Hemlock
She knows something is wrong before he opens his mouth because he looks nervous and refuses to meet her eyes.
Draco never looks nervous.
"We need to talk."
No. Hermione's eyes widen as she realizes the implications of what he just said.
"It's over."
For a moment there is blankness as she stares and tries to comprehend. But then the world is thrown sharply back to focus again as his words burn her ears.
He's talking, saying something about his father, about his status, about his reputation. He mentions Pansy, dear god not her, and now he is speeding up, his words tripping over themselves as he rushes to get them out.
Hermione wills him to stop, waiting until he ceases speaking to go and run and find somewhere to shatter alone because she will not, WILL NOT, fall apart in front of him.
She grits her teeth because there's nothing to do or say, and no "why" crosses her mind. She just wants to escape, to get away and break and mend.
He trails off and stares at her. It's so unlike him.
"I just don't love you anymore."
Oh.
Oh.
"Oh." A small, exhaled breath that, in its smallness, crushes the air in between them and makes it hard to breathe.
There is no thought of running or crying or screaming anymore, because now she cannot move. She is entirely immobile. Paralyzed.
Through the blankness that is somehow her, she dimly remembers a distant fact.
Socrates drank Hemlock and the numbness spread upwards from his feet, killing him when it reached his heart.
And she waits and yearns for the numbness to finish spreading, because then it might ease this throbbing pain, this pounding ache that makes her eyes prick and her throat tighten and her ears roar.
He is leaving now, walking away with a single helpless glance of pity.
It is the pity that snaps Hermione out of her trance. Her fists clench at her side and she tosses back her head and damn it, she will move again and love again and laugh again.
He is not poison and he cannot kill her.