Coping Mechanisms

25. Hermione

"Darkness cannot drive out darkness; only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate; only love can do that."

-Martin Luther King, Jr.

Saturday, September 19, 1998

Hermione's palm stung as she awoke, her eyes similarly straining as they adjusted to the light. The sun filtered in through her window, highlighting the dust motes wafting through the air. It took mere moments to realize where she was, and the day before came flooding back, pain shattering her heart like fragile porcelain. The even breathing she'd developed in slumber stuttered as a fresh wave of panic consumed her.

They don't remember you, her brain screamed. And they never will.

Crookshanks grumbled in protest as Hermione shot up from bed, disturbing the dozing Kneazle at her hip. She huddled over the edge of the mattress, legs dangling as she rested her elbows on her knees, and her face in her hands. Her fingers combed shakily through her hair, entangling in the roots as her body trembled. Hermione forced a few uneven breaths, stifling the sobs that threatened to overtake her. Even now, her eyes still felt raw and abused, evidence of all the crying she'd done the night before. Of all the tears she'd shed into Draco's sleeve, and then afterwards into her own pillow. She should have been mortified of the former, of how easy it'd been to find comfort in Draco's touch. Of how quickly she'd ran into his waiting arms.

But she wasn't.

If it hadn't been for him, she'd have undoubtedly fallen apart. She could still feel his lips at her temple and the warmth of his breath, could still smell the sandalwood of his sweater and the copper of her blood. Hermione pulled the hand from her hair and flexed her fingers, studying the crease as her skin pulled. The gash in her palm was now an irritated, pink line, and nothing more. She had no doubt it'd be gone by tomorrow, and then there'd be nothing left. No scar, no mirror, and for her parents, no memories. It'd be just her.

Just her.

Hermione choked back a sob, ribs aching. Her hands flew to her knees, fingers squeezing until her knuckles turned white. Tears blurred the edges of her vision, threatening to overflow, even as she fought them back. Her breath came in sharp, painful bursts, the oxygen wringing her lungs like a sponge. She rocked forwards and back, matching her movements to each shallow inhale and exhale of air. Nothing shook the words away.

Just you, just you, just you.

Hermione stood abruptly, arms wrapping tightly around her stomach. She had to move, had to do something to rid the intrusive thoughts dominating her brain. She rushed to the door, fully aware of how labored her breathing had become. Her hands fiddled sloppily with the doorknob, and she flung it wide open, hair fanning wildly over her cheeks. Hermione's eyes scanned the room, and her breathing all but stopped as she noticed the boy resting on her couch. His blonde hair was striking against the sea of worn leather, one arm splayed across the bridge of his nose. Hermione mutely pressed forward, her panic momentarily forgotten as she slowly approached. Draco's chest rose and fell with deep, even breaths, and he didn't stir even as she stood over him, studying him with curious eyes.

He'd stayed?

Last Hermione remembered, she'd slinked off to her room early, energy depleted. She'd figured he'd let himself out, hadn't heard any evidence of his presence after.

Then again, maybe she'd been crying too loud to hear anything else.

Her weary heart pulsed, mindful of the fact Draco hadn't left. He'd chosen instead to sleep on her couch, even though it was old, and probably uncomfortable. Though the fire had kept the room warm, she still felt guilty about his lack of pillows and blankets. He'd willingly suffered, just to stay.