A/N: Wow. Let me just say... Wow. I have never done anything... ANYTHING... like this before. I am a FIRM Ron/Hermione shipper, and so to write this nearly killed me, while at the same time, making me kinda sweaty in a good way. Hee hee. This was done on the request of the absolutely fantabulous and beautiful Ariana (Haji666), who strangely loves this oddly hot pairing, and asked me to write a little thing like this for her. I apologize, Ariana, if the end is too depressing for you, but I couldn't help myself!!

Anyway... ENJOY!! And don't forget to REVIEW, my friends!!


The rows of shops seemed strange and foreign to Hermione: It boggled her mind to be in Hogsmeade during the summer. Only during school did she usually walk these streets, so to do so when the weather was swelteringly hot and the sun bore down upon her flesh so angrily was unnatural and made her feel awkward. She reached a hand to the back of her neck to rub it. She was sweating, even though her thick hair was pulled back in a bush at the back of her head. Her thin shirt was sticking to her, and her long jeans felt like too much in this heat. Her skin was prickling as though she could feel it burning even as she stood aimlessly in the street. She hurried to the Three Broomsticks where she figured she could book a room to stay in for a while. Her parents were out of the country for the summer, and Hermione was left to her own devices. She was seventeen, after all: of age in the wizarding world. Besides, she did know how to take care of herself. They had worried at first, of course, but she assured them that if she stuck to places she knew, she would be alright. Feeling safest near the Hogwarts castle, Hermione considered the Three Broomsticks to be an excellent place to stay.

After booking the room with Madame Rosmerta, Hermione followed the kind woman up to have a look at it. The place was nice. To some, it could be considered cramped, but Hermione thought it was rather cozy. It was stifling hot, however, and she could hardly stay in it for too long. She left quickly after dumping her suitcases at the foot of the small bed, and strolled down the cobbled streets without any particular direction.

The place was much less crowded than it was during the school year. Everything was less bustling, and the people all seemed calm—though clearly hot and sweating profusely.

She turned a corner unconsciously, and found herself by the Hogs Head pub. Feeling suddenly awkward, knowing the sort of people who tended to go there, she turned to leave the area. Before she could stray too far, however, a well-known drawl wafted her way on the humid air. "Look, father," the irritating voice of Draco Malfoy was sneering, "there's a mudblood fancying itself welcome here."

The sound made her cheeks flush hot with anger, which was not a welcome event, for she was already far too hot in this summer weather. She stopped in her tracks, sighed, and turned back around to meet the derisive grey eyes that stared her down. Draco Malfoy was the spitting image of his father, Lucius, who towered over his son menacingly as he stood beside him. The expression upon his face was wrought with entertainment at the sight of Hermione's irritation. "Malfoy," she sighed, exasperated, to neither man in particular, "just leave me alone, why don't you?"

The younger of the two blondes chuckled haughtily, ignoring her words. "What are you doing here at all, Granger?"

"That is none of your business, Malfoy," she hissed.

"So where are Potty and Weasel to come and defend you today?"

Hermione fought the urge to growl as she said in a low, furious voice, "I don't need my friends behind me if I want to defend myself, while you, on the other hand, clearly do." She laughed coldly. "If it's not Crabbe or Goyle, it's your father," she spat.

"I would appreciate it," Lucius Malfoy said smoothly, his ever-present sneer mocking her, "if you'd not insult my son's honor by calling him a coward."

"He couldn't have told me to lay off of him on his own, could he?" she scoffed, sounding much braver than she felt under Malfoy senior's cruel gaze. "Does he always need to have you looking over his shoulder, backing him up all the time? Protecting him from his scary classmates?"

"You shut your mouth, Granger," the young Malfoy snarled. "Come, father, let's go. We don't need to waste our time on this mudblood filth." He gave her a last glare before turning and striding off away from her.

Lucius Malfoy continued to stand before her, staring down his pointed nose at her with a look of particular superiority that seemed to posses his entire being. She cowered where she stood as he glared directly into her eyes. "You'll want to be more careful," he whispered in a terrifyingly sinister tone. "Mudbloods won't have so much freedom for much longer, and when the world begins to change at last for the better—" he gave a low, cruel laugh. "—you'll be one of the first to go, mark my words: the more you strut about, so disgustingly proud of your filthy heritage, the more danger I'll make sure you're in. Do I make myself clear?"

Hermione was shaking, her insides tied in knots, and her knees shivering viciously despite the heat. "Is—is that a threat, Mr. Malfoy?" she stuttered.

"It most certainly could be, Miss Granger," he hissed, leaning toward her. She took a terrified step backwards. "You will be sorry for your pride. Trust me." At that, he straightened his posture once more, and spun on his heel. He strode toward his waiting son with his own authoritative pride, and annoying royal grace in every step.

She felt as though all air had left her. Breathing seemed impossible. Every inhalation hurt, her chest was so constricted by pure and utter terror. It was hardly the words Mr. Malfoy spoke that were getting to her so easily, but in fact his harrowingly cold stare, and the unadulterated hatred with which he spoke every exquisitely smooth syllable. His words were nothing; Draco Malfoy had threatened her that way for years, but she knew it to be empty. Though Mr. Malfoy had power at the Ministry, she did not dare put energy into worrying about his threats. He could not hurt her, and she knew it—not without being sent to Azkaban again. She was chilled to the very bone by his weakening stare and his powerful ability to intimidate with a single look. Hermione was strong, and this feeling of weakness terrified her more thoroughly than anything ever had.

Catching her breath after the flustering encounter felt like it took forever. Fifteen minutes later, she gathered her strength back up, and set off away from the Hogs Head at last. She wandered through Hogsmeade, bored, still slightly shaken after enduring Lucius Malfoy's violent stare, and found herself a half an hour later back at the Three Broomsticks. She hadn't a mood for anything in particular, and rather wanted merely to rest. She stepped through the door to the place before she remembered with disappointment how hot it had been up in her room. Throwing herself into a chair at a table near the door, she let out a breath she seemed to have been holding in since her run in with the Malfoys. She tried to relax. She closed her eyes, her fingers at her temples, rubbing them gently to calm herself. Her breathing was deep and slow as she let herself sink into the state of relaxation that was beckoning to her. The darkness of her closed eyelids was soothing to her growing headache.

Twenty minutes after she had first sat, she stood once more to buy herself a butterbeer, feeling relaxed at last. Sitting down again, she drank deeply from her mug. It warmed her in a way that did not add to the unpleasant heat, but merely to her finally increased calm.

Moments after her first gulp, however, the door to the pub opened to a gust of hot air from outside. She frowned at the terrible heat, and looked at the new customer.

Hermione spluttered. Lucius Malfoy had just entered the dark pub, and this time, he was not accompanied by his obnoxious son. His dark eyes scanned the place as though looking for the best seat. His eyes fell, then, upon Hermione: all alone, staring in horror at him. Her heart pounded madly beneath her ribs as—without warning—he sat himself across from her elegantly, his cane stretched out before him as though he still needed it to sit as he crossed one leg over the other.

"Miss Granger," he said calmly, raising an eyebrow at her fearful expression, "we meet again."

"What—what—" she tried to speak, but she was too confused by his sudden presence before her to get any sensible words out. "What," she tried again, "are you doing… here?" Her voice was a mere squeak, and this seemed to entertain him.

Lucius Malfoy laughed coldly. "I am here to get a drink before I return to my manor, Miss Granger; there is no law against such a thing, is there?"

"N—No," she stuttered, pulling herself up in her seat, making herself look taller as she attempted to seem braver than she felt. She knew he wasn't fooled.

He grinned. "I have heard quite a large amount about you from dear Draco," he said. "None of it particularly pleases me."

She wanted to answer, but couldn't bring herself to. Her mind seemed blank, anyway: no thoughts were forming properly. She could only swallow a gulp of air to calm herself as she stared determinedly into his piercingly silver eyes. Now, as she looked more carefully at them, she could hardly call them grey anymore: they were the most rich and frighteningly hypnotic shade of dazzling silver.

He went on: "I have heard about your parents, and what they are—and what that makes you," he inclined his head to her with a smirk, "filthy mudblood."

"Don't—" she began heatedly, suddenly wishing she had Ron behind her to stick up for her blood, the way he always did so lovingly. The thought of Ron urged her on to continue: "Don't call me a mudblood. I'm as good a witch as any."

"I've heard differently from Draco, actually," he said softly, his gaze extremely unsettling. It was like looking at something too beautiful for her eyes to handle, she mused silently—something so beautiful that it was painful, and almost sickening to stare at for too long. "He tells me you're actually quite extraordinary in your classes." His eyes danced with an unfathomable loathing. "Miss Granger," he whispered with disgust, sending chills up her spine and through her every vein, "I consider it the deepest insult to magic that someone like you—someone with no magic in their blood—could have such talent in a world that he or she does not belong." He sneered down his long nose at her, and his eyes squinted in a look of utmost superiority and power.

"I—do belong here," she whispered meekly as those silver eyes bore into her like she was an open book. Was he accomplished at legilimency?

"You are pathetic," he growled, though his expression was not angry—simply hating, and rather amused by her words, which he obviously considered childish, and beneath his care.

"I—" her words failed her again. She gulped, and then said, "Shut up!"

"Yes, you should. Your words are worth nothing."

"Stop that!" she cried suddenly, a burst of unadulterated fury and abhorrence to the man before her urging her to at last take a stand for herself. She found herself on her feet. "Stop talking to me like I'm not human, or like I'm less than you are. I am what I am, and that's better than anything you'll ever be, Malfoy! I don't have to make my way in the world by bribing everyone, and at least I'm not a stupid bigot—" This bravery was suddenly something she wished she wasn't exuding as firmly as she was, for Mr. Malfoy's height as he stood was, she realized, extremely intimidating, and was making her lose all confidence in her speech. "And…" she stuttered as he glowered at her. "And… and…" She was at a loss.

"And what, Miss Granger?" he hissed.

She gulped. "Why did you sit here with me?" she spat. "Did you just want an opportunity to insult me and frighten me into what you consider my rightful place?"

He grinned dazzlingly, his brow low on his face, only adding to his intimidating posture. "Frighten—that's an interesting choice of words. Do I frighten you?" he whispered cruelly, leaning towards her.

Hermione was quaking in terror. "N—no," she lied, and he gave a low chuckle of amusement.

"Liar," he said, taking a step toward her. "You mudbloods are so easily frightened. How pathetically weak you all are truly makes me pity you."

"Shut up," she said again, though her voice trembling slightly. "Shut up—I'm not weak."

He took another step toward her, and she took a step backward as he did so, finding herself suddenly pressed against the wall. She felt hypnotized by the brilliant silver in his irises, and it was as though her mind was fading into nonexistence as she continued to stare into them. Was it magic, or was he really simply so frustratingly and cruelly beautiful?

"Oh," he said, an unshed, haughty laugh evident in his tone, "really?"

She gave an involuntary squeak of shock and panic as he was suddenly so close to her that she could see every line on his beautifully sculpted face, and every ounce of revulsion that painted his expression. His body was almost touching hers, and her breath was coming fast into his face as she stared continuously up at him. "Stop it," she said, impressing herself with the calm in her words. "Get away from me, Malfoy."

"Witness your weakness," he said simply. "Witness yourself being…" He leaned toward her further, so that his face was so near to hers she felt a blink might brush his cheek with her eyelashes. "…frightened," he finished with a delicately seductive whisper. Hermione was whimpering, intimidated suddenly into giving up her brave front.

"Get away," she said, tremulously. "Please, just let me go." She turned her head away from him, feeling her heart throb violently in her chest. Her tone betrayed her fear, but at the moment, she didn't care: she just wanted to get away.

"What is going on here?" came Madame Rosmerta's voice suddenly. Hermione welcomed the sound gratefully, sighing with relief into Malfoy's stupid face, and slipping out from between his body and the wall.

She cleared her throat. "Nothing," she said kindly, hoping to encourage Mr. Malfoy to leave by saying so. "Nothing's happening at all, Rosmerta, but thank you." She glared once back at Mr. Malfoy, and made her way up the stairs to her room. She was sweating more than she had been, and she knew her cheeks must be very red. She smoothed down her hair as she walked, quickly, on shivering legs. She felt dirty—as though having Mr. Malfoy so near to her had tainted her in some way. She ran a hand nervously over her stomach, feeling it pulse angrily with the slightest arousal at his closeness. She shut the thought from her mind as she quickened her pace, but the memory of his large form almost flattening her to the wall was creating unwanted sensations in the very core of her insides. She closed her eyes, and a tiny groan of building frustration escaped her as she reached her door. Inhaling deeply, she reopened her eyes and fumbled for her key in her pocket with still-shaking fingers.

Hermione had only just managed to open the door, when quite suddenly, an arm shot out in front of her to block her entrance. She leapt with shock, and let out a scream that was muffled by a strong hand upon her mouth. "Miss Granger," her captive's voice snarled into her ear, his hot breath on her flesh making her squeal against his stiff fingers.

Her cry of "Mr. Malfoy!" went unspoken. He was laughing: "Miss Granger, did you honestly think you'd be rid of me that easily?" She whimpered in response, shutting her eyes, begging this to be a horrible hallucination. "You have angered me—you have insulted my son's honor, as well as my own. You have questioned my abilities in the way of finding a way to make you pay, and this I cannot allow." His voice was a deep growl, and it was making her shiver furiously, partially because she was terrified, and partially—though she hated to admit it—because she was incredibly aroused by his warm body pressing hers to the side of the doorframe. "I cannot permit your mudblood pride to taint this world, and if that requires jail—or violence—then so be it." Hermione was crying, her tears striking his knuckles as they tumbled down her flushed cheeks.

Lucius Malfoy then removed his hand from her mouth, and placed it on the other side of her head, trapping her where she stood, pressed to the doorway. "Did you really think I could not frighten you?" he whispered. "Did you really think I could not find a way to make sure you'd pay for your existence in our world?"

His teeth were bared, and his eyes were on fire with excitement that she knew he was receiving from intimidating her this way. "Your fear is breathtaking," he sighed against her cheek. Something inside of her burst as he finally crushed his body at hers so she could feel his every muscle against her chest and stomach. Through her tears, she emitted a small groan of arousal that she didn't mean to let out. Hatred coursed through her, but it felt attached to something else—something exciting, she thought, as his lips contorted into a sneer.

"Do I excite you, Granger?" he questioned amusedly. She shook her head violently, whimpering.

She swallowed and licked her lips before groaning, "No—no, please, just let me go." Her heart was painful inside of her, beating too fast for her to breathe properly. "Just… please…"

"So," he sighed, "I frighten you?" His eyes seemed alight with desire as he asked the question, and his voice was husky.

It was too strange, but she couldn't lie. She just wanted him away… away from her, so that she could stop the terrible erotic thoughts that were suddenly plaguing her sickeningly. She nodded. "Yes," she breathed with difficulty.

"Good," he growled, his mouth barely an inch from hers. She was holding her breath in panic and alarm, her head feeling strangely light and airy, while her heart was the only part of her body that felt at all real as it drummed so heatedly. "Your terror is delicious," he said in a low, breathy whisper, lowering his head to her neck, and sniffing her. She let out a low moan of fear again. "Yes, that's right, Granger," he sighed: "Be afraid. I like it."

He licked her throat unexpectedly, and—seeming to have lost control of herself with a sudden flash of arousal—Hermione's hands flew to his shoulders, gripping them for dear life as she nearly fainted beneath his grasp. His tongue was rough against her young flesh, and despite her overwhelming fear, the heat of the day mingled with her own unexplainable stimulation drove her to opening her mouth to emit a high squeal of pleasure. It shocked her, but it felt so good to let herself go.

His mouth trailed to her jaw. He was not kissing her—he was tasting her… tasting her fear, she knew. Her hands betrayed her once again as they moved up his neck and into his hair. It felt like the finest expensive silk around her fingers. His tongue was at her open mouth, and she could not pull herself away as it stroked her own, caressing her teeth and lips as well. She was groaning, no matter how sick it was, and no matter how hard she was crying as she allowed him to violate her mouth.

Pulling away, he glared into her eyes again. "You fear me," he told her, and she nodded breathlessly. "You will give in to that fear, and let me taste it, won't you?" It was not a question. It felt like hypnosis as she nodded dreamily, but she knew that it was not. She did not know what made her react in the way that she did, but quite suddenly, she was smiling slightly, giving in. He had done it: he had intimidated her into submission.

He removed his arms from either side of her head, and shoved her into the tiny rented room. She fell hard upon the rug, feeling her hands and knees scrape themselves upon the rough fabric. She grunted in pain as she glanced at them, and saw that they were red and raw. Her door shut. She looked up.

Lucius Malfoy was advancing toward her, his tall, intimidating stature making her both quiver in anticipating excitement and cower in fear. The expression of terror and lust mingled upon her young face seemed to drive him forward, and he was quite suddenly standing directly above her. His height was incredible from where she was so close to the ground. He knelt suddenly beside her, his eyes simply fuming with a clearly uncontrollable lust that she had never seen in anyone before. She tried to scoot away from him, her fear still slightly overpowering her similarly powerful lust, but he crawled over her. His arms were once again on either side of her head, pinning her to the ground. He was laughing, the cruelty in his voice igniting a strange sort of passionate desire for him within her. Her own body alarmed her as she writhed beneath him; her hips were arching towards his that hovered above her.

Freeing one hand from where it held him up from beside her head, he tore away her shirt in a single, swift movement. She heard it rip without realizing what it meant, and her terror suddenly flared more violently within her as she realized that her small breasts were then exposed to those intimidating silver eyes. They scanned her body once, before moving back up to her face, and his mouth lunged at her mouth. His tongue seemed to take away all ability to breathe as it so lightly tasted hers. She whimpered, but it was difficult without the air that his presence above her seemed to remove. "Mr. Malfoy," she sighed uncontrollably, and he gave her a menacing laugh against her neck as he moved downward.

His free hand undid her jeans easily, and slid them down her legs. She kicked them from her ankles of her own free will, biting her lip as her heart began to suffocate her with its ferocious pounding. She listened, horrified, as her underwear tore as he grabbed it, and pulled. He threw it aside with a moan of desire that was rather like a growl. There was something animalistic about his features as he stared down at her nude body, lifting his second hand from beside her head, and pushing himself up to sit on his knees. He was tall as he knelt there above her, and she shuddered, her hands shaking with desire as they dug into the carpet on which she lay. She was panting furiously as he slid his shirt over his head. A small, squeaking moan was pressed from the very back of her throat as her eyes drank in his bare chest and stomach. He undid his pants, and she squealed—half terrified and uncertain, but also simultaneously overflowing with passion and lust. Lucius Malfoy's blonde hair seemed almost white against his shoulders, and his smirk suited his muscled body well, which held itself arrogantly above her as though he did know quite how beautiful he was, and she could never measure up to it.

As his pants slid down his legs, her breath caught. She looked determinedly into his eyes, knowing that tears were still streaming from them. The sight of her crying seemed to add to Malfoy's excitement, and he fell back upon her, his sick, bare chest caressing her breasts generously, making her moan. "I will make you scream," he said deeply, his tongue lashing out to taste the tears upon her cheeks. "You will scream," he told her with a grunt as he groped for his wand beside him to cast a silencing charm upon the room. She nodded furiously as she heard the spell work, her entire body trembling—quivering with an unexplainable need for him, and a harrowingly deep terror of him. She knew he was hovering just above the most private parts of her body, and it was killing her. She was panting heatedly.

"Yes," she groaned. "Yes… I will… please…" she begged.

The pain was incredible—agonizing as he slid inside her sweat-drenched body. He was laughing, and she was crying, but both hearts were throbbing violently with lust. She did scream: just as he had ordered. Her throat seemed to open and emit a scream like one she'd never known she could have had in her. It seemed to come from the very pit of her stomach, such a beautiful, guttural sound it was. The scream seemed to ignite within him a moan that echoed and pulsed through her like a second heartbeat. Her hands flew to his back, feeling the sweat there. She threw her hips toward him, colors bursting before her as she clenched her eyelids in pain.

Pure desire drove her nails into his flesh. This seemed to excite him, and she dug them deeper. He thrust himself within her—again, and again—to force further screaming from her, so small beneath his large form that was engulfing her entirely. "Yes," he grunted with another thrust, "scream; scream, mudblood—you deserve it."

Her cries of pleasure were never-ending, it felt: it seemed to go on forever, his continued thrusts, the sweat sliding between their passionate bodies, and her screams of delight as he moved within her. He was causing her to shift upon the rug as he delved deeper into her, moving her tiny body easily. Her back burned as she rubbed against the carpet, but it barely compared to the immeasurable feel of Lucius Malfoy, so hot and thick inside of her, moving so passionately above her and against her. She knew he was bruising her.

He lifted her from the ground, then, still hard inside of her. He stood, his arms beneath her legs to support her, and wandered toward her tiny cot. He didn't make it, however: Hermione's arms had tangled themselves in his luscious hair once more, and her tongue was lapping at his neck with an unreserved passion she had henceforth not shown. He fell to the wall, much closer than the bed, and shoved her against it. He thrust deep inside of her, pounding her against the wall with the pleasuring movements of his deft hips.

"Lucius," escaped her lips in a long, slow moan. Pleasure was building, inflating her heart like a mirthful balloon as he began to thrust slowly, to torture her. He was grunting in her ear with every stroke, and his muscles pulsing around her as he held her there. All thought escaped her—all thoughts of her fear, or how wrong this encounter was—as she felt him shaking, and felt herself ready to explode.

He was laughing as he released, slamming himself into her, and she was screaming. He was holding her face in his wide, strong hands; his tongue was in her mouth, and he was laughing against her, but still she managed to scream, even through her mouthful of him.

Peaking, her screams reached a deafening height, and he laughed, emptying himself within her. "Yes," he roared above her shrieking. His word slid into a moan of pleasure as he continued to come in her.

"Yes," he sighed again as he finished. "I love your fear."

She could say nothing now as the pleasure lingered, keeping her light-headed and dazed. She was breathing fast, her hands running themselves up and down his sweating chest. "I—" she tried, but he laughed coldly.

"Don't speak," he told her, uncaring, pulling out of and away from her, letting her collapse to the floor. While she lay there weakly, her senses slowly returning to her in a horrible flash of realization at what she'd just done, he gathered his shirt and slipped it back over his head. He pulled his pants back up, and he looked, once again, like his arrogant, aristocratic self.

Her tears began to flow once again as he stepped up to her and knelt by her side where she stayed collapsed. "Now, you see," he hissed, his lips twisting into a terrible grin, "that you do have reason to fear me, and that I should not be taken lightly." She whimpered, and he leaned forward, planting a heart-wrenching kiss upon her shivering lips. It was a kiss to prove a point—a kiss to torture and tease her into further terror, and it worked. When he pulled away, a sob choked her, and she put a hand to her mouth to wipe away the residue of his tongue.

"Disgusting mudblood," he snarled, standing. She took a last look up at him, menacing down at her as she cowered, naked, at his feet, before he swept silently from the room without another glance.

Shame overtook her as she crawled to where her torn and tattered clothing lay upon the rug that had left such terrible burning sensations on her back. Shame that she could hardly stand made her weak, and she fell, face forward, onto the rug, tears taking her over as she slammed her fists on the ground, sobbing. It had not even been rape—for she had agreed… she had given in to the passion, became an animal that she had never known herself to be.

Hermione cried into the rug for hours, ashamed of herself to a point that she could never describe. What would Harry and Ron say? How could she tell them?

She broke as she pictured Ron's expression if he ever found out, and she fell silent, unable to cry anymore, wishing he were there to pick up the pieces of her suddenly shattered heart.