Title: Yin and Yang

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters mentioned herein. They belong to JK Rowling and I am just borrowing them and I'm pretty sure she doesn't favour Dramione.

Rating: T rated.

Summary: She is yin and he is yang. But they share one thing: Passion.

A/N: Please, please, send me a wee review and let me know what you think, Dramione fans!! I apologise for any mistakes in this, I've been working all day and this inspired me only an hour ago, right as I was falling asleep.


People like reasons. They like explanations and situations that slot into neat little boxes and follow particular laws. We humans are inquisitive by nature and searching for reasons is what brought about great advances in technology. It's why man landed on the moon and why probes have landed on Mars. It's why scientists were able to clone sheep and why we have skyscrapers stretching kilometres into the air – without the aid of magic, which Muggles don't know about, of course.

It is this compulsive nature to explain things that has people asking me why the most likely romantic pairing at Hogwarts dissolved in a mere year. People want me to disclose some scandalous secret about why Ronald and I broke up. Surely it must have been something incredibly dramatic because, in the same way that 'E' simply does equal MC-squared, Ron Weasley and I were meant to be together.

People are terribly disappointed when I shrug and say: 'We just weren't compatible'. It's not feasible or logical that he and I sat down one rainy afternoon, in the library of all places (where Ron wouldn't normally be spotted for months on end), and mutually agreed that while we would be best-friends forever, there was no spark. It worked on paper; in theory. But when put to the test, Ron and I were two pieces of the jigsaw that didn't fit.

There's an old saying that opposites attract and you are each sure to know one person who declares undying love for a partner whose characteristics are so dissimilar to their own that you cannot fathom putting them together – on paper or otherwise.

I am a shining example of that scenario.

Draco Malfoy is my opposite in every, single possible way. I'm yin and he is yang, I am black and he is white. I am good and he is bad. He is a pureblood and I... well, it was early established in our bitter relationship that if all the things I am; a talented witch, a clever student, a bit of witty repartee on a boring day, I am not a pureblood. But there is one thing we have in common, and although most people would say it's not enough to formulate and bind a lifelong relationship, I beg to differ.


I've often said in jest that as a key player and survivor in the War, I would write my memoirs. Well maybe this story isn't as grand and dramatic and a battle of wands and magical wits or good versus evil. But I'm going to tell you it anyway...


"I can call you every... single... vulgar word in the English language, Granger. Don't think I won't humiliate you, right here. If you think 'mudblood' is bad, test me." His fingers were tight around the broomstick and the wind tore at his emerald green Slytherin robe. Around us his fellow team-mates milled around the Quidditch field, casting weary glances our way. I am not afraid of him, or what his venomous his tongue can spit. I smile sweetly. I've been told that I have a deceptively angelic smile. I tilt the corners of my lips, adding just enough of a smirk to be condescending. He is vermin, after all.

"It's quite simple, Malfoy. You wagered a bet and you lost. Losing is something you ought to be familiar with." He comes second to me in every school exam except Potions. I see a glint of sharp danger in his silver eyes; like light flashing against the edge of a particularly sharp knife. "You owe me seven galleons." It was stupid to bet on who would trump Transfiguration this year. Stupid on his part because in academics, I always win. I make it a point to always win and if that makes me a swot, then so be it.

I thrust my hand out, the tips of my fingers grazing his green knit Quidditch jumper. He lowers his eyes to my outstretched palm, sneering in contempt. I enjoy it immensely.

"Ninety-seven percent trounces ninety-two by..." I pretend to count in my head, making a dramatic show of tilting my head. Riling Draco Malfoy is a form of sadism that I get far too much pleasure from. "Oh, five percent." He tosses his white-blond hair back from his forehead, his lips pulled back in a menacing sneer. A shiver of anticipation zigzags along my spine in a delicious tremor. I hide it well.

"I'll give you your measly galleons," he declares bitterly. "You need them more than I do anyway, you dirty little..." His breathing is heavy with rage. I smile sweetly again.

"So kind, Draco," I tell him, touching my fingertips to the sharp edge of his cheekbone. If I weren't so scathingly patronising, it would be affectionate. He jerks his head back; the blade-like glint in his eyes has returned. He looks like he wants to hurt me. He wouldn't dare. A part of me doubts it. "I look forward to it." My fingers stand midair, inches from his alabaster skin – so smooth and cool in the frigid October air. "I will be in the library from sundown. You can bring me my winnings there." He his too proud to retort, starting me down until I spin on my heel, almost slapping his stony face with my loose hair. I cannot contain the grin of success – of victory – that tugs at my lips.


I sense him.

I've got good at sensing his presence. We've occupied this castle together for seven years – sharing classes, passing heated glares across the dungeon, intentionally knocking shoulders in the corridor. Draco Malfoy has an aura that follows him around; of wealth, superiority and class. Whenever he is in proximity, every hair stands up on end, traitorously rising to attention. Despite this, I keep my eyes down and my quill steadily stroking across the parchment in cursive loops.

Crushed ginseng has aphrodisiac properties and can be added to the potion to achieve...

Aphrodisiac. It's not even relevant to the study. I reach for my wand, hurrying to cast an erasing spell on the parchment, terrified that Malfoy might spot my preoccupied mind and the train of my wayward thoughts. The black ink fades away at a brisk command, disappearing into the grainy parchment, much to my relief.

A shower of coins clatters nosily to the table. One hundred and nineteen sickles roll and slide across the smooth wood, twirling like spinning-tops and dropping to the floor. I look up, my eyes narrowed in annoyance. Draco is smiling – confident that he has achieved one over on me. I am careful that he won't detect how truly much I want to yank those silvery strands of hair from his head.

"Thank you," I say, beginning the tedious task of gathering the six galleons worth of sickles into neat, manageable piles. "Were you forced to raid your piggy-bank for this, Draco?" I ask. "If it's all you have, it would be immoral for me to take it." He scowls, planting both palms on the table. As he leans close to me, his nose mere centimetres from mine, I can smell peppermint on his breath. Though I try to resist, I inhale it in. He fills me with a need... an incredible urge that damn near consumes me. I want so badly to drop the sickles from my open hand and sink my fingers into his luxurious hair and crush his peppermint flavoured lips to mine. Some days I wonder if I imagine those occasional flickers of heated interest in his eyes.

When he looks at me as he does now, I am certain it is anything but the product of my runaway thoughts. He lowers his eyes to my lips and back to my eyes again. Slowly. The tension is palpable and my skin perspires beneath the coins. Furtive glances are thrown our way. I don't worry because no one would believe for even a second that Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger could have an illicit attraction going on. They think he's threatening me. They don't know how much his proximity threatens my sanity. They won't understand how much he has awoken pure, white-hot desire in me.

I'm yin.

He's yang.

It's simply not possible.

He huffs and his breath fans across my face. I've forgotten about the task of collecting my winnings from the table. It seems like a hollow victory when faced with the raging torrent of hormonal need coursing at impossible speeds through my body.

"Are you just going to stare at me? Is that supposed to frighten me?" I demand, finding my voice. Draco doesn't smile. His pewter eyes gaze directly into mine. Meaningfully.

"I know what scares you, Granger," he whispers. I'm not used to him whispering. Ordinarily Draco is only too happy to allow any spectators to witness his tormenting remarks towards me. "It scares me too. It cannot happen." I don't know how I understand his cryptic message, but I do. 'It' means 'Us'. He is not immune to the fervour that rages beneath the surface of our intentionally cruel words.

He straightens, picking off a number of sickles that have stuck to his palms. I don't tear my eyes away from him, keeping my chin tilted upright in firm determination. "It cannot happen," he repeats sternly. I see none of the Slytherin cockiness. I see something as close to fear as I ever have in Draco Malfoy's eyes.

I watch as he leaves the library before accio-ing my sickles, parchment and books into order and into my hand. Indignant, I race after him. My strides are firm, filled with fury and frustration that is nearing breaking point.

"Why?" I call to his retreating back as he storms along the corridor. "Are you afraid of what Daddy will have to say, Draco?" My voice doesn't break because I won't allow it. His rejection of me stings immeasurably more than the molten insults he would throw at me during our early years at Hogwarts.

He stops and even from the distance I stand, I can see the muscles tighten beneath his black wool sweater. Rippling like the agitated jerks of a caged panther. I wish I could see his luminous eyes. I want him to be angry at me for suggesting he is a coward. My insults continue in a tirade; curt and abusive. The worst I've ever wounded him with. I charge towards him, every footstep commencing with an insult.

"You follow your daddy's strict rulebook, don't you? Marry the pureblood bitches because they'll give you good heirs to your filthy throne. You are more a rat in my eyes today Draco Malfoy than you ever were." I am facing him now, his face is twisted into a nasty growl. He is livid. Good. "But the truth is," I say in a lowly whisper that I can barely hear myself. "You want me more than any of your pureblood Slytherin whores and you know it." I've ever used such a filthy word before. It tastes bad on my tongue. Bad and so good. His bewitching eyes widen in surprise. He's taller than me and I stand on tiptoes to glare at him.

"I am not afraid of my father," he says through gritted teeth. I laugh without mirth – mocking him. His eyes are alive with fury and an animalistic, sexual need that makes every hair stand on end. "Don't push me, Granger."

"Or what?" I challenge, my calves burning as I continue to hold my balance on the tips of my toes. I almost want him to hurt me.

He digs his fingers into my arms, shoving me with remarkable force against the smooth stone wall. The air whooshes from my lungs in surprise, my teetering balance lost as he grinds his hips to my abdomen and crushes his mouth to mine. His kiss is like fire, his tongue hot as he probes and explores my mouth with unleashed abandon. He devours me and I return his kiss with equal fervour.

If we are caught our expulsion will be immediate and yet I don't care as his leg insinuates itself beneath my thighs and shifts against me. The pressure of his lips against mine and his thigh against the insistent pulse between my legs makes me delirious. My head spins and I wonder if I am going to experience my first orgasm here, in the school corridor.

His grip eases and he breaks our kiss, stepping back to survey me with inky grey eyes. His cheeks are flushed and his sombre black pants do not hide his arousal.

"You're mine now, Granger," he tells me, so matter-of-fact. His thumb strokes across my swollen lower lip and his tongue traces his own as though he imagines licking the achy plumpness away. "I hope you never regret pushing me."


It's been fifteen years today and I never have.

Except when our son was housed in Slytherin instead of Gryffindor. I suppose when I met his cocky, self assured gaze then, I'd wished I hasn't pushed him that night in the corridor. But only for a moment.

See, in German it's neigung, in Dutch it's hartstocht, in Hindi it's junoon and in English we call it 'passion'. But it doesn't matter what you call it because the meaning is always the same and it is exactly why E doesn't always equal MC-squared!