Bathwater

Betraying the Brightest Witch

Maybe she knew it would end up like this.

After all, her brain tried to tell her—tried to warn her. That brilliant, sensible, logical mind of hers knew perfectly well from the start who the Ministry of Magic was marrying her off to—who they were imprisoning her to. They handed Draco Malfoy the key when they tightened shackles around her wrists and she told them the message her brain had been shouting at her since the moment the sorting hat called out his name: run.

Run from the cruel boy who bullied her.

Run from the arrogant boy who thought she was unfit to breathe the same air as him.

Run from the terrified boy who let Death Eaters into Hogwarts castle.

She tried to, of course. Because Hermione Jean Granger always listened to rational thought before letting pesky, instinctive emotions get the best of her. Plenty of times she took flight, ready to jump, swim, sink, or crawl away from Draco, but he always caught up to her.

When she expected brutal retaliation for her protest and rejection, all he would give her was a whisper of I'm just trying to get to know you, Granger. 

Her cognizant, consistent brain tried to warn her that predators would do anything to coax their prey, but untrustworthy, flooding hormones and an inept, blind heart yelled over all reasonable thought. When his grey eyes glowed like moonlight, when he left caressing fingerprints on her skin, and when he left the taste of his tongue against hers, Hermione believed him.

I forgive you, Draco.

What a silly, lovesick idiot the Brightest Witch of the Age had been to believe he was not there to push, drown, or steady her against the fall. 

I have Granger right where I need her.

He was right. God, even in the good, blind, fake days, Hermione would never admit that Draco Malfoy was right about anything, but he was right about this. About her—about where he had her. She had thought it had been the clouds, all pink and lilac colors, but it was an abysis, dark and cold. His foot on her back and his hands over her eyes, intent on never letting her see or climb out for the light. 

"Where the hell have you been—?"

"Fuck sakes, 'Mione—"

Hands wrapped around Hermione's shoulders and wrists, yanking her from the dimly lit corridor she had been wandering. Her poor, brilliant head was barely clinging on to sanity from the tornado currently wrecking havoc, but somehow it knew to guide her where she needed to be.

"'Mione," Harry spoke again, his arms enveloping tight around her trembling frame. His previous annoyance, which had been a few degrees less in anger than Ginny's, was only an echo now as worry took over. "What's wrong? Are you hurt?"

Not hurt, Hermione wanted to tell him, Ginny's hands now searching to find evidence of any outside wound, I'm shattered into lone atoms. 

"You missed the wedding," he continued as Ginny took a step back now, her arms folding across her chest. "Where have you been? Gin and I've been glued to the Mauraders Map since Malfoy told us he couldn't find you."

How can he not, Hermione almost said, but a fresh wave of tears burned past her lashes, soaking Harry's old, tattered Wierd Sisters t-shirt, I'm everywhere. He turned me to fragments the wind scattered. 

A warm hand touched her shoulder again. "I'll give you two a minute," murmured Ginny, her thumb brushing gently on the skin Hermione's pretty dress exposed. "She needs you."

"Gin—"

"You're rubbish at this feeling thing, Harry," there should have been laughter underlining her words, Hermione knew, but the anger Ginny had felt before had now transformed into the same worry etched across her husband's face, "but for some reason she always finds comfort with you. While I could take it personally, seeing as I've been known to be quite wise and not emotionally inept, you're her best friend. Sort her out."