I've always wondered what it was like for other people who have depression, and how hard it is to physically get up in the mornings, and how sometimes dreaming is a much more, much better alternative. But I'm not really here to talk about that, I just wanted to give you guys an apology for not updating in a month. But I've got another chapter completed, and working on finishing the next chapter. I'm literally on a roll, and hope this inspiration stays for awhile.

But it's always nice to hear what you think of the newest chapter, and what your thoughts are—and I fucking promise that Tom will make an appearance sooner than later. Just give me a few more chapters, and it will be great (hopefully). As always, I do apologize if there are any errors in my writing. I do read through it three times to fix anything that is out of place, or spelled wrong.

Please leave your thoughts! Feedback is always welcome. x

PS. IF YOU CELEBRATED CHRISTMAS, WHAT DID YOU GET? (I got a Bath & Body works candle, and it smells so good).


CHAPTER SEVEN

OOO

The white cotton-clad sweater that hugged her hips was sticking to her skin—and she was slick and cold with sweat but she was burning. Every part of her felt like she was stepping on hot stones and it was slowly bruising and peeling away her delicate skin—and she trembled because she was scared and frightened and felt like she made a grave error. She did make a grave error.

Her bag was ripped in shreds—from overwhelming frustration and disastrous tantrums that left her knuckles red and sore —and she looked in her trunk in the unused dormitory room, on the unused bed of the warm Gryffindor tower; her red crimson bed sheets were thrown on the ground and she pulled the curtains off and she howled and cursed because she couldn't – fucking – find – the – papers.

She viciously racked her hands through her hair; tearing dry frizzy strands from her scalp and sat in the middle of her bed. A trembled sigh escaping her lips as she tried to wrap her brain around the idea that she lost those papers – that she misplaced them, and that they were probably thrown in a bin and shredded to tiny minuscule little pieces.

She wanted to scream.

She wanted to cry.

She wanted to shut down.

She just stayed on her unused bed silently, her body swaying just the tiniest of motions—and she couldn't believe she had lost them. All her hard work that hadn't been accounted for and she didn't even know if the potion would work – so it could have been a dud – and maybe there was a good enough reason why she lost them—

Maybe it was the fates telling her better than this.

Maybe the constellations weren't aligned with Pluto, or Venus, or fucking Neptune.

Maybe it was because she was so keen on something she didn't quite understand yet. She didn't even know what type of potion she was brewing—it was all just research. She didn't understand what the potion could do, and what side-effects it would have on her—because Merlin knows that no one would be willing to help her.

Hermione fell back on her bed, her hair splaying across the red and gold bed sheets, as she thought of where she had last put the research papers, or if she accidentally used them for her Astronomy homework—that she worked on just earlier in the morning at the brink of dawn, trying to study Pluto and Venus and the different hypothetical ways that these planets would affect her this month but it wasn't clear as to how

and maybe she didn't have to worry at all because they were probably just sitting on one of the desk in the Potion's classroom—

Abruptly she sat up, and grabbed her wand, setting off down the staircase where she stopped halfway through the door-frame and gawked. Her mouth wide, and her eyes blinking at a ferociously fast pace because a part of her couldn't believe what she was seeing.

The person standing in the doorway, now, had her freckled hands behind her back; and her red hair was in a very messy, very high ponytail, falling just pass her shoulders. She was wearing a woolly black sweater that was much too large—and Hermione's heart leaps out of her chest, and she could feel the edge of her wooden bed-frame dig into the back of her knees—because she knew who's that belonged to and wondered if he was here as well.

But she couldn't understand why—why, why, why—why it had seemed like she was seeing a ghost. But the girl was staring at Hermione like she had seen something she didn't want to see. That it was the exact confirmation that she needed to see, needed to know, for her to come back. Hermione didn't fucking get it.

So the girl with the frail brown curly mess stood straight up; flattened her white sweater and cleared her voice. "I was wondering when you would come back." Then she decided that she would take a step forward—and another, another, and another before she passed Ginny Weasley entirely—just stopping at the door to the stairs. Hermione glared at the stone staircase, "I guess an owl was too much."

"Hermione—"

"I'm sorry, but as much as I would like to stay and chat, I have work to do. So I'll be at the library if you need me." Her eyes followed the path of the staircase, but she needed to say something more, "I'm sure Lavender has much to say. She'll catch you up on all the work you've missed."

Hermione prayed that her feet would move—left, right, left, right—but if felt like she was pulling them from wet cement. But they did. They moved, slowly and heavily, and she wanted to cry.

In the end, she doesn't go to the library. She goes outside; and the October wind hits her and it is sickly warm and chilled, and it smells of drying leaves and shredded grass. She realizes that she is crying, and she is trying to wipe them away as quickly as she possibly can. The tears are chilling her skin, and her cheeks feel like ice against her bare fingers. But alas, it is no use, though. She can't stop, and she feels like nothing will ever make her stop. It is a stab at her character, because she had always been strong, and right now she feels not so strong. She understands that something inside her—something dark, and unavoidable, and lingering—is making her feel this way.

She should feel happy and elated that Ginny is back in her life, and that—maybe—Harry had come back to. Hermione had a right to be angry, right? She wondered if she blew it out of proportion, and maybe she was physically, and emotionally unstable—and not ready to come back to real civilization where communication was key.

She didn't know if the words would come out right, or if she could explain the things she was feeling well enough for the person to understand; because she doesn't understand it herself, and she wants this imaginary weight to lift off her chest—because she isn't coping.

"A sickle for your thoughts?"

A scratchy laugh escapes her lips, and she realizes who this person is that is handing her a handkerchief. She even wipes her eyes with the meatiest part of her palm, and laughs again—and it scratchy and crackles because her throat is sore and dry. But the handkerchief—It is beautifully embroidered with green and gold, and dashing font that reads, "MALFOY" and she can't help but wonder why they keep bumping into each other; but feels like it's Pluto and Venus fault—because it doesn't make sense.

"A sickle would be much too less," She tells him as he sits down beside her by the big beautiful Willow tree that is down by the Black Lake.

He sets the handkerchief down in the grass in the space between the two of them. "I thought you would be going down to Hogsmeade by now."

"I had a mishap," She tells him, and she tilts her head up the slightest to look at him—and it somehow startles him because his eyes land on her lips that are rosy pink from the crisp wind and swollen from biting on them to stop noisy sobs from coming out—"I was going to go, though."

"You still have time," He informs her, and she laughs again—and he can tell it's fake, because it sounds brittle and forced and she knows that. "Why don't we go together?"

"I'm sure Pansy would love that." Hermione says, and brushes her hands against her thighs, looking away from him. "I don't want to get on anyone's bad side while I live out the rest of the school year."

Draco laughs, and it's like a song to her ears—and her chest flutters and lightens and she wonders how he did that—"Pansy has got the flu. I thought it would be nice of me to get her some treats. You do remember what those are, right?"

"—of course—"

"Perhaps it will be my best interest to go and buy you some."

"—you don't have to do that—"

"It's funny, you know," He stands up, and runs his hand through his hair, and it is tousled like he had just gotten out of bed or from a windy day in the Quidditch pitch—"How it's just comfortable talking with you. I don't even know how that is possible, because I never thought I would be on a first name basis, or even dare talk to a mudbl—"

"I will go if you just shut up!"

"Remind me again not to bother you, when you're in a bad mood." He reminds her, and picks up her bag for her and hesitantly bends down and reaches out his hand for her to take—

"Hermione?!" The voice sounds soft, and apologetic, and something she doesn't register as sincere because how dare she talk to her, like they had kept in contact since the funeral—how dare she look at her like that, when she doesn't even know what she is going through—

"Ginny," Hermione replies, flat, and harsh, and Draco shoots her a look—and Hermione wonders why he does that in the first place. But she realizes that he may be looking out for her benefit—no, she was looking way too much into this.

Ginny was lighthearted, and serious, and she knew how to laugh, because that is what she did—"Is there a reason you're hanging around bad company?"

Draco Malfoy instinctively opened his mouth, "She-Weasel, it's always a pleasure. Where's Petty Potter, I need to have a chat with him."

"Hagrid's, actually." Ginny replies, and flicks her ponytail to the side and combs through it with her hands. She is glaring at Draco, and Hermione doesn't understand—

"When did Hagrid come back?" She asks urgently, and her hands are shaking, and she watches both companies' eyes land on her hands, and back up to her face. She tries her best to ignore them, but she feels self-conscious, because she knows she looks like a mess—a disaster—but these things weren't news to her; and she wanted answers from someone who knows them. "When did you come back?"

"—Hermione—" Ginny begins, but she is cut off with the roundabout questions Hermione is going through in her head.

"I know you were with Harry." Hermione says, "Where is he? Is he at Hogwarts as well?"

"—Hermione, I don't understand—"

"Where was Hagrid?" Hermione asks, and she is troubled—and for some reason, she looks at Draco Malfoy who is walking away now, her bag that was resting on his shoulder was placed on the ground beside the tree, with the handkerchief—"I suppose you couldn't have wrote this in a letter? Keep me updated so I knew when to expect your arrival?"

"What was Malfoy doing sitting beside you?" She interjects loudly, and her hands are on her hips—and she switches her weight from her right to her left; she brushes her tongue against her lips.

"What is that supposed to mean? Is that really your biggest concern?" Hermione asks, and she crosses her arms, and for some reason—for some stupid reason—she wants to wipe that stupid grimace off of Ginny's face. "Draco was making me—he was…, Draco Malfoy…"

Then she shut up, closing her mouth in defeat. None of this made sense. It didn't make sense that Draco Malfoy—of all people—was being kind to her. He disliked mudbloods, he has the Dark Mark embedded on his left forearm—and if she explained everything that he had been lately—he had been something towards her—it wouldn't make sense. It would hardly be believable, anyhow.

"Listen, Hermione," Ginny begins to berate her, "Just because Harry and I had gone off, doesn't mean you should be hanging around the wrong lot. He is dangerous, Hermione. I don't need to tell you that do I? You should know better than that, right? You should know that it was Draco Malfoy's fault that—"

"Harry and I," Hermione repeats Ginny words, "Harry and I. Do you know how selfish you are being right now? Do you?! You guys' just left when things got tough, and you couldn't handle it. You left, and the both of you left—me—behind. So before you start giving me a lecture, let me remind you, who it was that stayed and endured and couldn't quite get the memory of Ron dying —who couldn't quite get the look of Harry's face when I told him I was coming back, out of my mind—who couldn't quite understand why you guys had left, and didn't come back, and never sent a letter to tell her that you were alright—"

"Hermione," It's a totally different voice now, and he has his hand on Ginny's shoulder, and anger is spilling out at the seams—it is ripping her nice white cotton sweater, and it ripping, and tearing it to shreds, and the October winds are warm and it burning like lava, and it flourishes and blossoms like a blood red rose, and she pulls out her wand, and he watches and she is still—

—so fucking still like the lake at nights or the threstals in the early morning while they're asleep; and she drops it on the ground, she drops it and she says the only words that are filling her lungs even though she keeps swallowing the acrid taste down.

"I hate you," She mutters, and it is loud, and she doesn't understand why Lavander Brown has gasped so loudly, or why Dean and Seamus are looking at her like they've just seen someone get murdered. She doesn't understand why those words felt so good—and how she didn't want anything to do with these two people, like they didn't want anything to do with her that remotely reminded her of Ron. "I hate you for leaving me behind. I hate you for not sending letters. I hate you for not understanding how it feels right now. I hate you for berating me because Draco, of all people, has been kind to me." She takes a deep breath, and the tears that have welled in her eyes are burning – and it feels like she has just poured rubbing alcohol onto them. "I hate you for not telling me it was okay to not be okay."

"I get it…, Hermione. I get it." Harry tells her, and she watches him pick up her wand. She doesn't remember ever dropping it in the first place. "But this isn't you. This person, it isn't you." He wraps his hand around hers, and places her wand firmly back in her hands—and the magic, it flows through her body. It is passionate, and aggressive, and it is reminding her of how much better she is at magic than anyone—how much smarter she is—how much capable she is of being on her own. "I understand you're upset. But please, don't shut us out."

"Let me understand this…, I'm not allowed to shut you out? But when you do, it's all fine and dandy, and when you come back—oh, because you always come back, and this time, you just come strolling in here thinking everything is fucking perfect—you except to see me…, what is it exactly? Happy? Grounded? Relieved that I've written down all of the potion notes down? You're a hypocrite, Harry." She pulls her hand away from his, and picks up her bag and tucks Draco's handkerchief in one of the pockets. "If this is friendship, I want no part in this relationship anymore."

"Hermione…," Ginny whispers, when she reaches out to grab Hermione's wrist, and her cheeks are red and she may have started crying—but Hermione didn't care about the things she said, and that it felt good to say those things, to finally let something out.

"I know who Draco is, Ginny." Hermione says, and she sounds so sure, and she is staring at the girl who isn't even daring to look at her. "I know who he was, as well."