Title: Little Heartbreaks Unforgotten
Summary: As the war ended and the 7th year students returned to Hogwarts for the first ever 8th year, in making up for lost studies during Voldemort's attack, Hermione was almost unrecognizable. No one knew why. No one except the little boy who changed sides last year – Mr Draco Malfoy.
She stepped into the old carriage, taking in her surroundings. The familiar red velvet was almost too much like family. She ran her white fingers along the doorway, almost bringing up tears as she remembered how incredibly lucky she was to be able to see this day.
Many people expected life to move on, but it didn't. Hogwarts was never going to be the same happy environment she remembered, not when the ghosts of the lives lost haunted her very livelihood everyday. How was she, a mere muggleborn, able to survive the second wizarding war, when greater wizards had perished?
Biting back her tears, she threw her trunk in the overhead compartment and took a seat. Hermione forced a smile as she heard her name coming from the end of the train.
"Bet Hermione's already there. Come on, Harry!" Ron's deep voice was immediately recognizable, almost as much as his fiery hair. He opened the door and froze, staring at his best friend with his mouth gaping like a festival clown.
Well, some things never changed.
"Hi, Ron," greeted Hermione.
"Golly Ron, if you keep stopping in the middle of no where again, I'm gonna walk into you. You're like the wall we had to-" started Harry, who also stopped abruptly in his track, "My goodness, Hermione, what happened to you?"
She had expected her reactions to be something of the sort, albeit slightly less subtle. They hadn't seen each other face to face since a week after Voldemort's demise, when Hermione had returned to spend time with her, now uncharmed, family. Many things had changed within her, certainly, and she had now suddenly realized the great transformation in her physical appearance as well. Not that it should matter of course.
Her long frizzy brown hair had started falling into more forming curls, which she wore at her waist. Make-up wise, she'd started using it in general, taking after the dark looks of celebrated entertainment witches. As for her body, Hermione realized as she looked down at her ripped blue jeans and white tank top, it was beginning to fill out. About time, one would say.
"Good morning to you too?" she replied, raising an eyebrow.
As her friends got used to her appearance, finally remembering the old Hermione that lay beneath the raccoon eyes and… well, breasts, they started chatting about their summers. The tension remained in the air, however, as all parties avoided the one topic that they were all pining to talk about.
"Mom kept trying to get me to come home," Ron laughed as he shoved pumpkin pie into his mouth, "But I was going to eventually. You should see what Harry's done to Grimmauld place. It's bloody brilliant."
"Ron – I added lights. It's not exactly groundbreaking."
"What about this box thing you got? That black thing with the green picture?"
"Are you talking about an Xbox?" added Hermione with a smile on her lips, "Harry, don't tell me you brought a muggle artefact into the house of Black?"
"Well, I'm pretty sure Sirius would've been okay with it and plus I-"
Harry was cut short due to a new arrival at the cabin – an old school friend who, just a year ago, they would not have expected to be standing there. His white blonde hair had grown long but was still slicked back in its usual fashion. Almost everything was typical, including his expensive black robes and the green tie hanging from his neck. Nobody could see a difference.
Nobody except for our dear Hermione Granger.
The way his grey eyes met her hazel ones should have been enough to spark curiosity as to their history, but being overly stunned at his appearance, the two friends didn't spot this. Draco eyed Hermione, taking in not only her drastic growth over the few months, in which he'd written countless unposted owls, burnts rolls upon rolls of tainted parchment and spend numerous sleepless nights crying over her memory, but also the strange way her body sat with her new appearance.
Invisible to any naked eye except for Draco's, he watched the awkward curl on the left of her face, the slightly off angle of her industrial piercing in her left ear and, even as she slowly lifted her hair to one side, the way the mole on the back of her neck had been hastily covered with what could only be a dodgy beauty charm. He almost couldn't recognize her, until he looked into her eyes and saw the same strong little girl he had wanted so many nights ago.
"Granger," he spoke breathlessly. Remembering that there were also others in the cabin, he bowed his blonde head and added hastily, "And Potter, Weasley."
"Malfoy," greeted Ron in a shocked tone, "I didn't expect to be seeing you standing here. You alright?"
"All's faring well. Been living on my own. Is this seat taken?" he asked, gesturing to the empty seat beside the new Hermione, "The people in the other cabins don't seem to want a Malfoy within a yard of them."
The room fell silent as the violent memories of the war past seemed to fill everyone's head and their thoughts went immediately to their deceased relatives, friends and mentors. Hermione bit back tears and anger at Malfoy being in such a close distance to her. However, Harry was too overwhelmed with sudden emotions that he didn't see, and instead replied with a soft, "Sure," as his eyes finally did what Rita Skeeter has prophesized. They began to swim with the ghosts of his past.
"I'm sorry," Malfoy replied, making a move to leave, "I shouldn't have brought something up. Maybe I should just go-"
"No," stated Hermione, speaking at last through gritted teeth, "Just sit the hell down, don't speak."
After a few months into their long break, Mrs Granger began to worry dearly about her daughter. She spent more time in her room than outdoors, which wasn't atypical for her bookish girl, but it was odd that these long hours were spent watching television and wasted on pointless social networking websites. They weren't pointless because of their pop cultural tendencies, no, the Granger household was a firm believer in technology as an educational tool whether magical or muggle, but because Hermione didn't keep in contact with any of her ordinary friends.
Well, frankly speaking, she never had any.
One morning she had taken to finally opening the bedroom door to find Hermione stripped down to her underwear, a wet Daily Prophet on the floor and a razor in her hand. Her wrist was shining red with blood, the multitude of scars running down her pale arm.
"Hermione!" she exclaimed, rushing to the girl's side and taking her in her arms, oblivious to the blood streaking down her crisp business shirt, "Baby, what are you doing? What's wrong?"
Hermione did nothing but cry and cry and cry, her sobs soaking deeper into her mother's shirt. "I let him go," she was barely audible, "I let him go. He let me go. I hate this. I hate this."
The prefect's room was just how she remembered it, she thought as she took her first steps through the portrait. Never would she imagine she'd be here in her 8th year, but it seemed to be the way fate had been working for her. The walls were ornamented with a clash of red and green, made it look oddly like Christmas. However, the plushness of the furniture and the vastness of the private common room made up for any sort of color coordinating taboo.
"Cosy, isn't it?" remarked Draco, who entered after her.
It was almost ironic that Professor McGonagall would place them together as prefects, but only Godric knew the workings of that educational mind. Hermione assumed that only the combination of the Gryffindor golden girl and an ex-death eater could calm the school and, hopefully, rid it of the strong discrimination created during the War.
"Yeah, I guess so," Hermione replied, "Well… I'll see you tomorrow." She headed for her room, determined not to meet the eyes of the man she detested. Slamming the door behind her, she didn't hear the soft words Draco had whispered to her receding back – the same back he watched walk away last year.
"Hermione…" he whispered her name as he collapsed in a green lounge, fighting back the tears which had been threatening to reappear for the entire long train ride. Memories, he had decided, were one of the greatest weaknesses he possessed. Finally he had begun to understand why the greatest wizards forced themselves to remove and store these things – they were impossible to live with, especially when they concerned his greatest foe, his greatest challenge and his greatest weakness.
He pulled her onto his sheets, desperately running his hands through her thick brown curls. The war was coming, he knew, and there was a strong sense of life-or-death in the air. He never intended to become Voldemort's killing machine, but he had never been given any choice. Draco let go of every aspect of his life, every good deed that he had wanted to do, for the sake of saving his family's life.
However, there was one small, incredibly important, dream that he couldn't let go of. She took the form of Hermione Granger.
She was beautiful, with her lithe body, her genuine smile and the way her bright eyes always lit up at the raise of her hand (usually with a question but more than often with an intellectual answer). The night he discovered her sitting on the stone steps of Hogwarts was the night he decided that enough was enough.
He was sick of dreaming of her.
He was sick of wishing for her.
He was going to take her, right there and then.
Her vulnerability, with the world of the fringe of absolute war, made her an easy seduction. His lies of I would never leave you slid so easily off his tongue, he found himself wondering whether they were lies at all – but, he was training to be a death eater, his fate: He couldn't love.
"Draco," she sighed as he kissed her neck, flipping her beneath him. Draco noticed her weakness at the dropping of his last name. He found himself loving it.
He couldn't bare it.
"Malfoy," he corrected. Noticing the harshness of his words, he began to slip her top off, eager for anything to distract her usually sharp mind. He wanted Granger, that was for sure, but under no circumstances was he allowed to want her for more than just her body.
He just couldn't.
Hermione took another razor to her skin – her thighs this time. It seemed like her only escape. The only way to remind herself that maybe there was some sense in the worth, no matter how far away it seemed at times. The cut was deeper than before, the blood richer, but the feelings were numbed.
She knew Draco was sitting just outside.
Cut it deeper.
He was probably next to the fire.
Just a little deeper.
Sitting in his robes.
Deeper.
She gasped as she realized how much blood was over her leg – the redness smeared over her pale thighs. She pulled the razor away – it was covered in blood – and she picked up her wand, willing herself to remember a healing charm before she passed out from blood loss.
As no words came to her feeble mind, she dropped her witching skills, allowing her senses to be drowned out by the subtle spinning and darkening of her surroundings. Everything was slipping away from her. She was losing control again, just as she had before.
But for some reason she felt like it was exactly what she wanted.
She awoke in the common room, with a dark figure looking over her. Her fighting instincts told her to awaken and attack, but her fatigue willed her to stay lying. She didn't want to fight anymore, anyway. As her vision cleared she saw that it was Draco's face looking worriedly upon her. Touching her mutilated thigh, she felt no pain. Draco had done a good patching job, although a scar was still present.
"Malfoy," she whispered, remembering their places with each other, "What are you doing?"
"You're up!" he exclaimed, helping her into a sitting position, "What is the matter with you? What did you think you were doing?"
"I-"
"You were bleeding all over the friggin sheets with that tiny knife in your hand. Goodness, you've survived the biggest battle of the century-"
Hermione flinched at the mention of the War.
"-Sorry. But seriously, Hermione," he took her shoulders and watched her with worried eyes, "What's the matter? Something is bothering you. You've changed completely, you just tried to kill yourself."
"Don't touch me," she whispered, with her head lowered.
"What?"
"I SAID DON'T TOUCH ME!" she cringed as she bounded into a stand position, stepping away from Malfoy, "Why did you even bother? Should've just left me to die!"
"You know I would never do that!" he argued back, trying to approach her as she continued to gradually step away.
"You took me that night before the war, isn't that enough for you? Why are you still here?" she backed against the wall, falling to her knees, "Why won't you leave? Why won't you leave?"
"Hermione, I-"
"DON'T USE MY NAME! I don't want to be hurt anymore. I can't take this anymore. Why won't you just take what you've taken of me and just leave me alone? I'm just a muggle, you don't want me anyway. You made it perfectly clear that night!"
"Hermione, I-"
"Don't even try to lie! You knew precisely well that when a witch loses her virginity, her magic is weakened for at least forty-eight hours. Ginny nearly died Malfoy! And I-"
He stopped the words coming out of her mouth with a kiss, pressing her up against the wall. For moments, Hermione didn't know how to respond, but soon she fell into the kiss as well. For some reason, she was reminded of the night she wanted to forget, but she was refusing to let go of it. His skin on hers, his fingertips slowly caressing her back and the way his hair came disheveled in her hands. But something was still holding her back.
You're a mudblood. Get the hell out, you've served your purpose.
"Why did you say it?" she murmured as she pulled away, their foreheads still touching, "Why did you have to break my heart like that?"
"What do you mean?" asked Draco, pursing hip lips because he knew exactly what she meant.
"'You're a mudblood. Get the hell out, you've served your purpose.'" She recited, replaying the moment in her head as though it were only seconds ago, "Why did you say that and make me leave?"
He could sense the Dark Lord's presence over Hermione's bare shoulder. He was standing there, although not physically but in spirit. The red eyes of demons bore down on him, asking him what he was doing, lying in bed naked with a Mudblood – and one so close to Dumbledore's side for that matter.
Draco could feel his master enter his mind and he forcibly pushed every thought of passion and happiness out, as he focused only on the parts of Hermione he detested. Her horrid friendship with that snobbish 'legend,' her irritating way of waving her hands back and forth as though the professor hadn't seen her for the umpteenth time, and that one night he noticed that she carried a phone. A phone for Christs sake! Silly, mudblood.
As Voldemort disappeared, Draco realized that the risk was too great. There was no way he could allow Hermione to spend the night, as much as he wished her to.
So he pushed her away, the only way he knew.
Filthy Mudblood.
"I was still on Voldemort's side, Hermione," he continued to explain, "I couldn't risk your life like that. My family would be in danger as well and I'd be helpless to stop them, being in the dormitory."
"But you turned sides anyway," she argued, "You came and you fought for us!"
"I did – but I knew I could protect people then. At least I could be there," he took Hermione in his arms, "I never wanted to hurt you, but I didn't have a choice. I spent this whole summer trying to write you an owl but time and time again I just didn't know how to explain myself. I couldn't do it."
Tears started to well in his eyes as he glanced across her wrist, where many scars lay to be visible forever, "I didn't want to hurt you, but I didn't know how to unhurt you. And then I saw you on the train and," he breathed deeply, "Hermione you didn't even look like yourself."
Hermione buried her head deeper into his chest, partly for need to be closer, and partly to will herself to never forget this moment, "Things changed, Draco…"
"But Why? You were beautiful how you were, you were amazing. You were perfect."
She began to sob heavily into his black shirt, "I couldn't stand to look at myself, Draco. Every part of me reminded myself of what you hated and what you didn't want. I loathed my own body and I never wanted to see it again. I had to change what ever it is I could."
Draco kissed her next to the fireplace. They had spent hours holding each other, crying at different intervals, telling each other secrets. Finally, Hermione was his.
That night before the war when he told her he would never her – it wasn't a lie. He finally realized that he saw himself in her eyes, he felt his love in her kiss and he knew what the future was whenever he held her in his arms.
He didn't just want her body.
He couldn't.
He wanted everything.
AUTHORS NOTE:
Thanks for reading everyone. This is my first venture back into fanfiction since a long time and I'm glad I got this done. At the moment, it's intended to be a one-shot but I have so many more plans in my head for future chapters where I want to touch on more taboos and more ways the war has affected our Hogwarts kids. I plan on touching on homosexuality, teen pregnancy, alcohol/substance abuse and everything in between. However, because this is insanely new to me right now, I don't know how people are going to react to it. I'll go by reviews, favorites and the number of views.
Hope you guys like this,
LV.