𝐁𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐭 | Dramione

Chapter 6

October 15 1999

the creature roars in the distance
i sprint, avoiding the fine line called death
but the darkness creeps faster
i'm not fast enough
i can't outrun it
so i hide
it finds me and i scream
gripping the grass
as it sucks me back in
no one cares
no one hears me pleads.

~

Four months. She really didn't know what to do. She was falling apart and losing hope that it would get better. That she could get better. How naive can I be?

Hermione knew that dark magic was deadly. She knew what it did, how it left death and destruction in its wake. Yet she refused to tell anyone. Not Harry, or Ron, or Luna. She'd refused to accept that it was happening. Perhaps if she'd just focus on reading and finding the cure, it was just as simple as solving a math problem.

But life isn't easy. Or fair.

It was nighttime and Hermione made herself a cup of chamomile tea. Two sugars and a teaspoon of honey. She sat cross-legged on the bed, another textbook laying on the pillow. The contents of the book laughed at her. She'd read it at least four times. It was long overdue for a new set.

Her muggle clothes were piling up near her desk. Jeans, sweaters, and her Hogwarts robe sat on top. She threw over a dark green sweatshirt and headed for the library.

"Lumos."

It was empty. Of course, it was one in the morning. She could see the familiar outlines of the bookshelves holding some of her favourite novels but Hermione didn't read for fun anymore, she only read for research purposes.

The aisles were lit by her wand, as she placed back the pile of books she was retuning. One by one, they ascended themselves to their place on the shelves. Down the aisles, she gathered any books related to dark magic and healing charms she could find, stacking them into her arms. She could barely see in front of her. A tall figure stopped her in her tracks and Hermione could only see the outline of his body, leaning against one of the shelves near the restricted section. The stack of books tipped over as she went to reach for it. In one swift movement, Draco caught it below her and sat down, legs crossed over the table.

She slammed the books down. Hermione found it strange how he knew where to find her.

"What are you doing," she commanded impatiently.

"Just reading—Healing Charms for Beginners— You're reading charms for beginners?" he remarked, reading the title of her book.

"It's late Malfoy."

"I thought you were the brightest witch of your age," he remarked with false elation.

Hermione rolled her eyes.

"I obviously know all of these, I was just reviewing the basics in case I missed anything."

He mocked, "Obviously."

Draco rolled his eyes. "So this is what a Mudblood does in her free time? Re-reading old textbooks for fun? How bloody pathetic," he seethed.

Her eyes shot up.

Hermione's nostrils flared and she pursed her lips into a hard line, trying to contain the anger that was boiling inside. She suddenly became aware of the stinging pain in her arm. This damned word—the one he needed to call her whenever he needed a bloody ego boost—now meant something else entirely. It was no longer just a horrible insult but the very thing that was killing her. She wanted to punch him the way she had during third year. But she didn't have the energy to.