Preface

Draco had been watching Hermione for a while now. Every day, when she came in to the Great Hall for breakfast, and when she left. The same at dinner. Or whenever he saw her around the school, or in class. Draco was scaring himself. He wasn't thinking about what a filthy Mudblood she was anymore. In fact, he was admiring her. Watching how her lips moved to form words when she was speaking, or watching her expression change when she was told something. As she walked, he watched her legs (well, what he could see of them, as her skirt covered her thighs as far as two inches above her knees. He savoured what he could see of her legs, though.) Those two inches of flesh mesmerized him, and he stared until she turned a corner, or a flood of First-Years caused her to be blocked from his vision.

Draco had no idea, of course, what the sleeves of her robes hid. Horizontal cuts lined Hermione's wrists, all of them the exact same length, all of them exactly an inch apart. Hermione couldn't stop; she was in too deep now.

She couldn't even find the desire to stop hurting herself.