Not Denial
by Voleuse

He can't stand her.

That's what he tells himself when he sees her in the hall, perfectly preened, smug mouth and cynical eyebrows.

He can't stand her, so he doesn't pay attention to her gorgeous (bushy) hair and infectious (inane and buck-toothed) smile. He doesn't notice her perfume, because it probably smells like Muggles. Not, of course, that he would get close enough to notice she wears perfume.

Filthy Mudblood know-it-all Granger, always hanging around Weasley and Potter. She thinks she's too good for him. She doesn't understand what an honor it would be to be seen with him.

When he sees her in the hall, he doesn't mean to grab her by the elbow and drag her down the corridor. He doesn't trail his hands over her robes, doesn't hear her gasp. When her hands snake into his hair and pull his lips down to hers, he doesn't moan into her mouth.

His hips are grinding against hers, but he doesn't feel a thing. He doesn't taste the sweat dampening her collar, doesn't mumble curses into her neck as she arches, writhing against him.

When her Muggleloving friends tramp down the hall, he doesn't swear as he straightens her robes. He doesn't brush a kiss on her cheek, doesn't look her in the eye.

He doesn't wonder when he'll see her next, because he doesn't care.

When she dashes after her friends, he doesn't blink, but wipes his hands against his robes, and strolls to the library.

Like he always does.


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