AN: Thank you toStarryTain for reviewing and having faith in me, cause that's what we all need, eh? To Have A Little Faithe? Ha! PUN! GET IT? Ooh…baaad…ahem…well I also got some criticism from dear Isidoria. Well it seems she didn't like Harry being on top in Bloodlust (both literally and figuratively) and that IT WASN'T REAL SMUT it was DREAM SMUT. But alas, I told her, I said, ISI…you shall find out what this dream MEANS in the next few chapters. IT HAS MEANING…even Harry being on top HAS MEANING. Plus the whole stabbing thing…hehehe…but I do hope she likes this chapter. And the next. Hawr hawr hawr. The next chappie, by the by, is called Who I Am And Who I Ought to Be…so LOOK OUT FOLKS…appearances by Lucius Malfoy! Woot…plus smut. As a very good friend of mine would say… Damn skippy.

Chapter Seven - Addicted

Ron sat, dumbfounded, as Harry retold the story from the hallway that evening. Hermione had run off after Draco had, and Harry nor Ron hadn't seen her since. They sat in the common room by the fire, Harry watching as snowflakes drifted past the window. Christmas was nearing, and the feeling in the halls was anything but cheery. It all seemed colder nowadays. The look of confusion changed to disgust.

"So, he, kissed you? Like, kissed-kissed, tongues and stuff?" he squeaked out, his mouth twisted into a look of great distaste.

"Oh Ron, say it a bit louder, I think the HUFFLEPUFFS didn't hear you." Harry hissed, leaning towards Ron menacingly. Ron widened his eyes and his mouth dropped open. His expression then turned into a look of sheer terror.

"What if, y'know, he wants to get with you. What if he wants to shag you, Harry?"

A group of fifth years who were gossiping over in a corner looked over at this, and Harry hid his face in his hands and Ron made a very rude hand gesture.

"Shh-t-pp--SHH-TP--Rn" he mumbled into his hands.

"Wha? Oh sorry, mate, but this is all way too mind-boggling for me." Ron rested his head in his hands, laying back onto the ground. "I mean, I always knew Malfoy and you had this twisted obsession with each oth-"

"I'M NOT OBSESSED WITH DRACO!" Harry said loudly, so that even more of their fellow sixth years looked on in interest.

"Fine, fine, not obsessed. You just have this thing, you know?"
"Thing? We have no thing, Ronald. The only thing I see is you and Hermione thing. And you being too blind to see Draco has something to do with this."

"Why do you keep saying that?" Ron sat up, a frustrated sigh following.
"You know its true, you are practically in love with Hermio-"

"No, I mean, 'Draco.' 'Draco' this and 'Draco' that. You used to say Malfoy." Ron muttered, staring at his shoes.

"Well excuse me for slipping up on his name. It is his name, isn't it?"

"Well, the way you say it. Malfoy, you said with such hate. Draco you say like you-" he stopped dead.

"Like I what? Go on. I dare you. Say it." Harry growled though clenched teeth. Ron's ears turned bright red, even more illuminated by the fire behind him.

"Like you want him. You say his name like I say, oh, lessee…Butterbeer? Chocolate Frogs?"

"Madam Rosmerta." Harry coughed into his hand. Ron stared at him angrily, and Harry grinned. "Oh come on, you know very well that I meant to say Hermione."

"Don't avoid the subject, Harry. There's something between you two. I don't even think you know it yourself."
That night, Harry went to bed with a feeling of dread in his stomach. Was Ron right? He and Draco has always been tense with each other, but all he had ever felt for the boy was hate. Hate for him, hate for who he was. Harry couldn't see how it could be interoperated as anything other than that. He tried pushing this from his mind, but that night, Harry was plagued by dreams of Draco chasing him around with Dobby's tea-cosy.

Hermione sat in a large velvet chair, its red surface old and worn, threadbare arms and tattered footrest before it. It has been used by many, though few knew of it. Stacks of books and letters and pieces of parchment surrounded it, and Hermione poured over a large spell book with a leather bound cover and gold printing along the side. She sat in the Room of Requirement, her requirements; a place to hide away. Not a place to hide, that would've been a dark broom cupboard with only a bucket for a seat and a mouse for company. A hide-away was a temporary place, someplace to be comfortable for a moment. She couldn't get the image of Draco kissing Harry out of her head. She didn't know if what she was feeling was jealousy, or shock. She hadn't completely developed feelings for Draco, she never would and she knew that. But she saw something in him, something of herself, and it was comforting. Someone like her was out there.

But she felt another thing, in the pit of her stomach. Something aching, aching like her arm was. She felt a need for it. She hadn't attended classes that day, her mind was focused on something else. Getting her next fix. She couldn't even read the book in front of her without looking down at her wrist, then longingly at the safety pin attached to her shoe. She found as her thoughts darkened to other things, the room grew dimmer and in odd places, pencil sharpeners and compasses from arithmetic sets came popping up. Her chair turned into a deep purple bed, the velvet still glimmering softly in a candlelight. This became her hide-away. Not surrounded by books, like she would have enjoyed before. But surrounded by herself, by her own dark inside…

It wasn't enough. She wasn't enough. They wanted her to be better, and she was giving it her all. How could they expect so much from her?

Hermione remembered the first time she ever picked up a broken piece of glass and slipped it carefully across her arm. She sat in her room during the summer holiday, books and paper stacked around her, quills and ink bottles everywhere in a frantic mess that was her home. Her parents below her screamed at one another, their yells muffled by the hardwood floors between the, but their hurt piercing through the floor and into Hermione's heart.

It's about me…she thought, furious tears steaming down her face. Mother is so angry with me. I should be better. I should be smarter. I need to be perfect. Maybe then things would be better. Why can't they accept me? Why am I not doing something right, I'm always right…

A slam of a door told her that her father had left the house again. He would go down to the local bar and get drunk, come home, and take his pent up rage out on his terrified wife and daughter. Past the mask of their beautiful suburban home, their perfect family with the straight-A student, the perfect marriage, was a beast waiting to be unleashed. Her father had always had a temper, and it slipped every now and then. Her mother usually got the end of it, her pain hidden beneath a layer of makeup to hide the bruises and scrapes he inflicted. Hermione was struck, once, twice. Her father had been extremely upset then, tears streaming down his own face as he beat the sobbing mass that was Hermione at age 13. Now 16, Hermione felt as though the problems had escalated, and her parents were depending on her. She had to make things perfect for them. One mess up, and her mother wouldn't be able to look at her without crying, and her father would surely go on another one of his angry rants.

"Well I didn't sign up for this freak-show! She Can't go to a normal school? I have to lie to my family and friends that she goes away to boarding school, like she's some sort of discipline case!" he bellowed at her mother, who sat calmly on the couch, he hands folded before her.

"Why can't you be proud of this?"

"Why can't I what? Be proud of THIS?"

SLAM.
A picture frame was thrown across the room and Hermione heard it shatter, along with a shriek of despair from her mother. Hermione's hands were balled into fists, shaking with rage. Suddenly, she slammed her fist into her vanity mirror. She gasped at her own rage, bringing her bleeding fist to face level. She reached down onto her desk and grasped a piece of glass, squeezing it tightly in her hands, more blood leaking from her palm. She placed it above her wrist, slowly slicing her skin. Her intent was to kill herself. She was only left in a mess of bloody sheets and tear stains, her skin not even splitting down to the vein. Since then, it had become an outlet for her. A release. But it was nothing like this.

She lay in her bed now, looking up at the ceiling. She made up her mind. She got up, and grabbed the compass. She slept in the same fashion as she did the night at her home. Bloodied sheets and a tear-stained pillow. Yet, no weight was lifted off her heart. She lay, crying into her pillow, grasping her arm, when suddenly,

BAM!

The door flew open and Draco fell face first into the room. He picked himself up and Hermione gasped, pulling herself up into a sitting position, wiping her tears away. He shook his head as the door closed behind him. He raised his eyes to Hermione, who was sitting, thunderstuck, above him.

"I knew I'd find you here."

"H-how'd you g-get in here?" she stammered, her eyes searching his face. He smirked slightly.

"If you try hard enough, you can find anyone here." his smirk suddenly dropped as well as his eyes to Hermione's arm. She looked down, blushing furiously, as he sat beside her. He took her arm tenderly in his hands, and looked it over. He sighed and looked at her. "I bet you want to know what happened in the hall this morning." she looked up at him, dreading what came next, but irresistibly curious.

"Well, yeh, I gues-"

"I love him."

Draco's eyes went wide at this and he looked to the ground, covering his mouth with his hand. Hermione stared at him for a moment.

"Well. I guess…uhm…wow." she shook her head. "I never knew."

"Well now you do." he looked up, and to her surprise, he gave Hermione a weak, pleading look. "Please. Don't tell anyone. If this gets out…"

"I won't, Draco. I won't. But, if this is how you feel, shouldn't you do what you feel is right?"

"No! No one can know. He'll be too embarrassed to tell anyone, so no, nobody will know. Besides, he'd never…he'd never be with me. He hates me." Draco hung his head and placed it in his hands. Hermione could only sit beside him and stroke his back, mulling over the events of the day. They stayed in that room that night, sleeping next to one another, Hermione only waking once to hear Draco crying.