FC1 - "Caring is Creepy", basicaquatics/attica (1/2)
Title: Caring is Creepy
Name: attica
LJ: basicaquatics
Rating: PG-13 for crude lang.
Warnings: Unrealistic references to hip-hop music, unrealistic depth, vodka-use, and b-lang for fourteen-fifteen year-olds. Draco’s a kid. Hermione’s a kid. 4th year. Sorry, but no sex, seeing as how that would be kind of gross and illegal and because – Homie don’t play dat. Oh, and no britishisms.
Author's Notes: For Sarah, because she doesn’t deserve those hospital walls. Wish you knew how much you changed my mind, girl. Also, a big shout out to Lorett, my beta, and floorcoaster and empathapathique for helping me out when I was totally fried. I owe you lots of sexual favors. ;-) Also, the game they play here (Truth) is from Sarah Dessen’s The Truth About Forever.

Split up into two parts because it was just way too long. Sorry about that.

Summary: AU. There are certain things in life you should never do. Like shooting yourself in the face, or eating a person, or not washing your hands after doing your business in the bathroom and then getting down with a bucket of buffalo wings. And, coincidentally, making Hermione Granger so damn nice-looking was one of them.




Disclaimer: Title borrowed from The Shins. Characters borrowed from J.K. Rowling. And you borrowed from yo mama.

“Our lives are fractions of a whole.” – Bright Eyes.

There’s a certain pivotal moment in every single person’s life that occurs – sometimes straight out of thin air – and seems to dig your face straight into the ground, right into the soil. A turning point. Sometimes it was letting someone knock you around for the past ten years of your life. Sometimes it was just pushing yourself back and letting go of that single opportunity to make yourself a better person. Sometimes it had to do with love, or some glib, or depressing shit like death. All he knew was, like a lever, there was a pivot. A central thing that has to hold something in place. Like gravity. Now, don’t go asking him what the center of the universe was – he sure as hell wouldn’t be able to tell you. He was real self-involved as hell, so he’d probably tell you that his hair was the center of the universe. That was why it was so damn shiny.

And he just sat there, thinking about it, like damn, life just really kicks you in the ass sometimes. Sometimes it was funny. Sometimes it wasn’t. Sometimes it was just plain old messed up. And then sometimes it was just as weird as hell. But still – everything was okay. Wasn’t it funny how it turned out that way sometimes? Okay? Because it was to him.

It started at the Yule Ball. All the brouhaha and hype about that stupid thing made him a little sick, sort of like when they start playing Christmas music all throughout November and you feel kind of like shooting yourself in the head by the time December comes around. Coming here, all he heard were the clicks of heels on the marble floor that he remembered were polished before every major event, and saw the lit faces of everyone. It almost reminded him of Halloween. Everywhere he looked there was snow and glitter and light, and twirling dresses in every color, like a big whimsical, colorful production in Technicolor, and when he looked up, he could only see the enchanted snow. You know, snow that fell, but never came down, anyway. That kind.

Not surprising, Pansy had jumped him the moment they’d announced it and latched onto his arm for hours, asking him whether he was going to go, and who with, and what would he wear. Draco never really thought about what he wore to these things – he had them sent over. And, well, he didn’t really like balls because it really didn’t hold much fun for him, but he thought, might as well go, right? Pansy wouldn’t pry her bloodsucking tentacles off of him until he agreed. So he just looked at her and told her that he’d go with her if she’d just shut up.

So he was her escort. Dancing wasn’t really a hobby of his, but he was good at it (it was in his blood, along with being a gi-normous ass), so he danced with her a few times, and it was like twirling around in a sea of lots of fabric, before sitting down and fetching out the silver flask he’d stashed in his cummerbund. Call him a junkie, but he sort of took it upon himself to drink at these things. He’d had a lot of bad experiences.

He mixed it a little with his glass of punch, and started to smile like a fool, because he was convinced that was when the fun would really start.

But just when he’d gotten three sips of the thing – and flinched, because Lord Almighty, that drink was strong – Pansy had swept her lewd graces around again and clamped her silver-painted nails down into his arm, asking him to dance. And damn, Draco really didn’t want to dance anymore. He kind of just wanted to drink. Fancy balls like this made him as depressed as shit. It reminded him of this one time they had this big ball at the manor, and everyone was dressed so fancy and there were lots of diamonds, and his drunken second cousins hung him from their balcony for two hours. He remembered that. He didn’t cry or anything. But it’d scared the fuck out of him.

So he said to Pansy, “Hell no. I already told you I’m only dancing three dances with you. I don’t know if you can count, but that’s already three. My dance card is filled.”

Then she stepped on his toe. Really, really hard. And needless to say, he suffered the consequences of a four-inch stiletto heel stabbing right through the leather of his shoes and down his toes, to the point that he was almost utterly and most completely convinced it’d hurt just as much as getting castrated – but for his poor toes – his whole face took up a shade of Christmas red. He couldn’t breathe for a second, and his vision went a little blurry, like when you wake up in the morning, and your eyes had gotten so used to being closed. All he could think of was the blood that was probably spurting out of his toe right now, and the way his pulse seemed to knock his entire body down. And how he suddenly heard this huge roaring sound, almost like the sea, and a word something like, “Fuck!” come right out of his mouth, and McGonagall, who was walking by, heard him and gave him this look.

Dirty bitch.

Call him a pessimist, but he was convinced he’d be disabled forever. All he could focus on was the blinding pain on his foot and how much he wanted to strangle Pansy. Or grab his bejeweled pimp-cane and beat her to death, or something.

“You’re dancing with me,” she hissed to him, her scowling red lips painting itself in his view, once people stopped glancing at them. “You’re my date.”

“Well, now I’m injured, you bitch.”

But then, just because she was Pansy, she used some major threat to drag him into dancing with him again.

Bitch.

“Fine. But just once,” he said gruffly, looking down at his shoe. There was a very blatant dent on the black leather, and he kind of mourned over it. He could almost feel his toe throbbing. He stepped once, just to try it out, and his whole face caved in, looking like it’d been punched in by a troll. It hurt so much it gave his stomach sympathy pains.

Pansy flashed him one of her white, brilliant smiles and put back her shoe, and Draco was this close from slapping the back of her blond head so hard when she was ducking down that her brain would shoot out of her nose.

So she led the way, and he carefully limped across the floor, until she went back and started hissing at him again and began to drag him to the dance floor. Then something thoroughly weird happened. You know those moments when you could just feel a disturbance in the air, like wisps of something abnormal, or even like when you can smell spring coming? Like something was just – plain-as-day – quite not right? He felt it. Vaguely at first, but he felt the wee little blond hairs on his neck stand on end. And it wasn’t like a blast of cold air or anything, not even a shiver. But he just felt something, like the tiny atoms in the air had a sudden chaotic flutter, like a wave, or like when you place a piece of a leaf in the middle of an ant line and rub it on the ground, and the ants literally go crazy. Because suddenly he heard gasps. Little gasps. Gasps that, generally, never mattered in life.

Then Pansy turned her head, and her whole made-up face seemed to fall off, so Draco, on instinct, turned his head too.

Bad move.

Yeah, he found the disturbance in the air. And it was so wrong.

How many words were there in the English language? An infinite amount, probably. Draco wasn’t as much of a bumbling fool to even try to guess. There were even the recognizable words of gibberish every now and then that Crabbe and Goyle threw around from their Muggle catchy hip-hop music. But what Draco was looking at – witnessing – didn’t add up in his head like things should. You stare at two dogs having sex on a grassy knoll – it adds up. Sick as hell, but it adds up regardless of that. Because that was how life was. And he couldn’t even get his mind to stop its silent sputtering to remember whether Granger was as sick as having to watch two dogs fucking each other on a hot day, in broad sunny daylight. Because on any other day she might have been the equivalent of that, maybe even worse. Mudbloods like her never amounted to anything in his eyes, besides the occasional racist joke and daily torments about her gawky appearance and her friends. But then – what happened when someone as petty as Granger came to a sparkly ball and pulled off the greatest prank ever, that made even girls like Pansy want to piss in their pants in rage?

“What the hell?” Pansy hissed through her small teeth, and Draco could almost literally feel her nails stabbing into his skin.

It really was the strangest thing to see; someone who was regularly so-so in physical appearance but ugly as shit in pureblood standards, leaving so many mouths hanging. And on the thick arm of Viktor Krum, the Walking Alp! The sad dead souls watching them from below must be having a field day.

He wouldn’t say she was pretty. But apparently Pansy – who was probably the snobbiest girl in the castle – thought otherwise, because she was swearing under her breath like a burly sailor on duty in the searing sun.

Then Weasley walked by in his sorry dress robes that looked exactly like a nightgown plucked from the 18th century, a ruffled hot mess, and Granger was gone. Pansy mad-dogged her until she and Viktor the Alp had disappeared into the crowd of colorful chatting dancers and Granger’s newly discovered looks were some other jealous girl’s problem.

“Did you see that?” she said to Draco, looking very annoyed, and Draco simply scratched his neck, grateful that there was nothing to stare at anymore. Sure, he felt a little bizarre, but he just wanted to drink, damn it. See what happens when you’re sober at nine o’ clock at night? Mudbloods start showing up all nice-looking and shit. “How did that even happen?”

“So I take it you don’t want to dance?” he asked hopefully, one eyebrow twitching upwards.

She made a disgusted sound from her upturned, small nose before letting go of his arm, and his toe let loose its Hallelujahs by sending more spasms of pain up his foot. They wriggled inside his shoe. “Maybe later. I have to go find Millicent.” And then she clomped away with her spine rigid and her ass sticking out.

Draco went back to the punch table where there were many assortments of refreshments and snacks. He got himself a full glass of punch before going over to a table and sitting down. He ducked his head down and poured in a little of the vodka just to make sure he’d have some for the rest of the night. Then he clasped it back up, tucked it away in his cummerbund, sat back and drank. He watched people dance, and the band was playing real loud now that his ears started to ring along to the rhythm. His stomach started to growl so he got up and got some cake and cookies because he didn’t want to go passing out somewhere. And then he just sat there for what seemed like one hell of a long time. Damn ball seemed like it was never going to end. Like all the kids were high or something. Because, hell. He was tired. And he wasn’t even doing anything.

So, after a few minutes of deciding whether he should get up and get some more punch, he went to the punch table. He was just about to pour some more vodka in his punch when this stench came around, and he sniffed and realized he smelled really strong perfume, the kind that stung the nose and smelled like acid flowers, and he turned around just in time to elbow Pansy away from him, who let out a deep grunt and gave him an witchy scowl.

“Draco—”

“But – no.”

Then, leering at him, she ducked down and she started to reach under her skirt, and Draco knew exactly what she was doing, so he put down his flask and grabbed her damn arm, dragging her all the way to the dance floor, all the while swearing under his breath about how he was going to be the person to kill her someday.

They danced. He was a little drunk, so when she spun, everything spun. There were spots of multicolored lights everywhere, like fireflies, and they all whizzed around him like a dream. He felt a little nauseous. In fact, he even got a little dizzy and sweaty just being with those people. The lights were dim and people were brushing up against him – and he had to elbow someone because they were getting too close. He had this thing about personal space. He was obsessive about it. Then, somehow, an arm came out of nowhere and pulled Pansy away, and it looked like it was one of Viktor’s non-space-efficient friends, so Draco just let her go. He didn’t feel like dancing, anyway. The room was spinning. He had a damn headache and his foot still hurt. Damn bitch should go and audition for STOMP.

He had to push and squeeze through and, on occasion, threaten his way out of the gyrating, pulsing mob. When he got out, he suddenly remembered that he still had his trusty, shiny remedy for the night. He reached inside his cummerbund, and –

Nothing.

Draco, frantic, patted it down.

His fucking flask was gone.

His thin neck snapped up, and his grey eyes went straight to the punch table. He practically ran all the way over there, and he looked everywhere. He remembered accidentally leaving it there when Pansy’d come around with her sharp-as-fuck heels. Pansy. He was going to kill that skinny whore.

It wasn’t there.

He looked behind the flowery plant, underneath his table. People were giving him strange looks and glances but he didn’t care. He just wanted to drink. This whole night was about drinking.

After twenty long minutes of looking like a complete fool, he gave up. He was in a hell of a bad mood, the kind that even magical sleep couldn’t ward away, so he just straight up left. He reckoned he’d just kill Pansy in the morning. Maybe during her nine-hour beauty sleep, or something. Shove that tube of Red Wine lipstick up her nostrils or something.

Practically the whole school was at the ball, and the miserable ones that couldn’t go probably stayed up in their commons. He walked out of the dance hall and all of the corridors were empty. It was almost like walking down a lone road in the middle of the night. Everything was quiet and still – a big difference from the rowdy, dizzy happenings he’d just emerged from. The torches were lit but that didn’t help things. They looked like matches in a cave. So he just walked them alone, untying his silk bow tie. Then he threw it like a slingshot, aiming it at one of the torches. It flew in a fluid motion, and he almost smiled at his skills. It made it into the flames and started to slowly burn, and it also started to smell a little funky. He nostalgically remembered all the sorts of things he used to burn as a kid. Silverware. Stained glass. Sometimes they emitted a smell so strong that people came over and he got in trouble. So he just went on ahead, power-walking just a little.

He felt like shit. He’d lost his flask. And he had really liked that flask. Pure silver, but lightweight. It had his initials carved all fancy-like on them, but it was a simple object – and simple was beautiful, sometimes. And now he didn’t know shit about where it went. Reminded him of the time he lost his father’s pimp-cane – I mean, cane, the one with the serpents and emeralds and rubies. He’d been using it to try to bat away some of the Cornish pixies in the gardens and then the little jerks took it from him. He’d done everything he could, but he still had to tell his father he lost it. Man. How bad was his face rubbed against the gravel that time? So bad that the badness of Potter’s ugly mug couldn’t even attempt to compare to it.

Don’t ask how he didn’t notice it before, perhaps it was just because he was so caught up in his looming misery about his flask and vodka and fantasy of somehow putting the pillow over Pansy’s face while she was asleep that he just tuned out, but he was walking up the creaky stairs and the ancient paintings were asleep and suddenly his foot (the one that Pansy had battered) bumped against something solid. He flinched immediately and instinctively reached down to grab it – because that’s what you do when you hurt yourself. A body reflex, or something. But while he did, he opened his eyes because suddenly he just had this bizarre feeling – he was staring at something.

He blinked. It was somebody’s face.

Shocked, he straightened up again, slowly. There was a girl with brown curls passed out on the stairs with a shiny square thing in her hand that winked at him in the little light they were in. And on any other night, he would have just shrugged it off and went, ‘No big deal, a girl passed out.’ Probably had a little too much fun – or was just as dumb as hell to pass out on the stairs. He’d never seen that happen before.

Only it wasn’t just any girl.

It was Granger.

And it was also not just any shiny square thing.

It was his stolen flask.

Draco stared at her.

What a dirty bitch.

He just watched her for a while, wondering when she was going to wake up. She didn’t look hurt or anything – her clothes weren’t ripped or bloodied. Her face was smudged from her make-up though, like she’d been crying or something. Didn’t surprise him. Damn girls cried over everything. Only girl he knew that didn’t cry so much was Pansy, and that was because she was short on estrogen. At least, he remembered his mom telling him something like that after he’d punched her and she’d punched him back, right on the nose. That was when they were six.

He stepped over her and leaned in to grab his flask. He had to pry it out from her sticky fingers, but he got it. Then he opened it and realized it was drained empty. He glared down at her. His first instinct was to kick her right in the head for stealing his flask and then drinking all of his alcohol – that was just plain disrespectful. That could get you shot in other countries. In fact, he was so close to doing it, he’d aimed his shoe at her forehead, right there, where there was a lone freckle, but then one of the paintings coughed in their sleep and scared the shit out of him. So he didn’t.

He tucked his flask back into his cummerbund, grumbling.

Well. At least he could hold it against her.

“Granger,” he said. He picked up his good foot and nudged her shoulder. The thin fabric of her dress fluttered a little from the motion. “Granger, wake the hell up. I know you’re used to sleeping on floors with your dirty family, but you’re just in my way here.”

The girl didn’t even budge.

Draco scrunched his face up in a discontented way, looking down at her through his nicely shaped nose.

“Fuck. Are you dead?”

And, well, you know. It’s not like dead people can tell you that they’re dead. Draco was smart enough to figure that out. And he couldn’t really honestly tell if she was breathing or not when she was just lying there on the ground like that, like road kill, so he leaned in a little, making a face. He wasn’t particularly fond of getting close to her, plus she smelled like vodka - but something else, too, something powdery and sweet, that kind of made him squirm a little.

He poked her dainty shoulder.

Well, at least she was warm. That had to mean something, right? Like she wasn’t dead?

“Granger! Wake up! Oh no! The Death Eaters are here and they’re terrorizing the whole school!” he mockingly cried, raising his arms, about to try and vividly illustrate his point. It occurred to him that it was a damn stupid thing to do, since she wasn’t awake anyway, but he just shrugged it off. “Oh fuck!” he then shouted, trying to make it realistic. “They’re here! Oh no! Wooooooooh!” he said, getting near her face.

She snored.

Draco jumped.

That scared the shit out of him.

Then he spent a few long minutes just looking down at her, scratching his scalp. He turned around, looking down the empty, dim corridor. There was still nobody there.

“Well, fuck. What the hell am I supposed to do with you?”

The first immediate thought that drove through his brain – duh, because he was an asshole – was to just step over her and leave her there. Leave her there for some other meandering soul to find and take care of. I mean, it wasn’t like it was his fault she was all passed out on the stairs. Last time he saw her, she was having a party-hearty time with Viktor the Alp. Then the next minute, she’s stolen his fancy flask and had totally emptied it out – and now was sleeping it off? That was just some twisted shit. What was worse was that they’d required all wands be left at their rooms before entering the ball – some safety precaution McGonagall wanted, or something. So it wasn’t like he could set her hair on fire to wake her up or give her a little jolt of electricity to jumpstart her, like a racehorse.

“Well, go on. Do something.”

Draco looked up, suddenly realizing that he had been unconsciously staring at her. His pale neck turned and his eyes darted across the walls, knowing for sure that it had been some nosy painting. And, just like he’d thought, there it was; some old man with wiry red hair and a droopy nose in a painting, sneering down at him.

“Go on. What’re you gonna do? Just leave ‘er there?”

“As a matter of fact, my response to that would be: Ding ding! Hell yes!” he replied to the painting in a very childish way, his arrogant eyes narrowed at him. He hated it when these things poked their noses into his business. Damn things blabbed too much gossip around. Like, fuck. Get a hobby or something.

“Well, that’s not a gentlemanly thing to do,” the painting lowly grumbled. “Just pick her up, will you? I’m never gonna be able to sleep with her just lying there. Who knows what’ll happen if she stays that way?”

“Something bad?” Draco asked hopefully.

“Something like that.”

He sighed, looking down at her, looking not the least bit guilty. “Well then, this must be my lucky day.” Then he stepped over her and began to walk up the rest of the ancient stairs. “Not my problem, bub. I wasn’t the one drinking.”

“Yes, but it was your flask.”

Draco froze.

He turned around and glowered at the man. “How the hell do you know that? You’re just a painting.”

“And you’re just an asshole. Just shut up and pick her up.”

“What if I don’t?”

“I’m tellin’ your teachers about your booze, that’s what.”

“They won’t believe you. You don’t have proof!” he barked back.

“I don’t think I need proof,” he said, looking contemplative. “I really don’t. Face it. Everybody hates you because you’re shit.”

“The shit,” Draco corrected.

“No,” said the painting firmly. “Shit. You’re shit.”

“Hey! Consequences, remember!” Draco started to yell. He pointed at her limp body. “She drank! She deserves to be left there! She stole my damn flask! That’s a crime!” And that was when he started to vividly remember all the bad things – the things that made him hate them. About the fact that the damn Trio went around breaking rules and never once getting in fucking trouble – yeah, instead they win House cups and save the world! Well, wasn’t that just a happy slap on the thigh. And then Draco goes around giving them a hard time just because he believed life was just fair that way, that there was just a good and a bad, and he gets turned into a ferret, and he’s the one who everybody hates. Well, fuck them. He didn’t owe them anything.

The painting sighed impatiently. “Ever heard that our lives are all connected?”

Draco snorted. “Fuck you, you piece of shit. I’m leaving.”

“If you leave, one day you’re going to regret it.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, I don’t care.”

He really didn’t. Because what the hell would a piece of diluted canvas know about life? Last time he checked, it wasn’t the 18th century anymore. Life was a lot different now.

Then something happened. The painting started to yell very loud. And Draco looked on in horror as the other paintings started to stir, and the old man began to point one crooked finger at him and say that he did something horrible to her. And Draco really didn’t like this. He was so pissed off, but he ran down, picked her up so that his whole peripheral had been filled with charming periwinkle fabric, and ran up the stairs anyhow. And the painting promptly shut up.

Because he remembered what Snape said to him a few distant nights ago, about causing trouble. And Draco didn’t believe he caused trouble – life happened, didn’t it? And it was just this kick in the ass sometimes, or like that hard shove someone “accidentally” gives you when you’re walking in the hall. And sometimes the shove was so hard your shoulder buzzed. But the man said that if he didn’t start controlling himself his father was going to have his way with him, and he really didn’t want that. First off, he didn’t want it to get back to his father. I mean, he wanted to please his father so fucking badly that sometimes he was convinced he’d do anything. In his head, his old man was this golden, pristine and impeccable statue of all things powerful and great. He taught him everything he knew. He had plans for him. He believed in him. And damn. He really couldn’t find that anywhere else. His old man was all he had.

He took her to the Prefect’s bathroom, because he couldn’t take her anywhere else. He planned on maybe dipping her into some water to wake her the hell up so he wouldn’t be stuck with this dumb mess, and so he said the password and he brought her in. He looked around, and some of the mermaids on the high windows were giggling at him (it was all they did) and waving, but he ended up setting her down on the tile floor for a second so he could work the tap. Next thing he knew, freezing cold bathwater and bubbles were spilling out like a mass waterfall, and the loud roaring noise of water filled the room, and in a fleeting second he was reminded of Noah and his Ark. All his animals, counted by pairs – and he also thought, just for a second: did he leave any kind behind?

It was so loud he couldn’t hear anything else. He watched it fill up, shaking his head and mumbling, then he went back to Granger and picked her up again.

“This had better work,” he scowled, looking at her in his arms. She was so knocked out he was really starting to think she was dead. And wasn’t that a laugh. A dead Granger.

Hah.

Yeah it was.

The tap stopped, and the pool he was looking into was almost filled to the brim. And then it was kind of a strange moment for him, standing there at the edge of the field of water, and it all seemed so calm and pretty. It was quiet. Like it was supposed to be poignant in some way. The mermaids on the glass were combing their hair and watching him, but they weren’t giggling. He just sort of stared out at the lake of bubbles and cold water, and Granger was in his arms, all warm and sort of soft. He felt like this moment was supposed to be important in some way – like he was supposed to realize something. So he stood there, and waited. But it never came to him.

And then, still feeling like he was missing something, he slowly let go of her. And in a tumble of floaty periwinkle fabric that somehow, for some reason, lingered in his sight for a little too long, she fell. There was a loud splash in the pool, and he even got a little wet. He looked down and was then just going to turn and get away from there real fast, but just as he was doing that, he realized that she wasn’t coming up. And he froze. He watched the rippling pool, so vast. The white bubbles, and the empty space in the water that her body had made. He could see his face in the water, looking down, and for a second there he looked really different from what he remembered. And he waited.

For a really long time.

“Fuck!” he shouted, and he felt this jump in his chest, like his heart was having some kind of spastic frenzy. Because, hell – he’d never killed anyone before! He was panicking. So the next thing he knew, he jumped into the pool with all his fancy clothes on, and he straight out shivered so bad that the edges of his teeth clamped down in his mouth. He reached underneath the water with his hands to try and look for her, the water dripping down his front, and it was just so fucking cold. And the weirdest thing was, he was so scared that he’d killed her. He felt it, creeping along his spine, like a prickly pulse inside his chest. It felt exactly like the cold water had gone into his lungs. But kind of worse. Because, really, he didn’t want her to die. Even as much as he hated her. Especially in the Prefect pool. That was just creepy.

But was that what he was supposed to realize? Was that what that clear, bright, silent moment was for? That maybe he just didn’t have it in him to kill somebody – at least, accidentally? But that was just the biggest piece of shit he’d ever thought. Because if you couldn’t kill somebody even accidentally, and you were jumping around like he was now in the water, like he was stepping on hot coals, then you sure as hell couldn’t kill somebody on purpose. And he could’ve sworn when he looked into the water he saw something like his father’s rigid face looking back at him. And it scared the fuck out of him. Because then he remembered how people used to tell him that he’d look like the exact replica of his dad one day in the future. And for some reason… just in this context, it gave him this bad feeling inside. The kind of bad feeling that you don’t want to have, because it makes you feel guilty as hell, but it’s there. Like a hole in the bottom of your empty stomach, eating everything up.

Then, suddenly, he caught a strip of her dress. He couldn’t pull her up, though, and his heart was beating so hard it practically hurt, so he took in a deep breath and went under.

His whole face felt like it’d been skinned off. The impact of the cold-as-cold-can-get water was like hitting a brick wall, face-first. But even then he opened his eyes and looked for her. Once he found her, her hair eerily floating like string in the clear water and her face looking white and blank, he reached for her arm and tugged her up, before putting himself underneath her arm, so that he could guide her up. Once he did, and his face finally broke up out of the freezing-as-fuck pool, breathing hard like his lungs were had just shot the fuck out; he grabbed her waist and lifted her up onto the hard floor. There was this loud sound in his ears and it scared the living shit out of him, but his brain was ticking so thunderously that he couldn’t pay too much attention to it. Instead he got himself out as fast as he could, the cold air almost pummeling his body, and then he found his whole wet self kneeling beside her soaked body.

And damn.

Some of that material on her dress was really transparent.

He didn’t know much about CPR, but he knew a little. He put his shaking hands together, his palms to her chest, and started pumping. Her whole face was so pale and he really felt like doing this had been a bad, baaad idea.

“Come on, Granger. Wake up. You aren’t dead. You’re too damn fucking annoying to die.”

And then he parted her white lips with his hands, ducked his face down, his mouth against hers, and he exhaled as many times as he could before pumping her chest again.

He did this about four times before he got really desperate. So desperate that he slapped her face, yelling at her.

“Wake the fuck up, woman!”

And then something miraculous happened.

Part 2/2