Chapter II
Distracted by all the noise in the Common Room that night, Hermione was struggling with an essay set by Professor Slughorn on the delicacies of successfully preparing the Draught of Living Death. Hermione's mind wandered back to her perfect start in Potions this year, correctly identifying each potion, including the Draught of Living Death and Polyjuice Potion, Slughorn presented to the class. With a grimace she recalled the following sequence of events begun by Harry's lucky discovery of the Half-Blood Prince and culminating in her loss of the top grade in Potions.
After making a few non-committal scratches on her essay with her quill and chewing the end for a bit, Hermione heaved a loud sigh of frustration and slammed shut her copy of Advanced Potion Making, whipping around to face Harry.
Oblivious to Hermione, as well as the rest of the frivolities, laughter, and pleasant atmosphere of Gryffindor Tower, Harry remained gazing into the fire, engrossed by the tiny nuances of its movement. The flames crackled and merrily spit sparks from the hearth while the smoke curled lazily upward in spiraling plumes filling the chimney. But in the reflection of his glasses, the flames took on a grimmer aspect, accenting the lines of worry etching themselves in Harry's forehead and illuminating the jagged calling-card Voldemort had left there many years ago.
"All right, I give up," huffed Hermione. "Harry!" she shouted.
Harry's thoughts scattered, he looked up sharply in alarm. "What do you want?"
"Look." Hermione breathed in deeply and slowly, and then exhaled in a rush. "I was wondering if I could borrow your Potions text for Slughorn's essay."
"But you've got your copy of it right there –"
"Yes," she interrupted exasperatedly, "but the Prince helped you brew the Draught of Living Death on an equal level with Snape on the first try. I think his notes on technique could help my essay. I really need the extra points to keep from failing this term."
"So all of that non-stop prattling about how the Prince was probably a Dark Wizard was what?"
"I'm sorry, okay? I didn't mean to nag and I'm sorry I was so persistent. Can I please just borrow the book?"
"Whatever. Just use it in your dormitory."
"Why? Don't want the rest of Gryffindor to find out the only reason you've bested me in something is because you're cheating?"
"Shut it, Hermione. Just for once."
Harry turned back to the fire, but Hermione just stood there for a little longer. Staring at his back, she could remember all of the adventures they had before this stranger had replaced the happy-go-lucky and daring Harry she met on the train. Swallowing the urge to shout something horrid, she simply whispered "I miss you, Harry" too low for anyone else to hear. Not that it would matter; Harry made it clear he wasn't even conscious to her presence anymore. Hermione felt her eyes moisten, and she turned hurriedly to the staircase leading to Crookshanks and her dormitory.
As she climbed up the stairs with papers, quills, ink, and the Prince tucked under her arm, Hermione let the sorrow show more freely in her face. Doing her best not to let the entire Tower know her pain, she still didn't care enough to quicken her pace. Hermione had almost reached the landing and realized that she wasn't going to finish the essay. Entering her dormitory, a quick glance around revealed that she was alone. Hermione tossed her uncompleted essay and her writing tools into her bag, keeping the Prince with her as she crawled into bed. With the book in her arms, she began flipping through its pages, searching the scrawls along the sides of the pages for something she knew would be there. She still clung to the idea that the Prince could be evil, and tonight she was counting on it.
Hermione had overheard from a member of Slytherin house about the practice of self-mutilation. The pain and destruction one inflicted on one's own flesh purportedly detracted from the pain and destruction haunting one's soul. Hermione was sick of the pangs of hurt, the everlasting despair that draped her every thought in shades of somber grays. She was willing to try anything to get rid of it. She had already tried performing Cheering Charms on herself, but after the fourth one in one hour, she could empathize with the Muggle practice of getting stoned. That wasn't what she was looking for; not a temporary escape from the drones of mortality that would be forgotten until her next fix. Hermione wanted something that would leave a more noticeable mark on her being, so that she could remember the relief she felt and try to feel it again without resorting to action.
As she intently perused the book, she paused. Sectumsempra: For enemies. That seemed it would do the trick.
Rolling up her left sleeve, she pointed her wand at her arm, swallowing a sob. With the tiniest amount of emphasis, she whispered sectumsempra. Hermione breathed in sharply as jagged cuts appeared all over her arm, forming a ladder of red that led from her wrist to her elbow. The blood began to seep out and coat her arm in a brilliant scarlet. It dripped from her and fell to the bed-sheets, matching their shade almost perfectly. Hermione sat in her bed, not moving, but breathing harshly and relishing the feeling. The feeling! The anguish and concern that had built up in her body then congealed to a torturous mix of apathy and misery seemed to be oozing from the cuts as well. The world regained its vibrant color and she truly for the first time how disconnected she was from the Hermione of last year. She lay back on the bed, her left arm still exhaling crimson. As the sharp sting of the air of her dormitory caressing her arm dulled to a steady throbbing Hermione eyes closed. Tonight would be the first complete night of sleep since last year.
