𝐁𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐭 | Dramione

Chapter 13

January 7 2000

such a comforting feeling,
loneliness.
all I want is to feel fulfilled,
surrounded by a sense of ecstasy
to no longer be lonely
you see
there's a difference between alone and lonely
one is peace in solitude
the other is torment in mind
but I feel safe here.
I know this emotion well,
I can navigate it.
so I'm torn,
because I will always find comfort here
alone.

~

Hermione read the note over four times. Twice the first time to make sure she had read it correctly. Another two times after to ensure that he had written it. Draco's elegant handwriting—the same as the first note he'd left her months ago— stared back at her. She shoved it deep into her pocket, unable to discern the feeling of intimacy or pure rage she felt when he was near her. She pondered over the content of letter. Did he really mean what he wrote?

Hermione gathered her things, leaving Madam Pomfrey's little room. In the Great hall, whispers flew around her as she walked to the gryffindor table to greet everyone. They'd been so scared Malfoy had done something to hurt her, that's all they spoke about for an hour.

Hermione caught his gaze from across the lot. Draco was staring intently—studying her— and it made her stomach tighten. She wondered if he ever thought about her, past her blood status. Whether he wondered if her head still hurt, or how angry she on a scale of one to ten, or how deeply he had hurt her again. But all Hermione saw was his stone cold exterior; the way his eyes would flutter to hers in disgust, his lips curl into that cocky smirk, the way he'd roll his eyes and scoff at her presence.

Despite that, Hermione believed she could see something glistening through him. Though she wasn't quite sure what it was, he'd taken the time to write that note addressed to her, signed by his initials.

~*~

The new year had struck Hermione like a blow to the gut. She'd wished it was a fresh start—a clean slate— where the poison in her arm could restart its irreversible process and grant her more time. Time was running against her. Hermione's sickly reflection looked back in the mirror, the black tendrils drawn just past her shoulder.

The weather had reached its coldest peak as the middle of winter wrapped her bones in an icy hug. Hermione would watch the snow fall from the bay window of her room— the same room she'd spent the last seven months isolated in. She was so tired. Tired of being alone, tired of being in pain, tired of her mind, tired of her body. 

In the weeks upon his return, Draco found himself looking back into the nothingness of his life. Years. All broken into months into weeks into days—into hours, minutes, and seconds—moments. Moments stretched into ages and eras across space and time, unmeasurable time. And he would sit with Blaise, Theo, and Pansy, wasting more of them. Perhaps that's why they were put in Slytherin— not a care in the world for those unimportant to you— perhaps that's why they didn't notice. Draco regretted these moments, some within his control, some without; but all irreversible. And at some point, he'd stopped keeping track of this lost time. Moments are only moments. The past is behind you. The future is unknown. Beyond that, no one knew.

Certainly not Draco Malfoy.

Certainly not Hermione Granger.

It was a fascinating topic; fate. Hermione had long pondered on the subject seeing that the unpredictability of her life often made her question why all of this was happening. She'd thought about millions of scenarios and outcomes. What if Harry had died and Voldemort succeeded? Would she be dead? Or reduced to human chattle? Perhaps sold to the hungry, awaiting arms of the death eaters— to someone like Lucius or perhaps Draco?