requirement | dramione

0.00 : june 30, 1997

disclaimer:

as you all should know, all characters and initial plot line belong to j.k. rowling. this story is simply my own extension of her masterpiece.

warning:
this piece includes mature content. yes, that means sex and cursing, but there is more to it than that. this book will dive into depression, abuse, eating habits that can and will be closely analyzed to disordered eating, pathological perfectionism similar to ocpd, and more.

 if these topics are triggering for you, please be careful while reading. 

prologue

june 30, 1997

"Let me help you, Draco." Albus Dumbledore's voice was stern and steady, just as it always had been.

Hermione Granger and Harry potter stood still– transfixed. Frozen into motionless in their hiding place on the landing beneath their headmaster, watching through the lattice pattern of the metal platform.

Hermione's eyes burnt and her nose stung, signifying that she was holding back tears. The kind of tears that left behind smeared mascara and red eyes and torn hearts. There was movement on the other side of the platform above them; Hermione's eyes slowly shifted to trace the blonde haired boy.

"I don't want your help." Draco Malfoy's voice rattled through the cool night air, like water turning into ice. His tone was forceful and aggressive, a sound through barred teeth and a clenched jaw.

She wanted to see his face. Wanted to see if he was scared. Wanted to see if there was a thick layer of fear and grief emanating from his heart. Or perhaps he had been heartless, through-and-through, and was standing with his wand outstretched. Standing proudly, glad to be a Death Eater, glad to be the one to kill Albus Dumbledore.

It was there that Hermione realized she'd loved him and, somehow, never really known him at all. How silly that seemed– to have hardly even know him, but loved him with every fiber of her being.

"Draco–" Dumbledore began, slowly, only to be cut short.

"Does no one fucking understand?" The young wizard bit, coldly. The way he did when he was angry. "I have to do this–" and Draco raised his wand higher, steadily staring at the headmaster who stood on the losing side of his weapon. "Don't you get it? He's going to kill you either way. All of you. If I do this, no one else has to die."

"Did Lord Voldemort tell you that, you man?"

Hermione had always found a sense of calm in Dumbledore's voice, but not tonight.

"No. I'm not that naive, old man," Draco scoffed, his wand still pointed like a dagger, "but He swore that if I killed you, my parents would be spared."

"There is something else. Something more than the sake of your parents and your own ranking."

"He promised that He wouldn't touch her."

Next to her, hidden on the platform below, Harry's cheeks were fiercely red; burnt by the wind or his anger. Hermione wasn't sure which. The crack in his glasses had grown since this morning. If he would have just given them to her– she could've fixed them. She could've fixed everything.

Harry's green eyes stung against her skin. Hermione could feel his stare pulling apart every syllable that had left her lips. He blinked once, then twice, and looked away from the lying mess she had made of herself.

"You know exactly how much danger she is in," Draco's voice had lost its steadiness. His voice shook, slightly rushed and too loud. "The entire prospect of this war is on the basis of killing her. A fucking genocide against people like her.... The best I can do it kill you and save her."