Part 2 of 4: Where Should I Begin?

Hermione's legs were tangled with the 3000-thread Egyptian cotton that Malfoy had given to her over the summer. He had said to her that it was made from only the best weaving witches known in Egypt, and it was the same type of thread that they used to pray to Isis. At first, Hermione felt awkward for falling asleep on something that was supposedly used for something so reverent, but after feeling the texture of it, she never gave it another thought.

The sun was shining through the golden blinds, some of its rays falling across her sweaty face. Her curls were damp and matted against her forehead from sweat, beads prominent on her back. She was lying on her chest, one arm dangling from her bed, the other folded underneath her pillow.

There was a bottle of Purple Hippogriff Vodka on the floor.

It was uncharacteristic for Hermione to drink, but as the end of the year came, her House was bootlegging liquor, preparing for the big Graduation day. She had begun to drink near April or May, some nights where she decided to enjoy her friends' company rather than be a sorry old prude. She never drank excessively, never drank to the point where she blacked out. She seemed friendlier, more approachable, and when the Trio was drunk, they seemed to be more like the way they were before the horrors they had encountered.

Drinking, for them, was another type of a sad escape.

However, last night, Hermione had stayed up at night, drinking small amounts of the vodka that burned her throat viciously. Her quill scratched ruthlessly against an old parchment notebook that Harry had given her for Christmas. It was an authentic journal from the fourteenth century, loosely bound, but creamy and exquisite in nature. Hermione was fond of journals, and Harry had known that Hermione liked to put her thoughts down ever since the Second War began.

She had drunk nearly half of the contents of the bottle, and her handwriting was becoming a bit sloppy compared to her neat, impeccable, sober scrawl. While she was sitting on the couch, scribbling with only the fire from the torch as her source of light, she heard the portrait door open for the Common Room for the Head Boy and Girl. Malfoy walked in, a sly and goofy grin on his face, and as she stared at him with bleary eyes, she gathered her things and stalked to her room. He had stood there, having the decency to look abashedly at his shoes, waiting for her to leave. When she was walking away from him, a piece from her journal fell onto the floor, and as he eyed it, he felt his heart drop to his stomach.

They did not speak to each other that night.

Things were rocky, so to speak, between them. Again, it was near the end of the year. Thus, it was near the end of their determined safety – once outside of the walls of Hogwarts, they had their whole lives to fight for Voldemort or to fight against Voldemort. They had their whole future to risk their lives for their cause.

Seventh year did not bode well for Hermione and Malfoy's future.

During Christmas break, as many families welcomed their sons and daughters back home to celebrate a time of festivity, there was a massacre worse than the one that Sirius Black was accused of. Death Eaters infiltrated and attacked Muggle's houses, a block at a time, where they knew children who went to Hogwarts lived. The Aurors were able to come and prevent other hundreds of people from terrible deaths. At this point, the Muggle government had to be informed of a precarious war, and to beware of men in black robes with sticks, otherwise known as "wands," pointed at them.

Hermione had stayed at Hogwarts with Ron and Harry, but Draco had left to his Wiltshire mansion. The last time they had talked before he left was in front of the fire that they had started in the fireplace, her body snuggled next to his under the flannel quilt that her mother had bought for her. He had said nothing of the War, and they had talked of what their kids were to look like if the possibility of a future (that they could call theirs) was to happen. And when Hermione had begun to sniffle when she stated that they might die, he had told her that perhaps in this life they would not be allowed to be with each other, but in their next life, he would continue to search for her for their souls were connected. He had whispered against her ear, his hand traveling past her stomach, saying that he would not be able to settle for anyone like Hermione, that he could only be with her, and no one else.

She had stopped crying, pushing her hips towards his hands. And when he slipped his fingers into her, she had closed her eyes and moaned. She had leaned her head back for a kiss from him, and they kissed each other hard, her tongue snaking in to caress his. He rolled her nipples with his fingers, tugging lightly, and encouraging her to come for him. When she arched her back and bit her lip, her vaginal walls spasmodically closing around his fingers, he brought his fingers to his mouth, licking them clean of her essence. He joked, saying that finally he had a decent meal at Hogwarts, and Hermione laughed at him, kissing him softly on the lips before staring at the fire dreamily.

He hadn't said anything about Death Eater attacks. So when she heard news of the atrocity, she felt betrayed by him, believing throughout Christmas break that he had known about it. When he came back, she had screamed at him, given him the silent treatment, and finally, breaking down and telling him that he was a horrible being, worse than his father. He had lunged at her, grabbing her shoulders and said:

"Hermione. You better calm down and tell me what the bloody hell you're talking about," he clipped these words out in a deadly tone, spitting them out at her tear-streaked face.

"The Christmas massacre, you dolt! You knew, didn't you? You knew that it was going to happen, and now countless lives are dead, and we could have done something to save them. All of this! All of this is all your fault!"

He had shoved her aside, and she banged against the wall, a vase full of white carnations shattering into hundreds of pieces onto the floor. She cringed, moving her feet away from the shards, but he ignored it, glaring at her.

"I can't believe you. I didn't know anything about that." His eyes narrowed, and he seethed. "You don't think that made me angry? You don't think that affected me? I couldn't write or say anything lest my father were to find out! You know that." He began to move towards her, "Haven't you been listening to anything that I've been saying to you, Granger?"

Hermione shifted her head away from him, staring at the flame torch, watching the fire flickering and moving about. She pursed her lips together, holding her tears in, squinting her eyes. She inhaled deeply, and finally, staring at the floor, she asked for his forgiveness. "I'm sorry that I accused you like that. I…I don't know what I was thinking – what I am thinking. Oh, Draco –"

Malfoy nodded his head. "Yeah," was all he said, and he had walked to his room, closing the door behind him.

Hermione stared at the broken vase pieces, collecting each one manually, letting her tears finally fall. When she had placed them into a clump of broken glass, she whispered Reparo, and the vase was as good as new. She set it on the table again. She locked herself in the bathroom, washing her face and drying her tears off.

A couple months later, and this was where they were. Malfoy and Hermione began to spend more time in their House's Common Rooms, drinking with their friends. They would come back to their Head Dorms, maybe making love or fucking like rabbits. Other times, their hips had this way of denying access. But lately, Hermione began to find incriminating evidence towards him. He had bruises that he claimed were from Quidditch practice, but honestly, Hermione thought, what are the odds of a Seeker to be bludgeoned by a Bludger? Of course, not with their quick reflexes.

And there were rumors floating in the mill between table to table in the Great Hall. No one knew of the romance between Malfoy and Hermione, but there were still references to Malfoy's promiscuity, also concerning her. One of them she had eavesdropped on and taken ten points off for slander (of her name): "I wonder how Hermione feels when Malfoy goes back to their room stinking of sex. Hah, I bet she gets jealous 'cause she'd never be able to land him – or anything! – like that."

She never brought her accusations of cheating to light. But she began to grow more suspicious over the days. She pretended that nothing was wrong between them, but inside, she was ready to hex him with all the curses she had memorized. She was aching fiercely, knowing that she was possibly being made a strumpet.

Last night, of all nights, while sipping her alcohol, she had decided once and for all to pick her bags up and say goodbye to him (in the proverbial sense, of course). She began to write her notes down, her accusations privy to her own eyes. She didn't think it would be difficult to lament on the situation she was in, but she also didn't think it would be so easy (and yet so hard) for her to understand what was happening.

Entry 104.

I'm reluctant to believe what I hear from the mouths of these people, for they do have a tendency to create hyperbolic situations to keep their minds active and survive from the heat of the sun. But I do remember from my friends back at home (well, the Muggle world) that when people say something they normally wouldn't say, or if they expressed their feelings explicitly while drunk, it usually means that they mean it. Case in point: Adrian. I still talk to him, and he says that he misses me and he wishes that I could come home more often. I agree with Adrian; I think I might be forgetting what home is. But I don't want him to get hurt – I need to be able to protect him from anything that could happen.

I've never told Draco about Adrian. I never thought I would need to.

But it's been different lately between us. It hasn't been the first time that I've mentioned this, I know, and I think I want it to be the last. If I was to say these things to him... I guess I'd start off with "why I should leave…". No, I think I would start it with "why I'm leaving you...(for him?) Well, let's see here...where should I begin?"

Yeah, sounds good if I had the guts to even say something like that.

I'm tired of this, tired of the sideways glances from him, tired of feeling like walking on eggshells. I hate it when we plan some things together, and I have to stay up all night, just for him to come in: his clothes, his hair, his whole bloody body dipped in alcohol. Like he took a bloody bath in it. Sometimes, he doesn't come in until right before it's time for breakfast. It's like we're already married – naïve wife waiting for her husband to come home after barhopping.

("It's a fuck and run.")

More rumors. More mouths running off about Draco sleeping around. Supposedly, he's already bed most of the seventh year Slytherin whores, oh, I mean girls. Now he's working on Hufflepuffs – the myth being that they have sex to relieve stress, no matter whom the other partner is. And the girls all look at him like some kind of god, like someone they revere, and if he even so much as glances at them, they clutch their chests and giggle.

Others simply wink at him coyly, but I never see any of them say anything to him. I never see him say anything to them either; I've never even heard any type of encouragement, but still.

He's changed lately. Sometimes I feel like I'm nothing to him. As if I don't have any value to him anymore. Like I don't matter – everything that seemed to have spurned his desire and want (and love?) for me has faded away, almost abruptly. I guess since January, it's really dissipated. Sometimes I feel that he's only with me because...well, he has to be. Because we share a dorm and we have to see each other every day. It's like as if he thinks that he's doing me a favor by not mentioning this between us.

Even though it was just another night that had resulted in another fight, it was quickly resolved, of course, by the next day on his bed, but I can't help remembering something that he had screamed in my face. I had yelled at him for making me miss out on times with Harry and Ron while I waited for him until 5 in the morning just so that he could show up pissed-ass drunk. He said that he felt trapped with me, that it's amazing how we can even fall in the same bed together, that he wished that he could be fucking someone else instead. I had wanted to kill him at that moment, and I had my wand in my hand, and I was ready to do some damage. But he had pulled out his own wand, and we threw threats until finally he grabbed me into his arms, telling me that he was sorry that he said something as callously stupid as that. I had forgiven him, and we made love for the rest of the day, and he had told me how much he appreciated me, and you know, I felt like we were one of those newborn lovers. It seems like the only time that he can be romantic now is when we fight and make up. And I hate that.

These words danced around Malfoy's drunk mind, the only theme that he was getting from this excerpt from her diary was that she was preparing to leave him. To leave him alone and empty for the rest of his life. He didn't know what to do (or what he did), but he knew that he couldn't just let her walk out of his life like that.

She had too much over him. Too much power. It would be easy for her to take advantage of him, and he couldn't let that possibly come out in the world as volatile as it is what with the Second War and Voldemort and his "destiny." Moreover, he couldn't let Hermione walk out of his life forever. He was dependent on her: her smile, her laughter, her touch, her sex, everything. He despised his dependency and yet became more hooked day after day. He would have withdrawal symptoms if he couldn't so much as hold her for a few seconds: his hands would shake and he would break out in a sweat, worried that she was thinking of someone else, doing something else.

He scratched the underside of his left arm, his thoughts scrambling madly, knowing he couldn't do anything to comprehend her words fully at this moment. Malfoy needed to be sober to read in between her lines. Choking back on an unwonted sob, he stumbled to his room, wiping spittle from his lips. He took all his clothes off, sleeping in the nude, letting his body rest against the cool silver sheets on his bed. Before his brain shut off, he vaguely realized that it was the first time he had slept in his own bed (at Hogwarts) since the beginning of seventh year. Even the first day of term didn't stop them to re-acquaint themselves with each other's bodies…

What hurts even more is that he doesn't seem to realize what he's doing! He doesn't even seem to understand that he's pushing me away, that he's making me feel terrible about myself... making me feel empty... I just wish we could hold each other in our arms with the same exact feeling as before. Anything – as long as it's not this.

I hate getting involved in things that I don't understand. Malfoy is no book; I can barely read most of his signs. I just can't help but remember (and smile faintly, curse me and my soft heart!) that he promised the world to me. He said that he could be (and I quote): "That Prince Charming that you Muggle females seem to be so anxious to find." I only laughed and played it off as nothing, if only to hide from him how much I wanted that to be true. God, how sentimental of me. How foolish and female. I never thought that it would come to this. I never thought we would have gotten so intimately involved. Oh God, silly me. I thought it could actually happen. But now?

("When you said you loved me, I knew I was getting fucked.")

God, just seeing him makes me angry and frustrated. And it's not a good type of sexual frustration anymore. I guess that's why it's better if I lea –

He just came in.