Ch. 9 My Own Worst Enemy
A/N: Warning: Depiction of self-harm in this chapter.
As always, huge thanks to Frumpologist and scullymurphy for being amazing alphabetas!
Can we forget about the things I said when I was drunk? / I didn't mean to call you that… / ...It's no surprise to me I am my own worst enemy / 'Cause every now and then I kick the living shit out of me.
- My Own Worst Enemy, Lit.
Hermione could endure the piercing pain that radiated from her temples. She'd suffered through worse, of course. But it was the constant nausea that was intolerable; the relentless churning of her stomach, which made all her muscles tense as if her body were gearing up to convulse in a violent retch at any moment.
She could safely say it was the worst hangover she'd ever had.
She remembered Pansy giving her a sobering draught after they'd walked to the foot of Gryffindor Tower the night before, so her mind had been quite clear when she'd gone to bed. But the draught obviously didn't help with hangovers.
Hermione lay in the same spot for several minutes, staring at the inside of her bed curtains and debating whether she should move. She knew she needed to get to the bathroom – to rid her mouth of the taste of something rotting in it, and because she felt like she might vomit at any moment. But she didn't know if she'd make it that far – the thought of moving seemed unbearable and she feared that even the slightest shift in position might trigger her stomach muscles to contract and retch up her insides.
Finally, she gingerly reached for her wand, ignoring how her head protested at the movement, and cast her bed curtains open. She flinched as the morning light flooded her vision. What time was it? She cast her eyes around and noticed that the dorm was empty of people except for Parvati, who was pottering quietly about the room. It seemed offensive to Hermione how someone could move so easily without their body protesting violently, like hers was.
Then she remembered. Memories invaded her mind's eye like a mental assault: fire light, the black surface of the lake, cold sand beneath her feet...Parvati's shocked and hurt face.
Death Eater's whore.
Oh God. An awful mixture of shame and guilt flooded Hermione. And there was more, wasn't there? She searched her mind, but her memories of the night before were broken and fragmented… When did you turn into such a bitch? Hermione's stomach turned ominously and she felt bile in her throat. And there was something about Draco Malfoy as well – she inwardly recoiled at the memory of the kiss – or whatever it'd been – and she'd said something to him as well…but she couldn't think about that now.
She watched Parvati, who didn't seem to have noticed she'd woken up. Her dorm mate had pulled out an old t-shirt from the back of one of the wardrobes and was gazing at it with a far-way look in her eyes.
Hermione knew she needed to apologise – needed to explain – but she was worried she might retch if she tried to speak and her mind was finding it hard to form the right words.
Nevertheless, she pushed herself to a sitting position and forced the words out.
"Par," she began.
Parvati looked up from the t-shirt and blinked as if trying to clear her thoughts. When her gaze settled on Hermione, her expression became cold and she wordlessly raised her eyebrows, unimpressed but expectant. Her expression caused Hermione's insides to shrink and recoil and made it all so much harder, but she continued to push her words out.
"I'm sorry – for what I said last night. I was so drunk and – and I didn't mean it." It sounded feeble and clichéd and Hermione knew it wasn't enough.
Parvati gave her a dispassionate, assessing look.
'It's just – it's hard enough as it is,'' Parvati began, her voice steely. "Dealing with everything that happened last year. With the decisions I had to make. Blaise Zabini helped us then." Parvati shrugged – it was a defiant gesture – and walked slowly to her bed, which was beside Hermione's. "And I helped him to help us. I don't regret any of it. I know not everyone understands why I did what I did, not completely – not even Seamus and Neville – I've seen the way they look at me sometimes. The only person that would have understood, entirely and non-judgmentally – that had understood – she's dead." Parvati's voice had become more bitter as she'd spoken; her eyes were glistening with unshed tears. She cast the t-shirt she'd been holding onto her bed. "I keep finding her stuff...I suppose the house elves aren't going to clear away clothes," Parvati finished despairingly, before turning and walking to the door.
But before she exited the room, she turned back to Hermione. Her tone was plaintive.
"You know, I thought you of all people would treat words with more care," Parvati's eyes flitted to Hermione left arm. "Would know how deep they can wound." And with that, she turned and left the dorm.
Hermione's gaze drifted to the discarded t-shirt; she could read its name tag from where she sat: L. Brown.
Her stomach gave a sudden churn of protest. She tore her covers back, bolted to the bathroom, crouched over the toilet bowl and vomited violently. Once her stomach had expelled its contents, Hermione slumped back against the wall, catching her breath, her head pounding alarmingly and the fractured memories of the night before replaying in her mind.
A second wave of shame and humiliation flooded her, re-layering with each remembering: how drunk she had got; she must have seemed like a mad woman ranting at Parvati like that, and then at Malfoy...
She couldn't stand it anymore – she needed it all to stop. She rolled up her left pyjama sleeve and when she saw her cuts she remembered something else – how Malfoy had grabbed her arm and how much it had hurt.
There were fresh scabs over the wounds, delicate and loose, edged with crimson smudges. Habitually, Hermione started to pick at the letters. The caked blood came away easily and satisfyingly.
The pain she felt as her cuts opened again – sharp and localized – and the fresh blood she saw, startling in its brightness, was a welcome distraction from the memories of the night before.
By lunchtime, Hermione had almost recovered from her hangover. Ginny had brought her back some breakfast from the Great Hall – dry toast and crumpets wrapped in a napkin – and stood over her bed for far too long, looking down at her with a frown of concern. She had reminded Hermione of Molly in how she had hovered and fussed, saying that maybe Hermione needed some fresh air and they should go for a walk. But Hermione had insisted she was okay, that she just needed to rest for a little longer, and eventually Ginny had gone, muttering something about finding Harry and preparing for Quidditch practise.
By mid-morning, Hermione was able to stomach most of the breakfast left-overs that Ginny had brought her. An hour or so later, she felt able to move without retching and the pain in her temples had reduced to a dull ache. She managed to shower before heading outside the castle for the fresh air that Ginny had recommended.
She wandered into the main courtyard, unsure where she was aiming for...Ginny and Harry would be at Quidditch practise...maybe she could go to Hagrid's...
Hermione slowed in her stride as she spotted a group of people sitting on the low wall that ran around the perimeter courtyard: Zabini, Nott, Malfoy, Pansy and Daphne Greengrass. And oddly, Padma – whose hand was casually caressing Daphne's knee – and Parvati, who was sitting in between her twin and Zabini.
Yet again, her stomach lurched precariously. The group, which had been chatting and laughing amongst themselves, fell silent when they caught sight of Hermione. She was sure that if she looked more closely she would see judgement in their eyes. She suddenly felt vulnerable and very alone, standing on her own in the middle of the courtyard as a group of her fellow schoolmates stared at her, silent and hostile. She hadn't felt like this since her first year at Hogwarts: the odd one out, the loner, the 'unpopular one'.
But still, she hadn't been the only one in the wrong. She still remembered the way Malfoy had fisted his hand in her hair and crushed his lips against hers – remembered the words he'd spat in her ear. She'd decided she wasn't going to report it – it would cause much more trouble than it was worth – and after all she'd gone through, it just seemed too much to think about just then.
Speaking of which, Hermione saw Malfoy rise to his feet and start walking towards her. She contemplated turning and hurrying away but, as was becoming familiar when Malfoy was around, her body seemed to want to do the exact opposite to her mind. So she stayed standing until Malfoy stopped a few feet away from her.
His eyes were rimmed in red, and Hermione wondered if his hangover had been as bad as hers. He looked at her cautiously, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. "I – er – I just wanted to say that...about last night...well –"
"Hermione!" Pansy Parkinson was half-walking, half-jogging up to them. "Hermione," she repeated brightly when she reached them. "How's your head?"
"It hurts. My head hurts," Hermione replied dully. She wondered if both of them were planning on recounting her actions from last night and telling her what an awful person she was. She forced her legs to move, turned and began to stride determinedly away.
"I'm not surprised!" Pansy exclaimed, starting to walk beside her, much to Hermione's dismay. She noticed that Malfoy didn't follow them. "You were hilarious last night – the stuff you said!"
Hermione cringed at the shrillness of Pansy's voice. "I don't think many people were laughing." Despite herself, she couldn't help but look back at the courtyard wall, and noticed Malfoy rejoining the huddle of people there. Pansy followed her gaze.
"Oh, don't worry about them," Pansy said dismissively, as the two girls walked out the courtyard and onto the grassy slope beyond. "They'll get over it. Forming their own little House that lot. Gryfferins I call them."
"Padma's a Ravenclaw," Hermione corrected impassively.
"Oh, yeah... I suppose that doesn't quite work then. But honestly, don't beat yourself up for what happened last night. Sometimes, people need to hear the truth."
"I called Parvati a whore."
"Well, technically...she was. She gave sexual favours in return for goods – for information, rather than money, but still."
"That's twisted logic. I heard she genuinely liked – or likes – Zabini."
"But it's logic nonetheless."
There was a silence and Hermione hoped that maybe Pansy had run out of things to talk about and would go away. Why on earth was she following her anyway? Pansy had never made a secret of the disdain with which she held Hermione and her friends, and it had been fairly clear that the feeling had been mutual. But then...she had helped her last night, intervening at the fire and walking Hermione back to the castle.
"Thank you," Hermione found herself saying. "For last night."
"Oh. No worries," Pansy replied dismissively. "We've all been there – getting far too sozzled and saying things we later regret. Even if those things have a ring of truth about them. You were wrong about Draco, though," Pansy commented.
"What?"
"His dick," Pansy clarified. "Being little and potentially not working. Believe me, it's not and it does."
Hermione's stomach clenched. "Oh, I don't want to know!" she protested, which seemed to amuse Pansy because the girl let out a mirthful laugh. "What's going on with you two anyway?" Hermione asked, remembering vaguely that Malfoy and Pansy had some kind of history. She wasn't sure why she asked; she wasn't sure why she cared.
"Oh, absolutely nothing is going on with us anymore. That's all over. Too much has changed…the war…" Pansy's voice trailed off and Hermione was sure she detected a profound sadness in her tone.
"Yeah, a lot has changed," Hermione agreed quietly. "Although in some ways, I feel like I'm in the first year, starting all over again." She didn't know why she was telling Pansy such things, and part of her mind was ringing a warning bell that she should stop. But she found the words tripping off her tongue. "Like I'm the odd one out again."
"Are you serious?" Pansy's voice was incredulous. "You think you're the odd one out? Hermione Granger, brightest witch of her age, best friend of the boy-who-lived, war heroine, blah, blah, blah!?"
"Hmm...that's all part of the problem..." Hermione said quietly. "Sometimes I feel like I might suffocate from the weight of other people's expectations."
Pansy halted in her stride, and Hermione felt like she had no choice but to come to a stop beside her. Pansy looked at Hermione appraisingly, causing her insides to flinch at the scrutiny.
"Maybe you need to do what you want, not what you think other people want. Do what makes you feel good." Pansy smiled conspiratorially. "I'm sure you can get away with it...being the aforementioned Hot Gryffindor Princess."
Hermione cringed. "Hardly."
Pansy frowned, her eyes narrowing as if she was attempting to understand something. "Merlin's right tit, Hermione, you have no idea of your own assets do you?" She tilted her head appraisingly, and carried on thoughtfully. "But of course you don't...that's part of your appeal," Then her tone changed once more, firm and definitive: "You're very attractive, Hermione. Your bone structure is awesome. You have these lovely, full lips. Your hair is a tragedy – but there's things we can do about that.…"
Hermione cringed inwardly as Pansy continued. She'd never heard anyone describe her like that; even her parents had never really been complimentary about her looks – the Grangers just didn't find appearances important.
"And you're intelligent. Shrewd," Pansy was not ceasing the awkward barrage of compliments. "I bet you can suss people out in an instant. You're articulate – you'd win any verbal spar and I'm sure you have great powers of persuasion. Hermione Granger, with the right know-how, you could rule this school. You have so many tools at your disposal. But tools are only valuable if we know how to use them." Pansy's lips curled up into a sly smile. "Want me to teach you how?"
That evening, Hermione sat curled up on the window seat of the Gryffindor Common Room, her Advanced Ancient Runes book open on her lap. The seat had surpassed the armchair by the fire as her new favourite spot; these days, she preferred to be on the periphery, looking in.
She'd finally cracked the translation for the rune passage she'd been struggling with when Harry, who was sitting on the sofa by the fire, ripped a small purple book from Ginny's hand and sprung to his feet, exclaiming, "No fucking way!"
Ginny abruptly stood up too, a fierce frown on her face. "Harry, don't overreact!"
Harry was looking down at the book, frowning confusedly and flicking through its pages. "I can't see anything – the pages are empty. Are you sure that's what it says?"
"You wouldn't be able to see it because it's private, Harry. Alethea explained it would be invisible to anyone but me – it'll be the same with your one!"
Hermione put her own book down and sat up straight, her interest stirred by her friends' raised voices, as well as the mention of Alethea's name. The book in Ginny's hand looked familiar: the size, the embossed emblem on the front, the shade of purple. It was exactly the same as the one she'd been given for the 'therapeutic matching' intervention, which now sat in the drawer in her bedside table. Something twisted in Hermione's insides at the realisation that Ginny – and Harry too, by the sounds of it – were also having talking therapy sessions with Alethea. Why hadn't they told her?
"But you said it says it – it says your therapeutic match is Blaise Zabini?" Harry's voice was shrill and disbelieving.
With a start, Hermione remembered that it was the evening that Alethea would be revealing people's therapeutic matches; she hadn't thought much about the project since she'd discussed it with her.
"Yes, Harry. That's what it says," Ginny clarified defiantly, reaching forward and snatching the book back.
At their increasingly raised voices, more eyes in the common room turned to Ginny and Harry. Seamus, Dean, Parvati and Neville, who were sitting at the study table, put their quills down, stopped their chatter and turned to observe the unfolding drama.
"Well, you obviously can't do it. You've heard the rumours about Zabini, Ginny," Harry said angrily.
"They – the magic – wouldn't have put us together if there was going to be anything dangerous about it," Ginny replied exasperatedly.
"Well – well, maybe it's faulty,"
"I – I think Harry might be right," another voice joined the discussion, a quieter and less quarrelsome voice. Hermione turned and saw Neville frowning into his own Binding Book, which he'd opened at the table. "Mine says Pansy Parkinson?"
Seamus made a snorting-guffawing sound as Neville declared his fate, and Dean smiled in a kind of sympathetic amusement.
"Oh, I'm pretty pleased with mine," Parvati said with a small smile, her own purple book opened in front of her. "I've got matched with Hannah."
"You're doing it too?" Hermione couldn't help but ask, and at Neville's questioning look, she clarified: "Going to therapy?"
Why hadn't her friends told her? It somehow felt like a betrayal, that they were going to therapy sessions and hadn't told her; that she'd been left to feel as if she were the only one that was broken in some way...but then, that was all rather hypocritical of her, because she hadn't told anyone about going to therapy either.
Neville shrugged. "Didn't think it seemed like a bad idea...not after everything that's happened."
Or maybe, judging by Neville's comment, it just didn't seem like such a big deal to them.
"I'm not having any therapy, if it makes you feel better, Hermione," Seamus quipped. "Neither's Dean."
Dean looked askance at Seamus. "Er, yeah I am, mate. I wanted to see a Muggle therapist though, so McGonagall's letting me out of Hogwarts for appointments every week."
"A Muggle therapist doesn't count though, does it?"
Hermione was distracted from Seamus and Dean's discussion by Harry's raised voice.
"Ginny," his eyes were fixed on his girlfriend, standing metre or so away from him, the light from the fire causing her hair to glow blood-orange, "You have to say 'no' to this – please. Surely you can see this might endanger you? The rumours? A Slytherin? An ex-Death Eater?"
"Don't be ridiculous, Harry," Ginny snapped, hands on her hips, indignant and defiant. "And don't you dare dictate to me who I can and can't spend time with! Who did you get, anyway?"
Harry fumbled in his pocket, pulled out another purple book and opened the cover. His mouth curled up into a distasteful, confused kind of sneer.
"Daphne Greengrass," he said, bewildered.
Ginny raised her eyebrows in bemusement before her expression became fierce again. "Right. And how would you feel if I got all weird and possessive about you doing this – this therapy thing with her?"
"Well, I think that would be silly. Because the rumours about her are quite different to the rumours about Blaise Zabini. I'm really not her type. Being male and everything."
Ginny scoffed dismissively. "Yeah, it would be silly. But not because she's gay. But because I would trust you, Harry. Even if it was Romilda-fucking-Vane all over again!"
"Hermione," – Harry turned her – "What do you think?"
"She thinks you're being ridiculous – don't you Hermione?" Ginny turned her fierce gaze towards the window seat where Hermione sat.
She knew her friends were expecting her to give them both validation, which was an impossible task when they believed such contrary things. "Well, I mean, with Zabini's reputation – I can see what Harry means –"
"See!" Harry's voice was triumphant.
Ginny looked at her accusingly. Hermione squirmed – why was she always being torn in such different directions?
"But! BUT! If Zabini were to try anything, or get forceful – which is unlikely because none of that was proven anyway – Ginny can defend herself, Harry. She's as good a fighter as you. Seventh child of a seventh child and all that..."
Now it was Harry's turn to look at her as if she'd betrayed him.
She wanted the window seat to open up and swallow her, knowing she'd disappointed both of them. Pansy's words from earlier in the day came back to her: maybe you need to do what you want, not what you think other people want. Do what makes you feel good. The sentiments felt incredibly appealing.
Harry turned back to Ginny. "I just don't like the idea of him being...around you that much," he said sulkily.
"What do you think is going to happen? He can't even use his wand – you really think he's a match for me?" Ginny's face was getting a particular shade of red, which all the Gryffindors recognised as her bespoke warning sign. "Unless - unless this is about something other than Zabini's reputation, and it's about me? Surely...surely you trust me? Because that's what feels missing here? After everything Harry!? I love you – I've fucking loved you since I was eleven! Isn't that enough?" And with that, Ginny turned on her heel and stormed out of the common room.
Harry's shoulders visibly sagged as he watched Ginny stride away. He had a distinct expression of regret that Hermione recognised as one he wore when he knew he'd totally ballsed up. Hermione heard him swear under his breath before hurrying after her.
"Enjoy your make-up fuck!" Seamus called after him, causing Dean to burst out laughing and Neville to chuckle into his Binding Book.
Hermione hated it when Harry and Ginny fought, but that wasn't the only reason why her stomach was churning uncomfortably. She felt confident that Ginny could hold her own with Zabini; she wasn't worried about her with Zabini, but it was just that the match didn't make sense. What could Ginny possibly need from Zabini? What on earth could he offer that would help her 'heal'? And the same could be said about Pansy Parkinson and Neville.
But her disquiet, as with most things, felt shallow, like the light ripples on the surface of a lake, when underneath the body of water sat still and unmoving. The numbness she felt meant she could easily brush her concern away.
Her curiosity, however, was kindling like the most stubborn of cinders and she couldn't help but wonder who she had been paired up with. She put her rune book aside, climbed the stairs to her dormitory and retrieved her own Binding Book from the drawer of her bedside table; it was already getting buried under a stack of parchment.
When she opened the cover and read the name scrawled on the first page, she couldn't help but think that Harry and Neville may have been right, and that the system – the charm or potion or both – was faulty. For there, in sloping silver letters, she read the name of the person she'd been matched with:
Draco Malfoy.
A/N: Your favs, comments, thoughts and constructive feedback are cherished and treasured.