I, Hermione Granger write the following accounts of my abusive relationship with Draco Malfoy. My days grow darker alongside my companion. I live under his dark and everlasting shadow, having forever lost the friends and family that I used to hold so closely. Life has become very lonesome and dull, I only take solace in the fact that my written accounts may eventually reach my friends, and they may understand the reasons for my many horrible decisions over the years. These days, fearing for my life is a regular occurrence.

To Harry and Ron,

I'm so sorry. I only wish that I could have been the friend that you thought I was.

Chapter One.

I first spoke to Draco Malfoy at a vulnerable moment in my life. Barely 12, my life had been uprooted and I was living, long-term, at a home that wasn't run by my parents. This world; their history and culture, was a completely foreign thing to me. I reached out to my peers but had been shot down.

Completely overwhelmed and alone, I had walked to the West Tower to sit and think and hopefully muster a letter for my parents. The tall building was littered with small windows, tiny eyes watching me. The flutter of wings was a strangely comforting noise to hear. I had been crying for several hours, but was determined to lighten my mood.

I climbed the steps slowly, not wanting to attract any unwanted attention. The inside of the tower was dark and smelled of wet cobblestone. I expected bird mess and feathers, but was surprised by the clean and swept concrete flooring. The tower was built with two sets of stairs, twining up the height to the raking ceiling. Another archway was ahead of me, opening up to the centre of the tower, littered with tables and chairs, loose parchment and quills. Magical oil lanterns adorned the tables, and I noticed a dull light coming from the far corner.

Draco Malfoy was sitting, his chair against the wall and his foot up on the table. He was idly flicking his finger in the air, as if writing with it, and his quill was matching his fingers movement. I stood at the entrance, my head peeping around the side, carefully watching him.

Wandless magic and quill magic were things I had only read about. He seemed to lazily perform the spell that I had practiced for so many hours and not achieved. His movements were almost graceful.

Deciding to head back to the castle rather than face him, I moved my foot back to turn around. An owl had nestled next to my leg, and I had unknowingly kicked him aside. He swarked and shuffled along, I ripped my hair away from the entrance, eyes wide and terrified.

"Who's there?" Draco asked firmly.

I calmed my breathing, and quickly entered, glancing at him quickly but keeping my head down.

"Oh, it's you," he said, sneering slightly.

"Malfoy," I addressed him curtly.

He remained silent, and turned to his table, picking up the pen and scratrching ink onto the paper. I sat down at a table on the other side of the room, and picked up the quill to write a letter to my parents.

I stared at the parchment, unable to form the words to express to my parents the level of misery I was feeling. Knowing it would only hurt them and make them unhappy. Feeling trapped and alone, I fought tirelessly to maintain my composure. I looked up at Malfoy, and met his curious eyes. He quickly looked down and continued writing.

The misery welled up in the pit of my stomach, I tightened my shoulders and tried to breathe deeply. A single tear slipped out of my eye, and my head dipped to hide it.

I heard a shuffle and his footsteps approached. He dragged out the other chair and took a seat.

"Granger," he said quietly.

I breathed in, and looked up at him, my eyes and face probably a mess.

"Why are you crying?"

His voice was so curt and tight, void of emotion.

"None of your business," I said defensively, "why do you care?"

"I don't," he quipped, "I was.."

He paused and looked at me, his eyebrow furrowing, "trying to be nice."

We sat in silence for a moment. He was clearly offended, and a ping of guilt hit my stomach.

"My mistake," he said solemly, standing up to go.

"Wait," I cried softly, "I'm sorry. It's been a bad week."

He froze, and sighed quietly. He took the seat again and met my eyes carefully. Expectantly.

"Nobody likes me. It's a different world, and I don't fit in."

He watched me intently, and the depth of his gaze was almost frightening. I hadn't taken a moment to fully look at him or speak to him until now. I had only known the bad history and brickering between him and my friends. There wasn't any time for him to make his own impression on me. I was suddenly very curious about the boy beneath the gaze.

He kept his bright blonde hair smoothly combed along his head, neat and well kept. His robes were kept immaculately, his shoes shined and clean. There was no doubt that he was from a pretigious family, even on his own.

"I can't say I understand," he replied easily, "because I'm from this world. But I know that you'll settle in alright. Just takes time."

I was surprised that his tone, which was usually hostile and aggrevated, was now even.

"Even if you're a m- halfblood," he finished.

I sighed, having expected something like that from him. I looked down, irritated and offended. His face curled slightly and his normal aggressive expression returned.

"I don't understand why you're so upset by me pointing out a fact," he spat, "even the muggle world is has discriminateion. This is no different."

"Just because discrimination exists in the muggle world doesn't mean it's okay," I replied slowly, "and it certainly isn't a good reason to be mean to me."

I stood quickly, and he remained stoic and silent. Huffing, I stormed out of the tower.

We didn't speak alone again that year. There was no need to; we lead different lives. I took part in the bantering that Harry and Ron seemed to both hate and love. He became the mutual enemy of ours, and I dismissed his almost-nice behaviour as a mistake.

But, occasionally, I would catch myself looking over at him, sitting on the Slytherin table in the Great Hall. I'd sit and stare at the back of his head, curiously wondering if there was side to him that no-one had seen. And very rarely, when I would glance over, I'd find his eyes staring back at me.