Hermione was going mad.
There was no other explanation for it.
Perhaps the stress of it all had been too much, perhaps trying to return to normality after the war had finally pushed her over the edge.
The returning "8th" years, herself included, were a decimated version of what they had once been. Hogwarts was a decimated version of what it had once been. Sure, the stone walls looked practically the same, and the grounds had been fixed up not long after the conclusion of the war; everything looked right, but it was all wrong.
Albus Dumbledore was dead. A third of the students, were also dead. The remaining few had had an extensive candle-lit vigil for them on the black pond, after which Hermione had thrown up. But even that hadn't been her breaking point.
It had only been until after the term started, when things began to pick up at a regular pace, that it became too much for her to handle.
And what was very unexpectedly at the center of all this, was Draco Malfoy.
Malfoy's death, unlike all the other staff and students who had perished in the war, had been deemed a suicide.
After the battle, Narcissa Malfoy, the only remaining Malfoy, had been questioned under the use of veritaserum, like the rest of Voldemort's supporters. She was one of the only ones who had been cleared of all charges, solely because she helped Harry. A few weeks after the trial though, and she had died from an irreversible curse that hit her in the fight. But not before admitting, teary eyed and sorrowful during her very public interrogation, that her son had killed himself.
When the news first broke, a team of Aurors searched for days on end for the body, but eventually when no trace of it was found, it was deemed to have been destroyed in the battle. Narcissa never explicitly said how he had done it, and not long after the initial shock died down, people began to talk; to speculate.
It started with little jokes, here and there, mostly made by the Gryffindor's. Hermione supposed it was a crude way of coping.
Sitting in the great hall with a book tucked in her lap, she would overhear things like:
"Always knew he was a prat, figures he's the only one who couldn't stick it out."
or
"Thought his ego was too big for that, guess being a war criminal takes you down a few pegs."
And it got worse, eventually even catching on with the Slytherins too. Hermione distinctly remembered passing by Theodore Nott on the way to her charms class, and catching a fragment of his conversation:
"What a fucking coward. Bastard couldn't hold off for more than a week without his mummy and daddy there to wipe his arse for him."
When Hermione heard this she had gone rigid in the middle of the hallway, before turning and stomping after him.
"What did you just say?!" She had demanded.
Nott's eyes had gone wide, taken aback by the unexpected intrusion.
"Excuse me?"
Hermione remembered vaguely balling up her fists, and glaring at the wizard. Then with a strained ferocity she had practically yelled:
"He's dead alright? Can't you just leave it be!" Before storming away.
She had to skip the first ten minutes of her lesson to wipe the tears from her eyes, crumpled over in the safety of the girls bathroom.
At the time, she hadn't really considered the effect her little scene would have, but by the end of the day, people were already including her in their private whispers, and she realized too late that she had made her feelings obvious. Not that she cared, but still, it further aggravated her that her show of basic human decency was being taken for- what had Bulstrode called it? Oh right, 'a creepy infatuation'.
It shouldn't have bothered her as much as it did. But in his death, she had to admit that she had grown oddly defensive over Malfoy. And it probably had something to do with the fact that Hermione's last memory of him was in that dreaded manor, meeting his eyes while writhing on the ground.
And God, the look in them...
She had known so much just from that one look, and it haunted her, every night in her dreams. She couldn't see him as a monster, or even as a coward. All she saw were the horror-struck eyes of a boy she had known from since the age of 11, silently pleading for her to live.
And that was the last she had seen of him, before he died. She hadn't so much as caught a glimpse of him during the battle, though she heard several different versions of where he was and what he was doing, all which became more fantastical and ludicrous than the last.
She doubted greatly that he had fed himself to one of Voldemort's dragons; she hadn't even seen any dragons, but nonetheless it was a popular rendition of what happened.
And all of them boiled her blood. Had they no respect for the dead? And why was it, that of all the horrible people who died in the war, Draco Malfoy had been chosen as the school's scapegoat?
She supposed it was because he was familiar. He was someone they had all known since childhood, he was the one that got Hogwarts invaded, and he was the only one-
The only one who hadn't died honorably. The only one that hadn't been able to "stick it out" as one of the Gryffindor boys had put it.
In a lot of ways it made sense that the vast majority of students latched onto his death as a way of coping with it all. They never spoke ill of the other students who had died; in fact, they spoke about them a great deal less than they did Malfoy, and Hermione realized early on that their anger was a bandaid over the gaping wound they had collectively experienced.
However, she seemed the only one able to realize this, which was ironic, because Draco Malfoy had terrorized her more than anyone else before the war.
But it just wasn't fair. It wasn't right.
How could no one else see that?
She couldn't even talk to Harry, or Ron about it, not because she thought they wouldn't understand, but because they weren't there.
Both Harry and Ginny had immediately entered Auror training after the war, and though they sent Hermione weekly letters, they were regimented to a very strict program, and weren't readily accessible for any sort of heart to heart.
And then there was Ron.
Ron was not doing well after the death of Fred.
None of the Weasleys were, really. Bill and Ginny were the only ones to stay behind when they all went to Egypt for the second time as a family, to remember a moment in their lives when they had been happy, and together.
So the Weasleys were taking a much needed vacation, most likely until the end of the year, and Hermione-
Hermione was completely alone.
She still talked to Luna and Neville of course, but those two were very seriously involved now, and as much as they went out of their way to include her, she couldn't help but feel it was slightly out of pity. And without the support of Ron, Harry, and also Ginny (who had at this point become equally as important to her), Hermione was rather pitiful. It was obvious in the way people talked to her that this is what they saw too, approaching her with thinly veiled concern in their eyes and a soft voice, as if she was immensely fragile.
This frustrated her to no end. Sure she was having a difficult time, but so was everybody else for christ's sake. What was so different about her that made them act like she was weak, like she was unstable? She wasn't. She was just a little, fragmented, that was all. But wasn't everyone after the war?
At least, that's what she had thought. But now, everything she believed to be true had been tossed to the wind, and for the first time in her life, Hermione was questioning her own sanity.
Because there was no sane or logical reason, for her to be hallucinating Draco Malfoy back into her life. Yet this is exactly what happened, late one October night, when she accidentally fell asleep in the library.
.
.
She woke at around midnight, her palms cold and sweaty, and her neck stiff from the odd angle it had come to rest in while she dozed off on the little window seat.
When she opened her eyes she saw that the moon was shining down on her with an eery, gloomy light, and for a second she felt a sense of anxiety jolt through her, unsure of her surroundings.
She blinked and rubbed the soreness from her neck before looking around, and realizing slowly what had happened. With a heavy sigh she lifted herself up, and groggily fumbled for the books that were still splayed around her, already dreading her journey back.
She hated walking in the hallways alone.
After the war, the empty, dark corridors had been forever changed in her eyes. Walking down their endless passageways at night was the only time in which she felt like Hogwarts hadn't actually been restored, like it was still just the battle grounds of that bloody war; the silence somehow a reminder of when it had been in utter chaos.
Once she left the library, she practically jogged her way through the halls as that bitter feeling settled to the pit of her stomach, her throat clenching as she tried to fight the temptation to glance behind her, to see if someone was following. She knew that if she did her anxiety would peak, even if she saw no one, and it would feel as if she were being chased, though she was perfectly alone.
She nearly cried when she made it back to the Gryffindor tower, cursing herself for not retiring earlier in the night. With a low whisper she uttered the password and crept through the common room, making her way to her dorm.
Once inside she tried her best not to wake Pavarti as she silently shuffled to her bed, placing her book bag at the end of the twin frame, and shrugging off her robes.
Parvarti shifted and Hermione went still, then after confirming the other witch was still asleep, continued to fish a pair of pajamas out of her trunk, doing so as silently as possible.
Her roommate had gotten very angry at her for coming and going in the late hours of the night. And Hermione couldn't blame her. Honestly, she was grateful Parvarti had been so forgiving of all the strange living habits she had adapted after the war. Hermione had never been the most organized person, even beforehand, but now that she felt constantly unmotivated and frazzled, things had taken a sharp turn for the worse.
Books, spilled ink, and torn parchment, broken feathers from quills she snapped in anger, a dirty potions pot in the middle of the floor with ingredients scattered in little glass bottles, even a couple of animal skulls she had meant to grind up were all strewn about the place.
It looked like the storage closet for the defense against the dark arts class. And comically juxtaposing this was the perfectly straight line that separated Parvarti's side of the room from her own; only a couple articles of clothes away from being pristine.
Honestly, it amazed her that Parvarti hadn't requested a new roommate right off the bat. But here she still was, and somehow she only complained about being woken in the night, bless her heart.
Hermione tiptoed back to her bed, trying her best to avoid stepping on anything that could break or cause a sound if she disturbed it, before lifting the covers, and pushing aside the many papers that lay on top of it as she did.
Her bed was flush against the wall, right next to a wide window that let Hermione look out onto the dark, shimmering pond. Most nights she found it to be a comfort, but tonight the wind howled and moaned, and the moonlight flooded everything with a cold, ominous glow. She shuttered as she reached for the heavy maroon curtains, knowing she would get very little sleep with such a strong light flooding into her room.
But as she took hold of the course fabric, about to banish the sight, something caught her eye from outside the window.
She went completely still, a terrible, nervous sweat rising up and prickling violently at the back of her neck.
She couldn't cope with what she thought she was seeing.
A tall figure loomed far below her window, staring up at her from the edge of the glistening lake. The shock of blonde hair and the lean, pale face, though she couldn't make it out completely, were horrifically familiar.
And even though she shouldn't have been sure, she was.
That was Draco Malfoy.
Draco, who was dead.
She began to hyperventilate as the image refused to dematerialize, the standing figure like a statue lit up in the night.
She wrenched her eyes shut and shook her head violently, her hands rattling the curtains.
"No, no, no, no, it's not real, its not real."
She didn't realize it but heavy tears were sliding down her face, falling with soft thuds on the bedsheet. After a moment she forced herself to look again, still trembling, and released a little sob of relief when she saw nothing, just the empty, gloomy grounds.
She dropped the curtains and let her head fall over her lap, placing a hand on her rapidly beating heart, trying to quell the panic attack.
"Not real, its not real." She repeated to herself in a low, shaky breath.
Her whole body was racked with nerves.
Merlin, what was happening to her? She covered her mouth with one hand, trying to muffle her sobs. She was loosing it. Truly loosing it.
She sat there, silently convulsing, trying to regain control over her mind, when something else terrible happened.
A coldness wafted in to the air and her heart suddenly stopped, that prickling feeling working its way back up her spine in an anxious wave, and the cool sweat returning to her brow once more.
Instinctively she turned her head to the far corner of her room, though she couldn't say how she knew to, and that's when she saw him; in full, disturbing clarity.
His face was so pale it was almost translucent, accented with stains of purplish blue that clung to the corners of his eyes and lips. His body seemed immensely tall in the little corner of her room, yet gaunt, and cloaked in shadow. All of it made for a shockingly horrific sight.
And he was staring at her, with those eyes she remembered so well, but something in his face seemed off, like he was deeply confused.
She felt her own eyes go wide as she took him in, and as she began to shake furiously, he sucked in a sharp breath, took a step towards her and reached out, parting his lips as if he were about to speak.
Hermione let out a shrill and piercing scream, lifting her wand and firing nameless spells at him.
In an instant, Parvarti was roused and the light was on, but Hermione couldn't stop screaming, especially when her curses went straight through Malfoy and began to bound across the room. Parvarti had withdrawn her own wand and was blocking the wayward spells, frantically running to Hermione and yelling:
"What is it?! What happened?! What's going on?!"
Hermione continued to scream, her throat going raw as she pointed at him, unable to answer because he was advancing towards her, now in a frantic state of his own, his refined, blue lips parting as he spoke:
"You can see me?! Fuck, Granger, you can see me?!"
She hurled another curse at him, backing away, her cries becoming hoarse and strained.
Parvarti was glancing frantically back and forth between Hermione and the empty space she was pointing to, trying to wrench the witches arm down and stop her from cursing them both in her manic state.
Through the tempest of her shouts, Hermione managed to utter: "Go away!" in a lilting sob, but Malfoy was still there.
A second later professors were rushing into the room, McGonagall leading the helm with her wand out, still in her sleep-ware.
Hermione was unresponsive to their presence, half restrained by Parvarti, but continuing to scream, her eyes locked onto Malfoy's as he raised his hands in defense, still stepping towards her.
"Calm down! Calm down ok? You need to stop, they can't see me, they'll think you've gone mad!"
She continued to shriek, her eyes bulging.
A shrill voice sounded out from somewhere behind her:
"Miss Granger? Miss Granger? Oh for heavens sake, Miss Patil, come here at once!"
Malfoy looked panicked: "Please! Please! You need to stop now!"
Something hot and dull struck her from her side, and she went still, then collapsed.
.
.
When she woke, she was in the hospital ward, with a cool wet cloth pressed to her forehead. At first, she wasn't sure why she was there. She was barely in any pain, except for her throat, which felt immensely sore, and her head, which was pounding slightly.
She took the cloth off of her face and sat up, wincing a little as her skull throbbed.
Less than a second later and Madame Pomfrey was at her side.
"Careful dear, you'll have to go slow."
The older witch smiled kindly at her, and placed a gentle hand on her shoulder, leading her upper body back down to the pillows.
"What- what happened?" Her voice came out like gravel, and immediately her hand shot to her throat.
Without looking Pomfrey flicked her wand and summoned two vials from the little silver trey that stood at the end of Hermione's cot.
"Take these first. The blue one is for the pain, and the orange will help with your memory."
Hermione extended a weak hand and took the little blue one out of the air, downing it in one shot and crinkling her nose at the foul taste.
When she reached for the second one, she noticed a flicker of anxiety pass over Poppy's face, and she almost hesitated before tipping the orange liquid down her throat.
The instant the potion past through her lips, she shot up again, her mind flooded with alarming memories.
"Oh my God, I-I..." Her eyes were wide, and she was pulling the blanket off herself, trying to stand up, though she didn't know why.
Then, Pomfrey was forcing her back down again.
"Miss Granger please, you must rest. I'll call for Professor McGonagall in just a second and we'll all sort out what happened, but for the moment you need to rest."
She shakily lowered herself back down, her eyes darting.
"I saw him, I saw him Poppy, he was there."
She knew she was frantic and not making any sense, but she could barely organize her own thoughts before they bubbled out.
Madame Pomfrey looked alarmed, and put her hand back on Hermione's shoulder, saying in a concerned yet decidedly calm voice:
"Who dear, who was there?"
She cleared her throat.
"Draco Malfoy."
Madame Pomfrey blinked once.
"What?"
"Malfoy, he was in my room, thats why I was screaming and throwing hexes, I- I was trying to curse him."
She felt a blush rise to her face as she realized the irony of her own actions. For the past couple months she was probably the only student who hadn't made a point of blindly hating Malfoy, yet she hadn't hesitated in trying to hex him the second she had seen-
Suddenly, a new sense of panic swarmed in her chest.
She had seen him, but apparently they hadn't, if Madame Pomfrey's confusion was anything to go by.
Her head gave another slight throb despite the healing draught.
"You, you didn't see him there? When you came in?"
She looked at her with obvious concern, and her lips parted in silence before she spoke.
"I think it would be best if I get the headmistress now."
She turned away from Hermione, whose mind was racing, and cast her patronus; a fluttering little finch. She heard her say in a low voice:
"Tell Minerva that Miss Granger has woken up, and that she is needed in the hospital ward immediately."
The bird swiftly turned in response, flying out from the room in a streak of silver and blue.
Madame Pomfrey then went about refreshing the little strip of cotton that she had shoved off to the side, not meeting her eyes in the brief moment that past while they waited.
Hermione swallowed.
She knew that whatever this meant, it wasn't a good sign.
A minute or so later, and McGonagall was stepping hurriedly through the hospital doors, her eyes intensely concentrated as they landed on her little cot.
She came to the bedside, and peered down, folding her hands as she addressed her.
"Miss Granger, I'm glad to see you're alright. You gave us a bit of a scare."
Hermione nodded, all of her nerves rising to catch in her throat.
"Yes, and I'm so sorry about that professor, but I had quite the shock myself."
McGonagall glanced at Pomfrey, who met her gaze with a knowing look, and she felt the weight in her chest sink a little lower.
"I was hoping we could discuss the reason for that." Said McGonagall. Then her eyes softened, and her voice came out at a low, easy pace, as if she was trying very hard not to startle the young witch.
"What was it that scared you child?"
Hermione tried to fight the prickle of tears that rushed to her eyes. Ever since she had wiped her mother's memory, any maternal figure who spoke to her with tenderness made her slightly emotional.
She attempted to steel herself. She would have to be resolute if they were going to take her seriously.
Even so, the words tumbled over themselves as they left her mouth.
"I, I think-"
She closed her eyes and took a breath, then forced it out.
"I think I saw Draco Malfoy. Actually, I know I did."
McGonagall's eyes went wide with concern, just as Poppy's had, and Hermione felt her face turn red, barreling on before the witch could decide that she was simply out of her mind.
"He spoke to me professor. At first I thought he was a ghost but, he, he didn't really look like one. I mean, he wasn't remotely transparent, he looked whole, maybe a little beat up, but,-"
She struggled to find the right word. He hadn't exactly looked alive, but there had something most definitely tangible about his presence.
She shook her head in an attempt to clear it.
"I know you came into the room, so I'm not sure why you didn't see him, but believe me he was there."
McGonagall had gone still ever since Hermione started to speak, but at this the headmistress released a little sigh, and shook her head.
"No, Miss Granger, I didn't see him."
Hermione's lip trembled.
"But, I-"
McGonagall held up a thin hand, motioning for her to stop. She fell silent.
"It wasn't a ghost Hermione."
Then she laid that same hand across her forehead, checking for warmth in a brief show of affection that made her heart swell.
"This- this isn't unusual dear."
Hermione's eyes flashed to Madame Pomfrey, who had taken to spiffing up the room, awkwardly avoiding looking at either of them.
McGonagall began to speak again, and she quickly averted her attentions back to the headmistress.
"I've noticed that since the Malfoy boy's death, you've developed a certain, compassion for him."
She opened her mouth to refute, but Mcgonagul held up that hand again, and so she went quiet.
"What I'm saying, Hermione, is that its not unheard of for witches and wizards to imagine they've seen a loved one whose passed. The magical mind is a very powerful thing, and-"
At this she couldn't stop herself, and she cut the older woman off.
"It wasn't a hallucination Professor, I know what I saw, he was real."
And somehow, though she had only just confirmed this with herself, she knew it to be true. No hallucination could have been that vivid, that detailed, could have induced such a definite physical reaction from her. She shuddered as she remembered that ominous cold again, biting at the back of her neck.
From the look on Mcgongul's face however, she was more worried than convinced.
"I know it must seem that way, but quite simply, ghosts and spectres don't appear for only one person. I'm sorry but there is no other explanation for what you've experienced."
Hermione shook her head defiantly, but remained silent as the headmistress continued:
"It's quite possible that this was induced by stress, so I've excused you from classes for the rest of the week, and I also think it would be best if you stayed here tonight. Poppy has concocted several calming draughts for you to take, which I believe should help a decent amount."
Then she stepped away from Hermione's cot, and gave a sharp nod to Pomfrey, who briefly left the room before returning a moment later with several purple vials floating before her.
The headmistress turned back to the bed, her features molded into that look of soft pity which Hermione was starting to hate so much.
"I think these should be enough to stop any-"
She paused, searched for the correct phrase, then continued:
- repeated performances, but please tell us if anything like this happens again, so that we can monitor it."
She began to turn away, then stopped, and said a little awkwardly:
"I am sorry Miss Granger. I wish there was something more I could say to ease your mind. But things like this take time to heal. We'll just have to watch and wait. In the mean time, rest assured we will do everything we can possibly do to help."
With that she gave Hermione a tight lipped smile, and after speaking a few muffled words to Poppy that Hermione couldn't bring herself to focus on, she was alone again.
.
.
Calming her arse.
There was nothing calm about Hermione's state of mind, even with the potion running through her veins.
She had realized, the moment the two witches had left, what a terrible situation she was in.
Clearly, no one was going to believe her. It was as if they had all been expecting this, expecting her to snap at some point. And if she had to guess from the way McGonagall and Pomfrey had spoken to her, this incident was all the confirmation they needed to assume she was not mentally well.
And maybe she wasn't. Sitting there with nothing to do except for overthink and worry herself into a state of panic, alone in the now dark and quiet hospital wing, Hermione had well and truly begun to question herself.
Perhaps they were right. Perhaps she was going mad.
But he had looked so real, and she just couldn't shake the feeling that there was something more to it.
The fact that she had been unceremoniously removed from her studies didn't help. She wouldn't have a single distraction from retracing the image of his dark frame, looming in her bedroom, and his pale face, struck with shock and confusion, advancing towards her.
She felt herself shiver involuntarily as the memory replayed itself again.
Could it really be all in her head? Could she have manifested his image, as McGonagall had suggested, because of her recent attachment to him?
The headmistress' words echoed in her mind once more: "Its not unheard of for witches and wizards to imagine they've seen a loved one whose passed."
A loved one. That was the term she had used.
Admittedly, Hermione had become a little obsessive over the past couple of months, thinking of Malfoy's death nearly every day. But, regarding him as someone she had loved? That seemed a bit much.
Besides, it wasn't her fault. The other students spoke of him constantly, keeping his death a relevant and ever imposing fixture in her mind.
And quite simply, it seemed an excessive reaction, to actually hallucinate that he was there, even for someone as traumatized as herself.
It didn't make sense, which Hermione hated.
Especially because she couldn't do what she so desperately wanted to do; run to the library and collect as much information as possible. She wanted to know as much as she could, even if she never saw him again.
At this thought, a sharp pain shot through her chest, and Hermione felt tears rising to her eyes for what felt like the millionth time that day.
She was very confused. Surely she didn't want to see him again, and yet there was an undeniable sense of guilt that engulfed her every-time she thought about how she had reacted.
Which was silly. She doubted that her own hallucination, if thats what it was, could have been offended by her actions. But then, this thought quickly led her to also consider what it be like if she did see him again.
And this made her shudder.
She couldn't report it if she did. She knew that much. If there was in fact a logical reason as to why she saw him, then she would have to discover it on her own. Unfortunately, she was sure that the more she enforced the idea that she was hallucinating, the more McGonagall would become concerned for her well being, which could eventually mean that she wouldn't be allowed to leave the hospital ward.
But Merlin, how would she be able to cope if she did? How was she even coping now? It was all nearly too much, knowing that no one believed her, that she barely believed herself. She wanted desperately to write a letter to Harry and Ginny, to Ron, but she had no parchment and no quill.
And even if she did, what would it accomplish except for scaring them needlessly?
She would have to mention it eventually, she could never hide something that significant from her friends.
But, as she considered it, a terribly nervous thought spoke out quietly in her head.
What if they thought she was going mad too? What if they didn't believe her, just like Pomfrey and McGonagall? She couldn't blame them if they didn't. But at the same time, she couldn't handle the idea of them looking at her, speaking to her, with that same concern; like she wasn't even herself, just a broken thing they had to tiptoe around in order to prevent further shattering.
That would be too much. That would push her over the edge, if she hadn't already reached it.
But, she couldn't lie. So, she decided with a knot of worry aching in the pit of her stomach, that she would tell them. But she would take her time, draft several letters, and find a way to soften the blow, to make it seem as if it weren't really a big deal at all, like she wasn't actively losing her mind.
She imagined several versions of the letters she would write, first the one to Ginny, which she thought would be the easiest. Ginny was a wonderful friend, but she was incredibly stoic, and Hermione knew that she would never push for more information from her, only accept what was given. She wouldn't pry, and she wouldn't assume.
Harry, not so much. Harry's concern would undoubtedly have him searching for answers, and asking questions, worrying himself needlessly over Hermione's mental state. He would be a bit harder to convince.
Then, there was Ron. Hermione knew that one would be the most difficult. Ronald was already having a hard time, and was just now recovering from the tragedy of the war. She considered briefly not even telling him, believing it may be too much of a burden. But she didn't want to leave him in the dark if she was going to tell her other two friends. She would have to write to him as well, and take extra precautions with her wording as to not alarm him. And that would not be an easy task.
Her eyes slowly drooped shut as she rehearsed them again and again her head, starting in that order, and then restarting again.
And by some miracle, it was nearly enough to distract her into falling asleep.
Nearly.
Just as her thoughts had begun to slip into the realm of dreams, Harry, Ginny, and Ron's faces floating across her eyes, she woke with a startled breath, and noticed the little tuft of fog that left her mouth as she did.
She wrapped her arms around herself, trying to fight the otherworldly cold that had somehow crept in.
Then, she slowly raised her head, her heart stilling in her chest just as it had before, and she saw him again.
Floating, yes floating over her bed, with wide, curious eyes.
She sucked in a horrified breath, and he loomed his face down to meet hers, his hands poised in the air, as if to buffer her.
"Shhh, shh"
Then in a hurried, desperate voice, as clear as her own:
"Please, please don't scream again."
.
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Hi guys! Thanks for reading this first chapter. I'm really enjoying writing my other fic, What Remains Hidden, but sometimes it just gets so heavy that I want to write something a bit more fun on the side, and I'm hoping this story will be that.
For those of you lovely people who are reading WRH, I'm sorry for missing last weeks update. I've just finished all my finals for school, so hopefully I can make up for it by posting a bit more than usual this week.
Anyways, let me know how you feel about this one. I'm quite excited for it.
- Triliark