So, after one year of silence, I'm back with the continuation of My Dirty Little Secret.

All complaints and requests will be answered. Later.

Here we go:


Chapter 19


Lucius' hands tried to grasp into anything, hair, fabric, anything that was Hermione to keep her from falling. But as he bent after the white ghost, he saw the height and had to back off to calm down his heart. Any Gryffindor would have whipped out a spell, hoping on some wandless magic to kick in, but Lucius had to first calm down.

Because Lucius was in the middle of a psychosis. He couldn't move his hands, nor could he breathe and he heard for some reasons bells. He heard small tinker bells in his ears, and someone humming and the wind. It was a terrifying sound and as he closed his eyes, he was convinced he could see his own blood pool like caps underneath his eyelids.

Yes, in case you wonder, Lucius was going insane. How could someone just do that? Did she really hate him that much? Did she hate her life that much at this moment? How could she dare to punish him like this?

At that precise moment Lucius knew that Hermione had won over him. He was now definitely her slave and that if she had died, he would drag her corpse and wake her up from dead, just to be able to be near her and kiss her till she'd so decomposed there would only he dust left.

Lucius knew that he'd have to go and see the corpse, yet he didn't want to. It was odd because he loved the picture of his dead mother. She hadn't said a word as she had tumbled down and died. She had smiled to him, accepting her death and winter at once, as she had fallen into the fresh snow.

Lucius remember his mother bleeding, telling him to get his father with her eyes, silent pleas, but he had watched her from the top of the stairs from which she had fallen. He had waved to her until her breathing had become shallow. He remembered how suddenly he wanted toffee and he had walked down the marble stairs to walk down to the kitchens and he had passed his mother, who had blinked.

Her eyes had never seen as big and she transmitted to him her feelings, hoping he would understand some silent code. He hadn't understood it and kept on walking to the kitchens.

The candy was melting in his mouth as he watched the last leaves from the trees, brown with holes in them, fly over the yard. He remembered that a couple of the leaves had gotten stuck in her hair as had the red cellophane wrapper of a candy he had held in his hand.

He remembered how peaceful he felt back then and he tried to achieve that same calmness so that if Hermione was dead, he could enjoy the sight just as he had enjoyed the sight of his dead mother.

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Hermione flied through the air.

Actually, she fell a much shorter time than expected. For one simple reason: she landed earlier than expected. Why? Because something had been in her way. What? A tree.

Those trees Hermione had seen on the balconies in autumn, old trees, looking sinister without branches, had cushioned her fall. Actually, only one big tree had caught her. It had been a very ungently landing and Hermione felt that the branch that was between her legs had damaged at least her knee badly and she felt blood tickling down her tighs. She was almost upside down, twigs boring into her back, her arms scratched and her legs probably broken.

Hermione felt all this and more, but the only thing she thought about was the pain between her legs. Something was broken inside of her.

Hermione wasn't a virgin. She had taken her own virginity, touching herself with her fingers, opening herself. She made the blood come out as she forcefully penetrated herself, crying whilst doing so. She had decided on taking her own hymen after she felt the war brewing, just before this plan was carried out. She wanted that the person who deserved the most her virginity to get it. And Hermione couldn't think of someone better than herself.

Taking and giving yourself your own virginity was quite a good idea for a girl to do. It hurts, - of course it doesn't have to, but often it does -, but why let some crude boy do the deed when you could do it yourself, thus assuring that at least you'd get some pleasure out of it? Because fact is: no one can pleasure oneself as well as you do it yourself. Sex is only good when you know what feels good.

Hermione had as far as she remembered always masturbated. She had discovered her own body throughout the years and knew what to touch, what to caress, what to pinch to make herself implode. Her body marvelled her, how her skin could sense the differences of her moods and touches.

Here one might have to clarify that Hermione saw sex as masturbation (a pleasant task) and then the actual sexual intercourse with another person (a much more difficult task).

Hermione was also a very literate person. She thought and read a lot, which also contributed to her fantasies. She had her fantasies, her secret plans and her own taboo world where no one was allowed with their knowledge. Hermione had sex in her mind with the Weasly twins, with her teachers, girls and random people, people she either knew or had just seen.

One thing that never failed to amaze Hermione was how her own hand could replace a process as complicated as sex. First there was to choose the person with whom to have sex, then to actually get to arouse the person (here includes the task of flirting, dating, talking, preparing), then actually find time to have sex, find the place, the mood, the light, the protection and then – finally- have sex. And even then it wasn't even a guaranteed success. And there were also the feelings afterwards.

In other words, sex was difficult.

Hermione had had sex before, with Stan Shunpike of all people. The boy with bad skin that had been imprisoned by the ministry because of all the wrong reasons. As she had left for the Weasley's for the summer, she had taken the magic bus. The boy had asked for her ticket, she had paid for it and they started to chat. The road had been bumpy and suddenly, Stan had been on top of her, excusing himself as the bus continued to rock.

Hermione had kissed him and had felt his manly pain between her legs as they kissed. It had been silent and rocky, to say the least, but they had laughed through the act. He had touched her there were he asked to him to and it had been an overall pleasant experience.

They had met throughout the summer as she took the bus to the camp where she trained and they had shagged another couple of times. Hermione hadn't told this to anyone, simply because it was her business and no one else's. Besides, no one would have understood it.

All this to say that Hermione wondered what had cracked inside her. She felt blood and she knew it wasn't normal. Hermione closed her eyes and sighed. She let herself roll on the side, wishing she could keep on falling down.

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Harry Potter felt a silent thud and his body ached terribly. Ron watched Harry and he knew that Hermione was hurt. As one person, Ginny and Lavender ran out of the Gryffindor common room and down, down to the Slytherin dungeon. Blaise Zabini was going in and as he saw the faces of the two girls, he nodded gravely as he hurried after Draco Malfoy.

"- Draco, they want to see you."

Draco Malfoy slowly rose up from his bed and started to walk towards the door. Blaise was watching him, clearly annoyed by how slowly he walked. Draco exited his room, walked up the stairs to his common room and kept on walking to the armour that hid the entrance. Rosa Blubaum was there as well as Lavender Brown and Ginny Weasley. He followed the three girls up and down long corridors.

Harry and Ron were in an old room above the divination classes, on the tip top of a tower. The only way to access the room was to climb out on the roof and through a narrow window into the room, which was surprisingly wide.

The odd thing about the room was not it's nakedness (the walls were just plain granite, the floor and was wooden the windows set up very high) but the lack of any kind of source of light, yet the room was lit. It seemed to glow. No one knew why the room was there in the first place, nor did anyone exactly know how the room was found.

But it was an odd room for odd people and they liked it. Without knowing it, they mimicked perfectly Hermione's habitat.

Draco was scared witless. There were rumours about domestic abuse in Malfoy mansion, but all of it was just lies. Or at least Draco had never been beaten or threatened badly; he had led a normal, if a bit stiff life, with an absent father and a mother who didn't really know how to treat him. She had either been too close or too distant to Draco, but she always was there, in some way or other.

Her death had been a shock and ever since, Draco ha lived in a mist, alone, wondering how he didn't notice his mother presence when she still was alive.

He missed her.

The Hermioneists treated him badly, but he knew of their dull pain that made them rub their eyes and sniff the air with concern. They saw faces at the windows that didn't get cleaned, they read messages in the greasy stains on someone's forehead or nose or chin, they recognized faces of strangers. And this was the school, their home all of them grew up in.

Hermione's disappearance had opened a hatch and the putrid, unhealthy wind from the outer world started to sweep in.

Draco wanted people to feel safe and knew that he couldn't do it. It was a mission for all the Potters and Wealeys and he could only help them and Draco also knew he'd never be a hero to anyone. He had to accept it and he did, happy that people depended on it after all. He wasn't anonymous.

He sat down on the floor and listened to Potter and Weasley which demanded of him to return to his home for the winter vacation to spy on his father, to find Hermione, or at least clues of where she was for them. He nodded, not listening because he knew that nothing he would say would make a difference.

He knew already know that his father had forgotten him and that when he would be at the door of the mansion, his father would have surprised eyes and tell him to get in. Draco would spend his vacation at his relatives, old cousins and even older grand-aunts, enjoying tales of people that had died long before him, tales of other centuries, of times where families were together and he's find nothing about Hermione.

He knew what to tell the boys, he knew how he'd tell about the tower and the gardens, he'd invent a place where the girl was, he'd create hope. He preferred to lie to the Hermioneists than to tell them maybe the gruesome truth about their friend.

Draco actually wondered what his father did with the girl. He knew his father had her, because he had forgotten him. He had something new to love. Draco knew about his father's quest for beauty and the only reason to such a long silence from him had to be the found of a masterpiece.

And suddenly he realized that maybe his father didn't have her after all. Maybe he traded her against something, something better and more beautiful.

He promised the Hermioneists nothing more than to find out whether she was at the manor or not.

Harry settled for the deal, because he knew that if he'd asked for Draco to snoop the entire manor, he'd have rather lied to them than to have found anything out. All the Hermioneists knew where Hermione was. Now they just needed some precisions on her exact position in England.

Because Draco hadn't listened to all what Harry had said. Draco had accepted to reveal the address of the manor.

And that was all an owl needed. The mail always gets through.


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