It was six weeks ago today that we kissed. Thinking about it makes me think it was a dream, but my body is sure that it wasn't; my soul is sure that it wasn't. If I'd told myself from three weeks ago that she and I would end up in bed together within a matter of a couple of days, I'd have laughed or walked away from present-day me and thought of what kind of lunatics Dumbledore was letting into Hogwarts these days.
It wasn't so much disgraceful or unheard of as it was...unlikely. I knew that we didn't think about each other extensively. We were never really enemies; only Potter and I had clashed minds, for lack of better explanation. I suppose I was never really that fond of Weasley, either; but Hermione... She was only on the receiving end of my remarks whenever she was in the way of my actual insult target. She was friends with Potter—she was on the radar. But not daily, not weekly, and not solely. I knew that I didn't constantly think of her, label her Mudblood, and think of horrible ways to ruin her life like she and probably many of her friends thought. I had a life; I didn't live for her, or for Potter, now that that's come up.
Even when I received the letter of being chosen for Head Boy this summer and was informed that Hermione Granger would be my counterpart in that sense, I didn't start thinking of evil ways to plot my revenge. It was hardly the worst thing that's happened to me; I was the son of a Deatheater. I had to deal with Crabbe and Goyle on a daily basis. I had to endure parental pressure to become the exact mold of someone my father could never be. Hermione was hardly a concern for me. My game plan for that scenario was the one and only avoidance tactic.
I hadn't planned on even talking to her. I'd said that she wasn't my object of hatred, but that didn't mean that I liked her. She was bossy, glared at me, compliments of a Potter-spun web of tales, and generally did her best to exude ferocity towards me and anyone in my House. That wasn't exactly an inviting factor to be buddies. So, I ignored her.
We had to share a common room, but we each had our own bathroom, so that extended to all that was common property; couches. And I could live without couches. It wasn't as if I purposely I avoided her. I wasn't scared of her, nor could I not handle whatever she dished out. On many occasions she pretended that I wasn't there as much as I pretended that she wasn't. But I knew that I worked better in solitude, especially void of people I'd rather not associate with. Again, neither of us were welcome to the other's company. It wasn't open hostility—just an air of uncomfortable atmosphere.
And it would've stayed that way if she hadn't burst through the portrait hole that freezing night with black tears running down her cheeks. I hadn't noticed that anything was even wrong until I realized that after the portrait hole swung closed, there was no movement from Hermione to go to her room. I looked to my right from the couch where I was reading. I saw that she had slid down the wall and placed her head in her hands, elbows on her knees, shoulders shaking and crying quietly.
I'd done my best to convince myself that she'd be fine and that it wasn't any of my business why she was crying. It could've been anything. I convinced myself that if I had been that upset, she probably would've just went to her room or called a professor to help me. Or something. Even if she had come over to me, I knew I wouldn't want her there any more than she'd want me here now.
But against my will I stood up.
I suppose it was the heart I'd suspected to inhabit my chest that reacted to Hermione's grieving stage. My mind was built with indifference and even more laziness. I really shouldn't have had a reason to stand up—except the soft sobs that reached my ears every few minutes. That was probably the guilt trip my heart chose to accept.
So I approached her. Her quaking form didn't cease to shake, and although my steps were hardly light-weight, I figured she didn't hear me coming. I bent down and furrowed my eyebrows before speaking.
"Granger."
I received no response except for a sniffle that I doubted was in honor of my presence. I still figured that she didn't notice me. Now, that wasn't too flattering.
"Hermione," I chose to utter this time, while nudging her shoulder lightly. "Hey...you alright, there?"
She looked up at me from the shelter of her forearms and I could see the smeared streaks of mascara upon her face and heavily set under her eyes. The brown of her orbs held a sadness in them that I wouldn't understand for a long time. But long before that, I'd understand her.
I looked back down at her and watched her hastily get to her feet after a few moments of just staring. She quickly wiped her eyes and looked at me cautiously.
"Yeah..." she answered unsurely, shakily. "Yeah, I'm fine." Then, she turned from me and headed straight for her room, as usual. The unusual thing was that I remained by the portrait hole, brows furrowed, thinking for a second before calling to her.
She stopped at the sound of her name but didn't turn around.
"Do you need someone? I could get Pomfrey," I offered, although my mind suggested against it. I just wanted to go back to reading.
She whirled around, clearly furious. And it was sudden; just a second ago she looked ready to curl up and die.
"No, I don't need someone. And if I did, you wouldn't know whom I'd need, would you?" she asked, her eyes flashing at me. Before I could answer, she continued, "No. I didn't think so. You're just like the rest of them—assuming you know what I need. Well, I don't. I don't need anything."
At her outburst, I simply raised my palms in surrender and shook my head.
"Look, I was just trying to help," I explained, heading back to the couch and lifting my book to glance back at the pages. "In any case, we aren't exactly close to begin with. How do you expect me to know what or whom you need?"
That last part just came out. I probably shouldn't even have said it out loud. I knew it would just upset her—although it shouldn't have. It wasn't a big secret to either of us that we weren't best friends. I was just mumbling to myself; chiding myself for attempting to help someone who clearly needed a kind of service I couldn't offer: psychiatric help. But then I spoke, and that led to no good.
"What did you—" She seemed to stop herself as she ran up to me in a flash and exhaled loudly, her boots brushing the toes of my shoes. She seemed to be fighting with herself as she glared at me fiercely. I was aware of this but pretended that she wasn't there; her mascara-smudged face was now gaining a red color and by that time I knew I shouldn't have said anything. Now I'd be responsible if she fainted or killed me or burned down the dorms out of rage.
"Hermione, all I know is—"
I didn't get to finish my sentence, nor did I get to finish my thought as she suddenly leaned down and pressed her lips upon mine harshly, at the same time bringing her knee to the right of my thigh. As her other knee follow on the other side of my leg, she lowered herself down to my lap and weaved her fingers through my hair, all the while battling her tongue with mine challengingly.
When I responded to her kiss, I'd no idea what kind of floodgate I opened. I really had no reason to want to kiss her, but to be fair I really had no reason to oppose it either. Kissing wasn't marriage or friendship; it was lust and a good time, and Hermione wasn't bad looking. She was never really bad looking, but like with most people, she'd grown into her looks each year. Again, she wasn't a model per say, but seemed more comfortable in her own skin.
I supposed that was dangerous to say at that moment, because she didn't even seem to be in her own skin, and appeared to be possessed, but my body knew no such things. I just reacted and placed my hands on her hips, then on her ass, sliding her closer to me.
When we finally broke apart, she wasted no time not analyzing what just happened and plunged forward, running her hands underneath my shirt and discarding it as soon as she realized it'd be easier to lick and suckle my nipples that way. Following suit, I urged her to break apart from our kiss so I could pull her shirt over her head after I'd long-since thrown off her robes.
Changing the pace, she placed another wet kiss on my mouth before licking my neck and leaving a trail of saliva across my chest in her series of kisses before getting to my right nipple.
I was lost in the sensation, but not so much so that I didn't notice her breasts heaving in front of me, no shirt to cover them any longer. I ran my hands over her lower back, trailing them upwards against her warm skin before unclasping her white bra and letting it fall to the ground.
I wasted no time caressing her, kissing her everywhere in turn as she was doing to me. She was going at a fast pace that I didn't know she had in her; I'd figured that this—potential sex—was something she'd want to enjoy slowly, with 'the one' and all that crap. But honestly, her eyes ventured that it was the last thing on her mind. When her hands dropped to my pants, I pushed her back a little, gaining a few inches between in effort to have her glance into my eyes.
I asked the unvoiced question as our ragged breaths mingled, our forehead touching lightly. Her initial response resembled 'what the fuck' as her eyes searched mine for an explanation, but as she sensed—and felt—my desire, she immediately understood that my pause wasn't one of rejection but of inquiry. Did she want this? Was she ready? What was this?
Sealing my lips in a searing kiss, I felt that the girl had given a very clear answer.
Yes, she wanted it. Hell yeah, she was ready. And she didn't know for the life of her what this was.
It was about three weeks later that I started to catch just a slight glimpse of the downside to our whole arrangement. In that time, we'd done everything under sun in record time—all initiated by the surprisingly willing Hermione. I suppose having our own dorms and common room helped with our midnight escapades. No explanations, no sneaking out, no worry about curfew or being seen by Filch. And I never really questioned why she even wanted this.
I suppose it was the male instinct in me that told me to charge on blindly. I was never one to be taken for a fool, but this thing between us wasn't anything that I'd sat down and spend hours pondering over. It just felt good. And Hermione; damn, she was like a drug. She was kind of like an interesting new aspect of live or a strange-looking building that one would never spend time exploring on one's own; but once it comes to one and gives one a taste, it's addictive. She was someone I'd never thought I would ever get to know; get close to; taste; explore. But now that I have, I knew I'd never go back—and I'd never want to.
All good things, I knew, had a rotten, decaying side, though. This little proverb had come to me instinctively in life; I followed it naturally and knew it inside out. With the good, comes the very bad and it was like nature's toll of granting you with something worthwhile.
Nature took its toll when I was walking down to the kitchens to get some dinner for Hermione and myself one night. I'd noticed that ever since our little charades had started, she'd been in the common room a lot more, and was available to do anything whenever. She hardly even left the dorms, except to go to class. Even then, I could tell she began to cut some. I didn't object, though. I, myself, wasn't a big fan of screwing over your classes for no good reason and risk not graduating, but she'd always make her unoccupied time worth the while—for me. So I didn't object.
And I didn't object when she started to tell me that she felt too lightheaded to go down to dinner and breakfast...and lunch—on the occasional blue moon when she ate any. I figured that she actually didn't feel good and was happy to bring her some food from the kitchens that she so conveniently neglected to tell me about until now. But I didn't care. Because that way we could eat our meals in peace, together...
We started doing a lot of that lately. Spending time together. For her, I think it was a subconscious thing. She tried to act out the bad girl and prove to herself that she could sleep with the bad boy—a Slytherin. But at heart, I knew she couldn't do that with a complete stranger; so she started random conversations with me about stuff I liked...stuff she liked...Again, I stand by my theory that it was all unintentional. Had she realized what she was doing—initiating common ground for a relationship involving something other than sex—she would have fled the common room, and hid in her room until she convinced herself of her rebellious side enough to have the strength to saunter back out in front of me and continue her show; her façade of badass Granger.
But she didn't notice. She'd slip up and tell me things—things I knew her friends weren't likely to know. Like how she was always bothered by Dumbledore's righteousness. Knowing what dangers lie ahead—and saying so—but still letting Harry go out and fight a battle he was likely to lose. Or how she was always bothered by the fact that her mother wasn't her real mother. She told me that her biological mother had conceived her in high school and decided that she didn't want her any longer and left her in her father's care. Offering her comfort, I suggested the overused cliché that perhaps her mother wasn't ready to have a child and support one. But Hermione simply shook her head at that. She said that she talked to her dad once—when he was in a tired, exhausted mood and hadn't the energy to protect his little girl from the secrets of their family. She asked her father why her mom didn't want her—why, even if her dad was willing to stay with and her and help support his wife and child. And without thought of the consequences, her father blatantly laid it out for her in black and white: Hermione's mother had left because she knew her child would be half witch. Perhaps full witch. Even if it was a quarter, she'd still have magic blood. And that had, apparently, terrified her...or angered her, or something of the sort because she resented her child's father for it as well.
"It's why Mudblood wasn't such a great choice of words that time you said it," Hermione had said, laughing at her own lack of humor in the sentence and shifting so that her head rested on my lap and my fingers twirled around strands of her hair. She looked straight ahead instead of looking me in the eyes. "But it's fine. It was just that it was the year I found out why my mum had actually left...and, obviously, I felt the need to be dramatic and misunderstood. I was eleven."
Now, as I look back on it, I smile at how ironic that statement was, coming from her. Drama; grief. They were linked. The need to completely act out and slither out of one's skin to experience a whole new feel of life somewhere else. Somewhere one felt he or she...belonged.
At the time, though, I felt no such irony course through me, even as I went down to the kitchens to ask Dobby for a late dinner for two. Dobby, although hesitantly, began to regain a bit of respect, or at least tolerance, for me and cooperated in handing me the food much more quickly once I voiced that Hermione had wanted it. It's when I had the food in my hands and was heading up to the dorms, that I felt a tap on my shoulder and eyes bore through me as I turned around.
"Yes?" I asked, my voice holding no malice, but perhaps a bit of annoyance. I looked at Ginny Weasley as though she was there to torment me and tell me to stay away from Hermione with the non-existent hold over me that she possessed. But as she returned my stare, I didn't wait for what she had to say. I simply turned around and headed upstairs to the Head Boy and Girl portrait hole.
She followed.
Walking side-by-side, I felt a little uncomfortable with the Weasley shuffling beside me and not saying anything, but I didn't push. I wasn't about to provoke her to tell me what was really on her mind. Finally, as I turned to go up the stairs, she laid a hand on my arm and spoke with her glance for me to pause my journey upstairs.
We both sat at the bottom of the stairs as I put my food behind me, then rested my elbows I my knees and looked over at her. Ginny was staring straight ahead; same sitting position. She didn't say anything for a while. But I knew she intended to this time. Finally, she looked back over at me.
"She's completely infatuated with you, you know," Ginny began, bidding me the compliment I was already aware of. I paid her a look, but she ignored it. "She doesn't respond when Ron or Harry even attempt to insult you; she even defended you one time. In class." Ginny licked her lips and looked straight ahead. "You know...back when she actually attended class." There was a fairly long pause. I could tell she was trying to manufacture a structured speech for me to receive, but I beat her to it.
"Yeah, so?" I asked carelessly. I mean, I cared. But this wasn't any of Ginny's business. At that point, Hermione hadn't even told me why she'd been upset that day she initiated our...relationship, but I knew something very upsetting had happened; and that was reason enough for me for her behavior. I didn't ask for an explanation...yet. And if I didn't, then it wasn't Weasley's business either. "Hermione's a big girl, she can handle it."
Weasley's head snapped in my direction, her eyes searching mine out desperately as she wondered if I had really believed what I said.
"You and I both know you don't really believe that," she finally said, exhaling slowly and staring straight ahead again. There was no one on this floor; it was eerily empty. And hollow. "She's Hermione, you know? I've known her how many years, now? Ever since she met Ron and Harry. Maybe a little after." She sighed but continued talking the occasional glances at me. "She has this...reputation that she's always lived up to. If it wasn't for others, it was for herself. To always be better; smarter; improve upon improvement. But that's not all she was. She wasn't just Hermione the bookworm." At this point, Ginny looked down at her lap and folded her hands carefully.
I breathed a small breath of relief that the Gryffindor wasn't yelling at me, but she and I knew both knew that this wasn't heading where I wanted it to. I knew it; she damn well knew it because she was saying it, constructing it. But I kept quiet. And for the life of me, I don't know how, but damn it, I'm thankful I did. Because I'd never know how much I would need to hear what Ginny was saying.
"But there were things none of us knew about her," Ginny continued carefully, this time not attempting to look me in the eye. She had almost an air of guilt around her. But her hands remained calmly clasped on her lap as she continued. "Who...what she'd turn to when she upset; deprived; stressed. Like they say, with the glory comes the price tag with interest."
"Wait—are you saying that..." I started, rubbing my eyes tiredly as I chanced a look at Ginny, hoping my vision wouldn't betray the sad look upon her face.
"No," she answered. Then she looked away and sighed again. "Draco..." She licked her lips. She didn't seem to know how to say what she wanted to. Like she was holding something back. "Hermione's not as strong as she looks; as she portrays. She's broken, Draco. She's weak. And she's unable to heal."
We both lapsed into silence as she thought of what to say next and I pondered her words. I knew that something was wrong. I wasn't exactly a Seer but I had common sense—perception. Who the hell did she take me for? Hermione wasn't as strong as she portrayed. That was obvious to anyone with a substantial quantity of brain cells. But my thoughts turned to the solemn Ginny. I wasn't exactly joyful about her cornering me; telling me what I already knew. But I had a cunning suspicion that she'd tell me...something else. Something I didn't know. Something...
"That day," Ginny started, bowing her head to look at her lap, then turning it to me, "the day she came to you. The day she cried." I remembered. Ginny looked away. "Ron...Ron broke up with her. I didn't...We didn't think it'd have..." She swallowed. "Naturally, it was hard on both of them. But...Hermione took it harder then, say...Ron. But—" I tried to keep my comments to myself about that bastard. Because there was more. Fuck, there was more. Ginny looked at me. "That wasn't...all...that happened that day. She—uh—"
I could tell this was taking a toll on Ginny. Hermione was her best friend or something of that sort. And although I'd never really thought about it, she was the only other girl in the group of super heroes that Hermione could relate to. Ginny's voice held tears in them. Unshed, forced back, tucked away tears. But when I glanced into her eyes, they were dry. Because she hadn't given up yet. Or maybe she already gave up. But she was far away from tears. She was far away from pain. Because it'd numbed her.
"Her father had a...stroke...that day," Ginny revealed, her eyes trained on the steps of the stairs. They were dusty; gray; stone. "They didn't know if he'd make it. He's a wizard, you know, but heart problems aren't exactly stunts of the wand." Another swallow. "Anyway...uh...she, she kind of blanked, you know." Ginny looked at me, now guilt written blatantly upon her face, but she plowed through as though her face held no emotion. "When she found out about her father, she was frozen. But when Ron broke up with her on top of that—and to take time apart—of all reasons...she got this look in her eye. I noticed even then, but I thought it would pass. I mean, we were all there to comfort her." Ginny shifted. "I thought it was because of her dad." She looked at me. "But it was like it clicked. It clicked that she belonged somewhere else. That if in a time of need, we couldn't help...then who could."
I felt a stab of pain in my heart, as if someone decided to start prying it apart but my face betrayed nothing. Ginny, on the other hand, slipped up. A single tear escaped her eye, but when she spoke again, her voice was even; steady; and forceful.
"Now..." she continued, but she didn't turn away, "now she's gone. Ron and Harry, they try, but she's gone. And the only one who can reach her is you, Draco." Another silence fell upon us both but now I knew that was the final statement from the only redhead in my presence. It was my turn; and I couldn't believe it.
I shook my head, a sadistic smile spreading over my dry lips, as I picked up Hermione and my food and stood up. Ginny's face twisted into a look of horror at my laughter. But she didn't stand. She just looked at me askance.
"Unbelievable," I declared, taking two steps at a time until I was at the top of the staircase. Then I turned to look at the still sitting Weasley. "What do you want me to do? The heroes fuck up and I hold the power over the broken soul?" I shook my head once more. "If you people lost her, you lost her, but don't try and come here to ruin what Hermione and I have. You may not comprehend it and it may be wrong and warped in your mind, but to us—to us it works. And feels right. So go. Go, Weasley. Go tell your brother that he lost. He finally fucked up for good and he can't get her back with a winning smile. Tell him that she's here...but she's gone."
I turned and bid myself a well done until a heard a shuffling behind me and a tap on my shoulder. I turned only to meet the receiving end of Ginny's fist.
I didn't fall. But my nose stung from the blow. And afterwards I was still met with her pissed off expression instead of Madame Pomfrey's instant healing charms.
"Don't you," she began, "ever assume that we—that I—don't care about my friend just because she's with you now, you little shit." Ginny's eyes flashed at me. "You two need help whether you admit or not, Draco. Sooner or later it's going to crumble. And Hermione will pay the fucking price for it because she's the one in shattered pieces." The redhead looked me up and down and turned slowly, sauntering down the stairs before looking back at me with a disgusted yet pitiful, sorrow-filled face. "And if you feel the same way, then you'll end up paying that price, too."
I ended up standing there, looking at the spot where Ginny had been standing for a long time. The food got cold and Hermione's questions weren't taken care of too well when I returned. I said I fell; because that explained my bruised cheek as well. But she didn't seem to believe me all that much. But she didn't question me.
That night, we went at it again. Not that I minded, of course. It wasn't that unusual of an occurrence any longer. Wake up, I go to class, bring the food from the kitchens and we fuck.
Only this time, it was new. She pulled out a knife.
Needless to say, I flipped out of my bloody mind. A knife? In the sack? I felt the need to immediately protect my important...area. I also felt the need to point out that our nightly activities would be harder to perform if that was her plan to circumcise my area greatly. As in, more than usually fit to. Laughing, she explained that it was cut anything off.
But I found out it was to cut.
"What the hell—"
"Shh," Hermione hushed me as she straddled my thighs that night, leaning over me languidly and placing her index finger over my moving lips, "it's okay. Just little slices here and there. It adds to the pleasure, you know." She'd said that as if that's the answer I'd been looking for in sex my entire life. Cutting in bed. Oh, definitely.
Naturally, I protested. At first, anyway. She can be so...Mm, convincing, sometimes. Either way, I had to ask the inevitable question to which the ugly face of an answer would soon follow. And as Hermione's eyes hardened, I knew this one was particularly hideous.
"Why do I want the cutting?" she asked calmly, before looking up at me from her position beneath me now. She stretched her arms above her head luxuriously and looked straight into my eyes as she crossed her wrists, knife in-hand. "Because when the scars on my skin are none of my own doing, I begin to think that perhaps they should be."
That was a turning point.
We never looked back.
After she uttered that sentence, the only questions available for use were found within the pools of my eyes and hers. But we never voiced them. She never elaborated on what that meant and I never even alluded to wanting to find out about it. Not as to say that I didn't. But the damage had been done and she admitted something she probably never even acknowledged as truth herself. And we both accepted to move on from it. Stupidly.
Afterwards, nothing logical was in the way of my partner's request any longer. Nothing I'd listen to anyway. Hermione asked me to cut her during sex; add kink with a bloody knife...and I happened to agree.
"Draco, I trust you, damn it," was the crowning blow as Hermione pressed the tip of the blade a few inches below her breast and pressed down and across, watching the blood surface from beneath her skin. Then, after her wound was deep, long, and luxuriously crimson, she pressed the handle of the blade into my hand. "I trust you."
I was a lost man.
I complied.
And I was a lost man for the longest time.
She didn't want to stop after the first time. Or the second time. Or the twelfth time. The blood kept running as long as the heart kept pumping it. And pretty soon, I was as addicted to it as she was. And I never asked how she got started with it, or when. How she got the idea to cut herself and got the idea to propose it to me during our escapades. But I enjoyed it; and she knew it because she did as well. When we reached our peaks every night...morning, day, the looks in our eyes would be identical. Same pain, same comfort. Same bliss.
We understood.
It was yesterday morning that the reality of every fucking wrong thing with the situation of Hermione and I hit me. All at once; like a free fall coil of brooms.
I rubbed my eyes. The disoriented feeling I was experiencing wasn't too common for me, so I felt the need to alarmingly look around. Sink. Toilet. Bathroom. I was in the bathroom.
I returned to rubbing my eyes. I was only in the bathroom. Looking around, everything seemed in place. Towels, toothbrushes...shit around the counters. Everything was normal.
Standing up—or attempting to—I felt a soft weight on my left leg. That's when I realized Hermione and I must've...ended up in the bathroom. I smiled as I remembered what we were doing and looked down to look at her angelic, sleeping face. She always looked so peaceful and calm when she was sleeping; like she was sane.
Then my heart stopped. It probably did. I'm alive today, but at that moment it probably fucking did stop. It probably...stopped.
I hadn't notice. Oh, fucking shit, how couldn't I notice? I hadn't noticed. The... God, I was covered in it. She was—she was pooled in it. Her peaceful face stained red. Stained blood crimson. Her body. Blood crimson. Bloody. My body. Bloody.
My entire being stopped. I couldn't believe this.
It was just like every other night. We started fooling around, Hermione a little frisky, encouraging me with the point of the blade and I, in turn, taking it away from her and pressing it into all the right places while the cool metal cooled her burning skin. But I liked it burning; like fire. It all came back to me in a blur. Her giggle; her brown curls being thrown back as she threw her head back to look at the ceiling, enjoyment of the first cut like no other. Her hands massaging me, kneading my body, kneading my wrapped warmth within me. Opening up to me and I, in turn, opening up to her.
I quickly turned away and scrambled up from the bathroom floor. I tried to look in another place, anywhere, but saw my reflection in the mirror. A long smudge of burgundy bloody was smeared across my forehead and another on my chest, clearly from my own wound right above my left nipple. A long gash.
I squeezed my eyes shut but soon found that to be a huge mistake. The image of Hermione, lying on the floor beside me drenched in a mix of her and my own blood flashed in front of my eyes and was force to lean forward on the sink, my hands pressing down on the cool marble and I hung my head, taking it one breath at a time. Breathe in. Breathe out. Don't hurl. Don't fucking hurl.
Then, my eyes widened. What if she wasn't breathing. God, I couldn't stand it. I wanted to throw up; hurl up all the images, the nausea that had formulated within me ever since my beauty was place before me caked in blood.
I dropped to my knees heavily; numbly. My middle and forefinger immediately traveled to her wrist, strewn closest to me and covered in considerably less blood than the rest of her. I closed my eyes briefly, again, telling myself not to throw up, and forced myself to focus on her heartbeat. If she had one. I sighed in relief—life-altering relief. Her heart was beating; softly, faintly...but beating. She'd lost a lot of blood.
Dropping her wrist rather gracelessly, I shakily stood up and walked into my room. Looking at the bed, I eyes my green bedspread and saw Hermione lying on it, drenched in blood—the same way she was positioned in the bathroom room currently. I forced myself to suppress the image; but I was too smart for myself. My subconscious knew what was going on.
Hermione almost died.
She's wanted more that night. She urged me more with the cuts. Deeper, thicker. Like a fool, I listened. With me, she didn't get too slice-happy. It was all about eliminating her pain and having me help her. It wasn't even a reciprocal relationship, when I thought about it, if I counted the reward. Her pain; that's what she was ridding herself of. I helped take away the pain. Same as the knife. Like a punching bag. I helped her get it out of her system. Helped her unlock it and release it.
And now...
I tore my eyes off the carpet in my room and sprinted out of the Head Boy and Girl dorms as fast as I could. I knew where I was going but I think I overestimated my distance by at least two floors before I realized that I'd passed my destination. As I reached the Gryffindor portrait hole, the fat lady dressed in pink gasped. Oh, right. I was covered in blood and had no shirt on me. I hadn't realized. I hadn't cared.
I knew she wouldn't let me in. Even now, in her state of shock and probably sympathy, she wouldn't.
So, I knocked.
"Come on!" I'd yelled helplessly.
Weasley and Potter opened it, ironically. Out of all the Gryffindors. They recognized my voice before they even saw me.
"Malfoy, what the fu—Oh, my God—"
The two stared at me as they studied my seemingly warrior-like and bloody appearance. I was drenched; I was tired; I was weary; I was scared; I was helpless; and I was responsible.
Ginny glanced at the entrance to the portrait hole briefly from the common room and was about to leave when her head snapped back to my appearance. She snapped out of her shocked state long before Potter and Weasley did, and pushed them out of the way as she demanded what the bloody hell happened to me and what I'd gotten myself into.
I shook my head, tears streaming down my face. Finally. And I looked back up at her.
"She's paying the price," I croaked, arms hanging limply at my sides. "And so am I."
I still can't get the image of Hermione out of my head as she woke up in the hospital wing and absorbed the information of where she was to be sent after her episode. She'd fainted. Her eyes widened as Madame Pomfrey and Dumbledore, coupled with some of the best Mediwitches in London explained that they knew about her cutting. Her eyes immediately seeked out mine in the room, instinctively, not even caring that there was a good chance I would've have been in the hospital wing at that particular moment.
But I was. Because they had to patch me up as well and scold me about the dangers of knives and sharp objects, but mainly because her unconscious state was causing me more grief than the death of my beloved grandparents. I couldn't stop thinking about her well-being. Her smile. Would she get to smile again? What is she went into a coma? Would the Mediwitches be able to help with that or would it be up to nature like many medical-related issues are?
But she woke up. And when her eyes reached mine, they locked. For however long we'd stared at each other, she tried to figure out whether I actually told. Whether I'd tattled on her; told them everything and why she was cutting and how and how long. And then, there was the flicker of disbelief and brief look of...why. I couldn't tell her. I couldn't tell her in a look or a thousand words.
I hadn't betrayed her. She was going to die. She needed help. We needed help. We were going to kill each other.
The last tear of hers I'd ever see slipped down her face after that, then she turned away never to look at me again.
She never said anything to me, despite what I'd presumed she would. I thought she'd yell at me. Trying to struggle out of the human restraints which were the Mediwitches as she yelled obscenities at me and scream about what a fucking cowardly dipshit I was. Yell and promise to kill, to hurt me, to find me and hunt me down one day. I suppose that was just a wish of mine. Because then, there would be promise of seeing her again.
But she left yesterday. To a rehabilitation facility. Somewhere in France or something. For the "cutters". They tried to send me there but father convinced them not to. Powerful man that he was, I didn't even notice. If I had, perhaps I would have faked another cutting episode for the sole purpose of getting sent to the same place as Hermione would be residing in for the next few months. But I hadn't been paying attention. I was too busy worrying about her damn consciousness. And Father fixed the situation.
She walked out without another look back. My only comfort was that she didn't spare anyone look, not just me purposefully. But it still stung like a sea of knives in one pin-pointed place in my heart, designated for the hurt regarding Hermione to be placed. Ginny had her hand on my shoulder as we both stood in solemn, funeral silence, watching Hermione be escorted out of Hogwarts. Ginny's acceptance that this whole thing wasn't my fault was my only comfort.
But I haven't yet forgiven myself. Classes didn't stop or anything, and I'm still attending, enduring the whispers and everything. But Ginny helps. And on occasion Potter steps in and tells everyone to shut the fuck up. Never Weasley.
I don't listen so much anymore. My once ambition was to make it out of Hogwarts, reputation in tact, and career bound towards a steady, wealthy in status and compensation profession.
Now, my days would consist of dwelling on a first adolescent love, poised with angst, drama, and stab wounds, thinking one the one who got away. The one who was harmful to me and I to her, but I still consider my perfect match.
The one whose shattered heart, pierced by the hot, unforgiving coals of life, fit into my frozen, blockade of lost affection.
The one who never admitted more to me than, "I trust you, Draco."
Fin