Self- Destruction
Chapter 3: Hermione
"If there's any possible way that my life could get any more screwed up, please God, I don't want to know about it."
Journals are interesting things, Hermione reflected as she penned the sentence. She shut the red leather-bound book and watched it vanish into thin air. Especially magic ones.
It was now officially too late for her to get any real sleep, so she resumed sitting in her window, with a blanket around her shoulders this time, and the snow-white kitten on her lap for company. "What do you think, Lily?" she asked it, scratching behind the soft furry ears. The animal had been a Christmas present from Harry, whom she'd delighted by naming it after his mother. The only response she got was a soft purr. More or less what she'd expected.
Staring out the window, she could see the light that still burned in Draco's window. Potions class was going to be hell tomorrow.
A soft rain had begun to fall. Hermione idly counted the drops as they slid down the windowpane and fought the urge to go out and get blind drunk. At the moment, it was the only way she could think of to deal with her mess...forgetfulness.
But she stayed where she was, and one by one she began to tackle the questions that flowed theough her mind, as numerous and entangled as the raindrops on her windowpane.
Is Draco telling the truth? Am I in love with Snape? Is he in love with me? Am I in love with Draco? If I had to choose between them, who would I choose? And the most insistent question of all: How did I let myself get into this mess?
She needed someone to talk to. Someone who could tell her what was right, because he always knew. But Harry was in London till April, conferring with the Ministry of Magic. She could send him an owl, but decided against it-- if he knew of her predicament, he would surely come to her right away, and she didn't want to take him away from his business. What a good friend Harry was. She was lucky there was at least one person in the world who didn't want to jump into bed with her. Besides Ron, of course--- Ron being undeniably and irrevocably gay--- but Ron would never understand. If anything, he'd be jealous---he'd always thought Snape was attractive.
So. She couldn't go to Ron, and she couldn't go to Harry. It went without saying that she couldn't go to Draco. That left...no one. Bed was looking more and more attractive to her, but the sky was already beginning to lighten, and besides...she didn't want to lay there again without first washing the sheets. Snape's smell lingered there even from the window where she sat.
That thought reminded her to cast an emergency contraceptive spell over her womb and this she did, quickly. Then, with a sigh, she got up and began to gather the dirty sheets, trying to ignore the scent that pervaded them-and herself. Next item on her agenda: a shower.
Chapter 3: Hermione
"If there's any possible way that my life could get any more screwed up, please God, I don't want to know about it."
Journals are interesting things, Hermione reflected as she penned the sentence. She shut the red leather-bound book and watched it vanish into thin air. Especially magic ones.
It was now officially too late for her to get any real sleep, so she resumed sitting in her window, with a blanket around her shoulders this time, and the snow-white kitten on her lap for company. "What do you think, Lily?" she asked it, scratching behind the soft furry ears. The animal had been a Christmas present from Harry, whom she'd delighted by naming it after his mother. The only response she got was a soft purr. More or less what she'd expected.
Staring out the window, she could see the light that still burned in Draco's window. Potions class was going to be hell tomorrow.
A soft rain had begun to fall. Hermione idly counted the drops as they slid down the windowpane and fought the urge to go out and get blind drunk. At the moment, it was the only way she could think of to deal with her mess...forgetfulness.
But she stayed where she was, and one by one she began to tackle the questions that flowed theough her mind, as numerous and entangled as the raindrops on her windowpane.
Is Draco telling the truth? Am I in love with Snape? Is he in love with me? Am I in love with Draco? If I had to choose between them, who would I choose? And the most insistent question of all: How did I let myself get into this mess?
She needed someone to talk to. Someone who could tell her what was right, because he always knew. But Harry was in London till April, conferring with the Ministry of Magic. She could send him an owl, but decided against it-- if he knew of her predicament, he would surely come to her right away, and she didn't want to take him away from his business. What a good friend Harry was. She was lucky there was at least one person in the world who didn't want to jump into bed with her. Besides Ron, of course--- Ron being undeniably and irrevocably gay--- but Ron would never understand. If anything, he'd be jealous---he'd always thought Snape was attractive.
So. She couldn't go to Ron, and she couldn't go to Harry. It went without saying that she couldn't go to Draco. That left...no one. Bed was looking more and more attractive to her, but the sky was already beginning to lighten, and besides...she didn't want to lay there again without first washing the sheets. Snape's smell lingered there even from the window where she sat.
That thought reminded her to cast an emergency contraceptive spell over her womb and this she did, quickly. Then, with a sigh, she got up and began to gather the dirty sheets, trying to ignore the scent that pervaded them-and herself. Next item on her agenda: a shower.