to it, tempting fate. Everyone knows no Malfoy can turn away from a dare.

She took the blow with a grace that Narcissa Malfoy would have found enviable. It was as though she understood that she could never overpower me physically, so she just decided to rise above me mentally. I always wonder now why she never once reached for her wand to curse me, or why she didn't even struggle. The silence always made it worse in the end. It just fed my anger.

But then again, at that point I was starting to get angrier faster and with less reason. I was furious at everyone and everything. Lucius and Narcissa enraged me with their snide comments about Hermione and their not so subtle hints towards the newly single Pansy Parkinson. Like I would date that spoiled little pug-faced bitch anyway; who gives a fuck how pure her blood is? Constant owls from Ron Weasley to my pretty little lioness were sources of continuous irritation. Even my loyally idiotic friends from Slytherin were grating on my nerves.

But worst of all was my own Hermione. It was the little things that bothered me the most. It was the way she was always surprised by news of another unheard of cruelty on the Daily Prophet (usually done to Mudbloods like herself by rebellious, diehard Death Eaters like my father). The way she always responded to Ron's owls the same day (and usually the same hour) they arrived, answering his stupid little questions with a bemused smile on her face. The way she struggled innocently with how to R.S.V.P. to Narcissa's obligatory requests to come out to the manor for tea. She was just so innocent, so stupid, so fucking oblivious to the realities of the harsh world around her… she was just such a bloody Gryffindor. For the jaded Slytherin and Death Eater spirit in me, there was nothing more than her wide-eyed, muddy-blooded Gryffindor way of walking about the world without a clue. It became easier to lash out at her in a moment of intense anger; it was simple work to strike her and leave a bruise in one second of irritation.

What didn't become easier at all was her reaction. She always looked at me the same way after I had just finished beating her half to death—all because she had asked what Lucius might like for his birthday. That look… it haunts me every single day. Those gorgeous hazel eyes would stare up at me, surrounded by silence; in her gaze I would only see love and an undying nonsensical devotion. No judgment, no hatred, not even any fear. She was one of the few people that I knew that never once looked at me with an ounce of fear in her body. It must have been the Gryffindor in her shining through. All at the same time, I hated and loved her for it. I hated her for it because I felt that she was foolish not to fear what had hurt her so much—yet again, that damned Gryffindor trust. I loved her for it because while it made my petty abuse seem weak (which, in turn, angered me further, increasing the abuse), it also made her seem strong—certainly stronger than any other girl I had been with.

I was the cold anchor around which she constantly revolved, pulled about as the anchor's chain commanded. She was my anchor of strength and pride, quietly fierce and steady – even as she broke time and time again in my hands – to the very end.

Author's Note: I haven't written in a very long time, and I'm trying to take baby steps back into the Fanfiction world. I found this on my computer and decided to post it. I probably won't continue it any further than this. Any feedback is welcome.