DISCLAIMER: ALL OF THE CHARACTERS FEATURED WITHIN THIS TEXT BELONG TO THE AUTHOR J.K. ROWLING, AS WELL AS ANY REFERENCES TO LOCATIONS USED IN THE BOOKS OR BASICALLY ANYTHING IN THE HARRY POTTER SERIES/SPINOFFS IS NOT MINE. What belongs to me, exclusively, is the writing and the idea. Judge it at your discretion (please don't be harsh).

ALSO, this is a work of fiction…the illnesses depicted are indeed real conditions that people courageously suffer with every day, who'ver the way that things play out with these illnesses has to relate to some aspects of the plot in Harry Potter.

Chapter 3: That Was the Moment We Met.

***important note*** this chapter will not be told from Harry's perspective. This is one of many digressions where I speak of the character's personal developments of their illnesses. They have been well-researched.***

I pulled the comb through my hair, wincing as the many tangles got stuck inside the teeth of the brush. As opposed to struggling with the mess, I settled on keeping it the way it was and sitting down on the window sill of the Hogwarts bathroom, sighing as I looked out the window, to the floor and finally to my hands.

I flipped my palms over so that it wasn't my knuckles facing me but my palms, cold and clammy and real. I watched as the lines of my hands branched off in every direction, wondering if they meant anything like Divination said they did. I put my head in them, squeezing my eyes shut and remaining there, still and silent, until just before my absence would be concerning and headed back to class.

I knew I was intelligent. I knew my grades were no ordinary grades, and I knew that I had determination and drive and whatever other words my Professor's used to surmise who they thought I was on every test paper and essay, on assignments and quizzes. But the sharper my brain gets, the deeper it cuts me: I had such a deep want to just not really exist anymore that it was eventually enough for me to tell my parents, who blamed themselves, which made me wish I hadn't said anything and such was the past four or so years. Because I didn't want to be depressed. The thing about Hogwarts was that you had to have a genuine mental or physical illnesses to be consider for entrance, and it is not atypical to get better while at Hogwarts but entrance depends on one nonetheless. And when I knew that I was "magical" I treated that ability as a synonym for a cure, and it hurt so much more when I had to eventually come to terms with the fact that it wasn't. I haven't quite recovered since.

After returning to class, copying the notes from a friend of mine and heading back to the Common Room as it was the end of the school day, I slumped into an armchair, opened up a book, and tried to read. But the same sentence kept repeating itself: The proper way to perform the incantation is to move your wand through the air in this particular manner, as the movement of the wrist is essential in distinguishing this from the related spell, pictured below. I stared at the picture hopelessly, thinking about how much more incrementally helpless and hopeless I was feeling with the passing days, with an intensity that only seemed to strengthen as I grew older.

I remember the first day of mine at Hogwarts like it was yesterday. My parents had dropped me off at the train station, reminding me to write as often as possible and making me promise to work with the nurses and not against them. I had nodded begrudgingly, barely listening. I was trying to be excited, but couldn't. I was trying to remind myself that this was a big step for me, but I didn't want anything good to happen to me. A part of me hoped this was all a practical joke being played on me because I didn't feel like I deserved anything good, let alone something this good. And as detached as I had become from anything that had ever loved me, I still felt a part of me rip off and stay with my parents, with their tiffs and sad eyes, where I knew I was safe. The hardest part of that day was leaving them.

And I don't know, I mean, I couldn't tell you how I feel about the first person I had met at Hogwarts. Palest hair I'd ever seen, I think. And eyes as grey as my heart had been for so long. I think, well, yes, he was obnoxious. Absurdly wealthy and spoiled. But my heart did hurt for him, to see him the way he was. The depression I knew I had weighed me down like an anvil tied to my ankle, but at least I knew it was there. It was like he didn't know what he was up against. That was the one time I had ever concentrated on one thing enough to feel genuinely sorry for someone, to wish them the best, despite his nastiness and vulgarities. Because Draco Malfoy wasn't the worst guy or the best guy, but the inability to be either literally ate away at him until he looked, and probably felt, like nothing except a skeleton that longed for life.

Aside from that, I had problems with feeling things. Until I met Ron, I would swear I had no heart. I wasn't eating, which originally made my parents think I had Anorexia, but it was clear after seeing a doctor that I lacked the requisite obsession with calories and/or exercise, but there was definitely a disorder of sorts in the way that I refused to eat. Being at Hogwarts made it easier, and I could feel myself getting healthier, but is it bad of me to say that I didn't want to? I wanted to be able to stay like this, frozen, for all eternity. It was something solid. It was something definite. I know that this is a terrible way for me to think, but I feared what would be left of me without this dark thing I'd been holding onto for so long.

"Tell me, Hermione, what is it that made you originally start feeling this way?" asked Dr. Flitwick, leaning back in his chair.

I blanched. Averting my gaze, I said, "I'm not entirely sure, doctor. I think it may have been because both my parents worked and, being the alleged "smart kid" I never really had many friends growing up, so I was always alone. And that didn't feel that great."

"So do you maybe think what you're experiencing is prolonged loneliness?"

"Again, I'm not sure. That may have been the cause of it," I said, tucking my hair behind my ear, "but it is definitely not what I'm experiencing now."

"And why do you say that?" he asked.

"Because I know that people love me. I know that I'm valued and that I have friends now and that people want to get to know me and whatever. But I just…" I stared at the lines of my hands, running the tips of my fingers along them. I knew I couldn't lie to him. You'd only be hurting yourself, I thought. So what? I countered, but there was no reply. "I just don't believe that anyone could care for me as much as I care for them. I feel like I'm just annoying and kind of, just, I don't know, there? Like no one really needs me as much as I need them."

He made some notes on his pad, peering at me from above his glasses. "And what is your relationship with Mr. Draco Malfoy?"

I immediately snapped my head up, squinting at him. "What?"

"I mean to say, the nurses see the two of you often talking. To what may that be attributed to?" he asked.

I just looked at him. "I mean, when I first got here, doctor, we were certainly acquaintances at best, but since he's begun to get better he's become quite ruder. I can't stand to be in his presence, and when I do talk to him now, it's just to argue," I said, wincing at the conversation topic. "I didn't really know him before, but I do now."

"Mhm. And what about Mr. Ronald Weasley?" he said, smiling slightly. "Is he another quasi-acquaintance?"

"Ron? No," I said immediately, "he's more than that. He's my friend."

He made another note. "And how are you feeling about the arrival of the famous Harry Potter?"

"Harry? He seems much nicer than he's painted, and quite larger-than-life. But that's mainly because I've read about him extensively. I dunno. I think we could be friends," I said. Like anyone would want to be friends with you, I thought, frowning.

Dr. Flitwick noticed. "And how about you, Hermione. How are you doing?"

"Me? I'm fine," I replied, far too quickly. I mentally cursed myself. "I mean, pretty much the same as always."

"Do you think that these conversations help?" he asked.

"No. But I know I need them and I know that eventually they will," I said, and I almost believed it. Almost.

He checked his watch, sitting up straighter and taking some more notes. It made me nervous. "One final question, Hermione. Do you think that Draco is genuinely a bad person, or are your disagreements a result of your short temper that we have discussed?"

I paused, carefully choosing my words. "I think that the most well-balanced person, magical or not, to exist on this earth could not possibly believe Draco to be an agreeable character. Is that satisfactory?"

He rose in his seat, adjusting his glasses. "Very much so. Thank you for your time, Miss. Granger. I'll see you next week."

"Thank you as well, doctor. Do I have to see the nurses on my way out?"

He shuffled some papers around on his desk. "As usual, Hermione."

I sighed, turning around and heaving the heavy oak door open, letting it fall softly closed behind me.

After seeing the nurses in the psychiatric ward, I headed to my favourite spot in the library. Although I had lost the passion I once had for reading, and reading now was done more out of obligation than desire, it was getting better. For now, I knew I needed to get out of the common room that was always packed with people, and instead be alone with my thoughts.

If it weren't for the curfew we had, I would probably stay there all night. Among the books and the history, among the ghosts that sometimes came to talk to me, I was certain I could live forever. Nothing played with my nerves here, in this quiet haven, and it was a better treatment than anything else I had experienced. When I was back at in the girl's bedroom, I couldn't sleep. I would often have to magically conceal my pronounced eyebags the next day due to exhaustion. But I could manage several hours in the library and for some reason, I think Doctor Flitwick knew because otherwise the librarian would have kicked me out.

I stayed there for what felt like a few minutes, walking in between the aisles and reading the book titles. And just when I thought that everything was somewhat alright, I came across the book, "Important Wizards of the Modern Age," where I had first come across Harry's name. I remembered how awkward I was the first time I had met him, how arrogant and rude I must have seemed. And I began to wonder if maybe I was the problem in the arguments between Draco and I, if I was A Problem In General, and I had to sit down. And I sat like that, seemingly still with a mind running a mile a minute with tears running down my cheeks until the librarian found me and I woke up in a hospital bed, counting the tiles on the ceiling and wishing I was dead.