Hermione Malfoy lay curled in a ball under the once shared duvet. Her pillow was wet, and her cheeks puffy after a night's tears. Her husband had left long ago. Where to, she was clueless. Perhaps another escapade to his widowed mother's vast estate, a retreat he often indulged in when, as he so eloquently put it, "he couldn't bear to look at her another moment."
A pang tore at Hermione's heartstrings as she pulled the icy covers closer. No matter how long she lay in them, they always seemed cold these days. She mourned the life she once had, the friends she held dear. If only she knew then what giving them up would cost her now. She feared even thinking poorly of the man she had wed once leaving Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.
Pulling herself out from beneath the heavy duvet, the once prized pupil made her way into the master bathroom. The two sinks and vast countertop were once littered with an array of shared and personal items. Where his toothbrush once sat, an empty cup remained. Draco Malfoy had taken up residence in a separate room of the manor, a manor far too big for two, and yet still not big enough to forget his presence.
Hermione Granger was tired.
As she gazed upon her sallow reflection in the dimly lit looking glass, she tried to remember who she once was: late nights at Hogwarts giggling with Ginny into the crisp early mornings, lunch in the great hall with her close friends Ron and Harry, the Yule Ball, and how radiant she had felt as she stared at her flushed, excited reflection before making her way down the stairs on that fateful night.
How jarring her appearance seemed now in comparison.
She could hardly remember the events leading up to the moment now that so many years had passed, but eventually, the prodigious Draco Malfoy found her in a corridor, alone and crying whilst their classmates and visitors enjoyed the festivities. She could almost swear it had had something to do with Ronald Weasly, and yet trying to remember was like squinting through gauze, so much so that she couldn't be sure.
"Granger?" The blond Slytherin had scoffed, an edge to his voice as he neared, stopping an arm's length from where she sat against the cold bricks.
"Shove off, Malfoy." Her voice was shaking, reminiscent of the tears that threatened yet again to spill over her lashes. She turned away, aiming to conceal her puffy cheeks to no avail. Silence ensued.
After a moment she sniffled, stifled a whimper, and burst into tears yet again.
Draco said nothing, sliding down the wall beside Hermione's small form and placing an arm around her shoulders, pulling her close as her body wracked with pathetic sobs.
Minutes passed, and eventually, she fell silent. For a while, nothing could be heard but the sounds of their uneven breathing. Then,
"Please, Malfoy—I know you loath me, but please—speak of this to no one," she couldn't bring herself to look him in the eyes, choosing instead to remain in the unexpected safety of his arms-arms she'd never taken the time to consider up until that moment.
Hermione Malfoy leaned forward, her palms upon the cool granite countertops, wishing her former self had listened to the warnings with which her friends had chided her so many years ago.
"He's a Malfoy, 'Mione, he'd do anything to hurt you," Ginny had cried.
"That bloody blond bugger? You're looking for trouble," Ron had sneered.
"Hermione, under normal circumstances, I'd say you have the best judgment of us all, but not tonight." Harry had muttered before leaving her alone at the table where they had enjoyed chatting so many times before.
One by one, Hermione's friends slowly left her side. First Ron, seething with jealousy at the sight of Draco's hand on Hermione's waist one morning. Then Harry, as the tension between the Slytherin and himself grew only stronger (though Hermione couldn't bring herself to say that Harry hadn't tried). Finally, even Ginny slowly found herself mingling among other, more sensible, Gryffindor girls.
She could hear Draco's voice again, just as it was when he found her crying over the realization that even Ginny had left her behind.
"Hermione, my dear, forget them. I'm all you need."
She wished now more than ever that his words hadn't sounded so sweet, that she hadn't tasted the forbidden fruit that was his lies, hadn't become addicted to the flavor of his vile lips.
Her life had become a dwindling, insignificant existence. She lived, breathed, and thought of nothing but Draco Malfoy: what he would want for dinner, which awful thing had put him in a temper today, and how she would do her best to tiptoe around the subject of his anger without seeming too aloof, as that too had been known to frustrate him. He quickly turned from a man to a monster—if he ever was a man at all.