AN: I do not own any part of Harry Potter.
This was just a quick little one shot I decided to write. A little bit of nothing, really. Read, or don't read. Review if you'd like.
This happens to be the only FanFic I've ever written that I am actually quite proud of. It turned out pretty well actually, if that gives you any incentive.
~*My Own*~
It was getting worse.
Raw exposed flesh, that burned hotter than the core of the sun, black as tar.
It itched. A fucking lot.
The only Malfoy heir stared at his left forearm, the shock of it all still well in place.
"Well I'll be damned," he said, peeling a thin layer of skin off one slow centimeter at a time. Tiny dots of blood poked up as he went, a beautiful bright crimson on a tarry black world. He stared at the flake of skin, before tossing it into the trashcan on the floor. Or rather, tossing it, and watching as it floated idly to the floor, raising a middle finger in salute as it went.
Having taken the goddamned Dark Mark a few months ago, Draco's pale skin seemed to have a negative reaction that never fully healed.
"You're weak," his father had said, "I knew you weren't ready."
"I was ready! I am… ready," Draco had replied.
It was an obvious lie, and both likely knew. But Draco had been caught between trying to please his father, and trying to prove himself. Prove that he had power, intellect, courage…
"Stupidity," he said, looking down at the red welt that surrounded the slightly flawed Dark Mark. He had tried to scrub it away. Tried every spell he could think of, from Tergeo to Effacero. It only seemed to anger the damn thing. He often watched it, sure he could see the snake laughing, smiling. Mocking.
His godfather gave him special ointments to help soothe the pain. Draco tried to put aside all pride and thank the man, but he never could.
He sat at the Slytherin table in the Great Hall, deciding once again not to partake in the chatter. The buzzing and the humming. It wasn't for him. Besides, he had more important things on his mind.
He watched her, as she entered the Hall and took her usual seat across from her two best friends. Two giant disgraces on the human race, more like. The Weasel, shoveling in food like it was going out of style, half of it spilling down his robes in the process. And Pottamus, whose head seemed to get bigger with each consecutive day. Especially today. He could hardly see her around his giant head.
Had it always been that big?
Draco made a mental note to visit that thought later. He added it to his list of very important things to do, and went back to trying to part the Seas of Stupidity to view what was on the other side.
And as if those two blundering Seas had read his mind, they each leaned in opposite directions to grab a drink, and there she was.
She looked especially happy today, book in one hand, croissant in the other. Always chewing and swallowing before speaking. Always berating the Weasel like it was her job. That was always Draco's favourite part.
It wasn't exactly that he liked Hermione Granger. Mudblood extraordinaire. No, no not at all.
But she certainly helped take his mind off of things.
It had started at the beginning of the school year. Well, if you wanted to get technical, it started the moment he had laid eyes on her, September 1st, 1991, 10:36am… not that he kept track of that sort of thing. But particularly at the beginning of this, their sixth year at Hogwarts, when he first saw her after a long and agonizing summer, it was like seeing the key to it all.
At first it was the purest, most absolute loathing he could muster. The Aberrant Anomaly (yes, redundancy seemed fit in this case) could do no wrong, and being a muggle-born only made Draco hate her more. How was she doing it? He, Draco Malfoy, came from a very long line of purebloods, and this nobody, this reject, this walking monstrosity, seemed to find a way to perfect every potion, every spell, every magical theory that she touched.
He hated her.
And after trying desperately to burn that mangy mop off her head using only his eyes, (he swore time and time again that it was either a very poor excuse for a wig, or she was hiding garden gnomes in there in an effort to save the slimey things) he realized that an entire hour had passed and he hadn't once thought about the Dark Lord, or his father, his tasks, or the mangled patch of "skin" that had once been his beautiful forearm. He had always loved that forearm best, sigh.
So, it continued. Draco watched the girl in every shared class, every meal. He sometimes took to following her down the hall. And his favourite time of all was pursuing her into the library and sitting exactly five desks away. Close enough to keep watch, far enough not to seem suspicious. In there, they could literally spend hours together (well, not together together, obviously).
He began to notice things about the girl that he hadn't noticed before. Quirky little nuances. More details to annoy the hell out of him.
Like rubbing the end of her feather quill across her mouth as she read a particularly detailed passage in her book. Or twirling her finger around one of the grotesquely frizzy strands of hair on her head. Or how the corners of her mouth would turn ever so slightly upward when she was reading something exceptionally humorous…
It was awful.
Really all he was doing was studying the target. Making sure he knew enough about her in case it ever came in handy. "Mr Malfoy, do you happen to know…. WHAT HERMIONE GRANGER'S FAVOURITE COLOUR IS?" "Why yes, Dark Lord, I believe it is blue."
Yes. That is exactly how it would go.
You never know…
And wasn't it an added bonus that all this observation happened to take his mind off other things?
So it continued. Weeks went by, and then months. And every time life seemed to get in the way, there she was. His sanctuary, in a sense. Funny, how the one thing he hated most in his life happened to be the cause of his temporary relief.
He continued to notice more details about her. How her mangy mop actually happened to be an array of loose mahogany curls that seemed to bounce effortlessly as she walked. How she smelled of peppermint and eucalyptus when she passed by, and how the smell seemed to linger for several moments. How the words "my own" appeared when you spoke her name… not that he ever spoke her name. No, not ever.
He realized his innocent observations were turning into somewhat of an obsession.
But was six to eight hours a day bordering on obsession?
Merlin's beard, what had happened to him?
Only too late, he realized his need for Hermione Granger. He could hardly breathe anymore without needing to think of her. And all too late he realized it was no longer hate that kept him watching. He was no longer inspecting her for the benefit of his side.
He was watching her because he needed to. Because he wanted to.
It wasn't exactly that he liked Hermione Granger. Mudblood extraordinaire. No, no not at all.
He loved her.
It was getting worse.
Draco looked down at his forearm, the burnt skin itching, the eyes of the skull just barely peaking out past the edge of his sleeve.
And he wondered, if he hadn't taken this stupid thing, if he hadn't decided to join the Death Eaters, the Dark Side, would he have had any reason to watch her at all?
Perhaps this ridiculous excuse for a tattoo served some purpose after all.
He turned back to watch her, as she sent the Weasel a sharp kick under the table, the words "foul git" forming on her perfectly pink lips.
'That's my girl,' he thought, 'Hermione. 'Mione. My own.'
Well, there it is then. I won't pester you for reviews, though I of course LOVE them.
Side note: Do NOT read any of my other stories. This is not a ploy to get you to read them. They are terrible in comparison and I have a right mind to delete them altogether, (all together? ...hmm...). But as it stands, some FanFictioners happen to actually like those stories (Merlin only knows why) and at this time I'd just feel bad deleting them. So they'll stay... I guess.
Thanks for reading!
~Kat