A/N: Okay so here it is, looks like I'll be continuing this story. Dunno how many chapters there'll be, I'll just see where it goes.

Thanks so much to anyone who reviewed and urged me to continue, hope you enjoy the update!

"Mum, please listen—"

"Honey, it's for your own good. Your father and I have already discussed it and—"

"But I don't want—"

"—It's what's best for your education. You need to look at the bigger picture, Hermione."

"You don't understand, it's fine, I'm fine, everything's fine. I don't want to leave, I love Diagon High, I really do - it- it's great." Hermione crossed her arms firmly, her tongue heavy with her lie. She looked towards her father expectantly, as if he would swoop in and save her from her mother's pestering, like he normally did. However, this time his face just looked grim, leaning against the kitchen bench with tired lines peeking out from beneath his glasses frame.

"It's for the best, dear." He said, giving her a tight smile, as if it pained him to do something he knew his daughter wholeheartedly disagreed with.

Her father's agreement turned her frustration into betrayal, and she rapidly blinked to stop unwanted tears as her eyes began to sting. "Fine." She bit out, storming from the kitchen before she did something uncalled for, like fling a cooking pot at the roast dinner her mum was preparing.

She rushed for the staircase, pausing to cast a longing gaze into the living room, at the couch where, less than twenty-four hours ago, she'd been making out with a boy named Draco. She ached to go back to that moment, when she didn't have to think about annoyingly important things like high school, friends and fitting in — She raced up the last step and banged her bedroom door closed.

Launching herself onto the softness of her bed, she let out an angry growl, muffling the sound in the depth of her pillows. Why did parents have to be so infuriating? Why did they have to butt in where they weren't wanted? The rational part of her mind gave her a gentle reminder that they wouldn't be parents if they didn't do those things, but Hermione shoved the thought away.

She was doing just fine at Diagon High. She'd studied there since the very beginning of her secondary education. She did well on all of her assignments, she completed all her homework on time, she kept to herself during break times, her nose buried in the black lines of her favourite stories. She didn't need the distraction of other people, she didn't need anyone to be the downfall of her grades, and she most certainly did not need anyone, let alone her parents, to tell her she was lonely.

Sure, she talked to some people during school, but she always preferred her own company. She'd spent six years trying to convince herself this, as opposed to acknowledging her favouritism of books came from their truth, and the fact they didn't turn around and laugh in her face, jeering, "Fooled you! Who would ever want to be your friend?"

Hermione scowled into her pillow, her thoughts flooding to memories of a girl with dark hair and a pretty face, a girl who was much prettier than Hermione, a girl who had no problem in declaring so. They'd met at the start of high school, when they were both fourteen, the beginnings of youthful decisions and identity shapers fresh in their young lives. Hermione had been stunned that such a pretty, popular girl would want to be her friend, let alone that such a friend would invite Hermione over to her house. The girl's family was rich, and her mother wore expensive jewellery, her father boring, yet pricey suits, and her house was huge. Together, the two girls had shared secrets, passed stories between them until the early hours of dawn. Hermione had liked her a lot, she was smart and enjoyed reading books too, and they'd yabbered on for hours about their favourite heroes and heroines.

They'd been best friends for a year before an unnameable boy came along, a boy who Hermione had crushed on but now couldn't even remember what he looked like. It was needless to dwell on the memories of how her friend had ended up fancying the same boy, and the two had split over it after weeks of tedious tiffs. Then one day, Hermione had been eating her lunch in a solitary corner of the cafe, when her friend-turned-enemy walked up and apologised with a face full of pity, telling her, "It's stupid really, fighting over a guy. I'm over him, anyway. You should ask him out."

So, Hermione did. She blushed thinking over how stupid she'd been when she was younger, although, being only seventeen now, she was still quite young, as much as she liked to think otherwise. The boy had balked at the loner-bookworm-girl asking him to join her for a study session, and since then Hermione had retreated from the very idea of being romantically involved with a male.

Then again, not every male was included in that category. Her blush intensified, and she tried very hard not to focus on the faint, lingering smell of Draco on her bedcovers.

Hermione turned her head, her eyes drawn to the hues cast by the setting sun, filtering in through her open window. The boy's rejection in eighth grade was nothing to her best friend's betrayal. Yes, Hermione was quick to get over a silly male who obviously didn't desire her attention, but what she was not ready for was the rapidly following rumour of a certain black haired girl snogging the very same boy.

Hermione shoved the memory out of her head, turning onto her back and gazing up at the uninteresting ceiling. Her anger at her parents had almost gone, and instead she was left with a strange sense of calm, almost boredom, so naturally she couldn't help her thoughts from drifting back to Draco.

Her first kiss, the first warm embrace of a boy who wasn't a relative, and he'd been so close to being her first of other things too. Her belly started to fill with a prickling heat as she recalled the feeling of his fingers on her skin, stroking and rubbing.

Her own hand started to creep downwards, but was abruptly pulled back at the sound of a tentative knock at her door.

Hermione cleared her throat, sitting up and grabbing a pillow for something to busy her hands with. "Yes?"

Her door creaked open, and her dad's bespectacled look of worry greeted her from a narrow gap in the doorway. "Hermione, can I come in?"

"Sure."

He opened the door all the way, then lingered with uncertainty over whether or not he should close it behind him. Hermione raised her eyebrow, and her dad returned her quizzical look and threw a knowing expression over his shoulder. "Your mother—"

"Dad, it's fine, she won't hear… unless you have something super secretive that—"

He laughed, running a hand through his short hair and then edged the door close, coming to sit next to his daughter.

Hermione's sudden lightheartedness turned to disappointment when her dad sighed, rubbing his palms over his jeans. She watched as he adjusted his glasses, his telltale signs of fidgeting which she knew meant he was avoiding the point.

"Dad." She urged.

Another sigh. "'Mione, look—"

"I know, you agree with her. I get it." She didn't get it at all.

"I wasn't sure at first, but- but it's a great place, dear. Your mother and I visited on our way home this morning, the principle was lovely, a little eccentric though but very welcoming. The teachers seem to know what they're doing, the kids are all well behaved—"

"Are you sure you just visited?"

"The uniform is very smart, in fact, ugh—"

"Let me guess, you ordered me one already?"

"Hermione, Saint Merlins is going to be really good for you."

She cast him a hurt look, turning back to her window with a sulky expression.

"I guess there's no real point for me to tell you to think it over?" Her dad asked softly.

Hermione snorted. "Don't have much choice, do I?"

There was a pause, then what she'd been dreading, "Hermione… it was very hard, for Jean and I, to… to find out about the bullying—" A muffled growl came from behind a pillow "—I know it must be embarrassing, but—"

"Dad! There was no bullying, okay? There was nothing, there was just me, and schoolwork!"

"That's the point, honey. Transferring to St. Merlins will be a fresh start, it'll mean new friends—"

"I'm not so sure 'bout that," Hermione mumbled.

"Hermione, don't be so morbid! You're a wonderful young woman, you're smart, intelligent—"

"That's the whole problem, dad! Ugh, just never mind, okay? I think I hear mum calling, dinner must be ready."

Her father stood, looking at her sadly. "Have a think, dear. I'm sure you'll understand in the morning."

"Alright." She said it to end the conversation, rather than to agree she'd actually thinking about it. Besides, she already knew why it was a good idea, as her dad said himself, she wasn't stupid. She just had a bad feeling that no matter what school she went to, other people just wouldn't tolerate her bookishness.

Dinner was a sullen affair over roast beef and Hermione's least favourite brand of orange juice. She chewed her food angrily, keeping her eyes on her plate, and gave short, one word answers whenever her mother spoke to her. She loved her mother, she really did, but right now she couldn't bare to look at her.

Hermione did the dishes without needing to be told, and then headed straight up to her room with a forced, quiet "goodnight."

She collapsed onto her bed, flinging a hand across her eyes. She had no choice in this, and dare she admit it, she knew it was what was best, what needed to be done, and a very tiny, subdued part of her was a little excited. It was her pride which stopped her from telling this to her parents. Being annoyed was easier than admitting she was wrong, so she'd stick to it like glue.

Her thoughts dragged her back to that morning, when her parents had phoned and told her they'd be home early, with a surprise for her. Hermione had panicked, knowing there was still a half dressed and groggy Draco sprawled in her bed upstairs, and had immediately rushed up to wake him.

"Wazzit?" He'd mumbled, and Hermione had wanted to smother him in kisses, but her haste restrained her, and without many words she watched him chuck his shirt on and then the two had made their way downstairs.

He'd stopped at the door, turned back to her with a funny look on his face. His hand had come up to stroke her cheek, his elegant fingers brushing away her sleep-mussed hair.

She'd wanted to ask him for his phone number, she'd wanted to know when they'd see each other again, she'd also wanted to know why he'd refused to make love to her fully, and most of all she wanted one last kiss. She wanted so many things, but all she got was the soft press of his lips on her forehead and a departing salute as he waved to her at the gate.

She'd watched his retreating back with a smile, and an ache in her chest that demanded she do nothing more than run after him and be in his arms again.

Now lying by herself in the semi-darkness of dusk, she would do just about anything to have Draco with her again. They'd had such little time together, yet it seemed so perfect, so right. But then it was broken, by her parents no less, and she could do nothing but sleep and then wait eagerly by her window at the first sight of the rising sun.

Last night was a dream full of pizza, cuddles, and the passing of facts which now seemed so silly Hermione wished she had talked about important things, rather than trifling topics like favourite colours.

She sighed into her hand, turning over and snuggling up to her pillows, desperately trying to catch any of that sweet, heady masculine smell, which she had so fallen in love with.

The next morning Draco didn't come. It was the other black haired paperboy, and the sight of him withered Hermione's heart.

It had been two weeks since Hermione had spent the best night of her life with Draco, and not once since then had he delivered her family's morning newspaper. The smell of him had disappeared from her pillow after the fourth day, and now when she went to bed each night it was as if he'd never been there to begin with, never shared her passion, or touched her in ways no one else ever had.

Some nights she'd lie there feeling a perfectly justified, yet unreasonable irritation towards him until it'd make her head throb and she'd fall asleep. Other times she'd let her brief yet detailed memories of him flood through her body until her nipples were hard and her knickers were soaked. Then she'd touch herself thinking of his long, pale fingers, and go to sleep with his sly smirk etched into the backs of her eyelids.

It was the last day of the summer holidays, now three weeks since she'd kissed Draco, and tomorrow Hermione would have her first day at Saint Merlins.

After several more days of ignoring her parents attempts at kindness, and several thorough research sessions on the private school, Hermione had grudgingly apologised to them, saying she too thought it was a good move, and that she couldn't wait to begin this new part of her life. It was the truth, but that didn't stop her from being terribly overcome by nerves.

Joining a class where everyone already knew each other, where friendship groups had already been formed, where most students probably knew each other from their earlier years at the school, was very frightening.

Her first day would be either make or break, a thought which made Hermione's fingers shake while she mindlessly swirled her spoon around in her morning cereal.

Across the suburbs, in a stuffy room which smelled like stale smoke and sex, Draco Malfoy clutched a fist to the fresh bruise on his jaw.