Ultraviolence
Dramione
summary: Traumatized Hermione comes back to Hogwarts for her Eight Year in hopes of healing. Little does she know that healing might also come from violence. Which is exactly what Draco is determined to give her.
tags: Dark | Toxic Draco Malfoy | Depressed Hermione Granger | Depression | Self-Harm | "Coquetish" Vibes | Obsessive Hermione Granger | Diary/Journal | Trauma | Obsession with the Colour Pink (sorry not sorry)
Sad Girl
Rain pattered on the windows of the castle as Hermione stared outside with unseeing eyes. The storm was raging; it tore the leaves off trees and disturbed the usually calm waters of the Black Lake. Hermione's gaze was empty. She felt numb. She tried to read her battered copy ”Wuthering Heights”—a book she hoped was dismal enough to accompany her wretched mood—but quickly found herself unable to focus on the words on the page. You say I killed you, haunt me then. She was a ghost, haunting herself. A bottomless void perpetually staring back at itself. A shadow of a shadow.
Being here, in this castle, where she had spent her formative years and had flourished into a young woman only to find herself amidst war and get wrecked somewhere along the lines of it—being at Hogwarts made the contrast between who she was and who she had become too painful to bare. The came back for her Eight Year hoping to channel that academically bright young girl she knew was still there deep inside of her somewhere. The first week of September had come and gone and the key from that hidden part of her was yet to be found. She spent the whole year following the Battle trying to coax the energized, hopeful, ambitious Hermione out of her shell— with therapy, meditation, physical exercise— to no avail. Hogwarts was her last hope.
Honestly, not everything was so bad upon her return. She was glad to see familiar faces and to know that she wasn't alone feeling an utter sense of doom; she saw it in the eyes of Dean Thomas, in the scars of Lavender Brown, in the stammer of Marcus Flint even. She was also glad to use the privileges of Eight Years: individual dorms with queen-sized beds, Prefect bathroom, access to the Restricted Section of the library (her favourite). So, this morning she used her privilege of having a room all to herself and woke up three hours before class to read her book still in her pyjamas without worrying of disturbing any roommates.
She sighed and closed the book. Then put her hair up into a bun and changed from her cherry print pyjamas into her school uniform, adding light pink, almost white tights into the symphony and a pink bow in the place of the Gryffindor tie— to compensate for her lost girlhood, perhaps? After regarding her reflection in the mirror with expressionless eyes, finding little praiseworthy, she left for the Potions class.
When she entered Slughorn's class, it was already too noisy for her. Eight Years from all four colleges were stuffed into one room and the noise was unavoidably loud. She was greeted by her unfortunate faux friend group that consisted of Neville, Cho, and Padma, whom encircled her into a safe cocoon Parvati complimenting her outfit, and Cho asking her a question about last night's Transfiguration homework while Neville gave her a small smile. Hermione talked to them and answered their questions with a friendly smile and a joyful expression on her face. She tried her best. She really did.
"I had horrible nightmare last night, you know," Parvati said. " I dreamt that horrible snake." She shuddered. " Couldn't fall back asleep. Don't think I'll be able to focus much today."
Hermione listened without speaking or reacting and when Parvati finished, Hermione felt the girl's eyes on her. This was Parvati's way of making Hermione open up: tell her something about her own trauma-induced hardships and wait for Hermione to do the same.
"I'm very sorry," Hermione answered without elaborating.
Parvati frowned, her gaze still burning through her. But Hermione was saved by Slughorn's entrance, and Parvati turned away to look ahead, leaving her and Neville to pair up. Slughorn paired Hermione with Neville last week in hopes that they could play into each others strengths—or, to put simply, so Hermione could drag Neville up from the bottom.
Slughorn went to the front of the class to explain today's task, and Neville leaned into Hermione's side to ask, "Hermione, is everything alright with you?"
Her smile was wobbly, and she answered without taking her eyes from Slughorn's moving mouth, "Yes, Neville, I'm fine, don't worry about me."
She knew Neville was still looking at her, she felt his gaze, their eyes, everyone's eyes on her, everybody's. Luckily, he didn't question her further. Hermione fervently wrote down the instructions that Slughorn dictated. They were to make a
Slughorn turned to the blackboard with a wave of his wand. Notes appeared on it:
Sanguis Venenum
The Poisoned Blood Elixir
Category: Dark-Alchemical
Effect: Temporarily renders the drinker's blood toxic and ineffective.
Duration: 12–36 hours.
After reading it, Hermione’s hand shot up. It felt like a performance, as if watching someone else make her do it.
“Yes, Miss Granger?”
“This potion is restricted under the Ministry’s 1875 Magical Ethics Act,” she said. “Is it even legal for us to study it?”
Slughorn chuckled. “Oh, quite right, quite right! But entirely legal for academic review, so long as we don’t actually brew it. Which—” he gave a pointed look at the Slytherin table “—we will not be doing today.”
He turned back to the board. “Now. This potion’s effects are… morbid, yes, but fascinating. Upon ingestion, the drinker’s blood becomes fatally toxic to most biological life forms. It’s not immediate death, mind you—more like a corrosive, magically reactive venom.”
He tapped the board. “Ingredients include: powdered thistle root for vascular absorption, ironroot to stabilize the magical toxicity, and ashworm bile as the catalyst—horrid stuff. One drop of this potion in the bloodstream, and even a bite from a vampire would kill the attacker. Now, get to work! You have five hours.”
Hermione dove head-first gathering the ingredients, lighting up the fire under the kettle and chopping up herbs with such fervour that Neville was rendered speechless, unable to work so fast, so he only watched her effort from afar. Halt an hour later, Hermione flinched, feeling Slughorn's hand on her shoulder.
“Miss Granger, dear, no need to hurry. We're working in pairs, remember? Give your friend Neville the chance to show off his skillset!”
Hermione leaned back in her chain, defeated. Neville rounded their desk, appearing beside her and gently taking over the chopping. She found herself breathing heavily with exertion and try to calm down now that there's was nothing else for her to do but watch Neville's half-hearted attempts at making a half-decent potion. Slowly, she looked around the room her gaze stopping by the rain battering the windows of the classroom. She listened to the sound that used to bring her comfort, but now only reminded her of sleepless nights in the tent.
After some time, boredom made her eyes trail elsewhere, only to be captivated by a masculine back, clothed with nothing but a crisp white shirt. He had grown tall and wide and muscular in the past year. He never wore his uniform, only that white shirt, underneath which his many black-inked tattoos were visible to her scrutinizing gaze. Hermione saw Draco Malfoy in the Great Hall, in the many classes they had together, in the corridors, walking around quietly and imperceptibly like a haunting ghost. He was always alone; even now, when they had to work in pairs. She watched his back muscles ripple under the strain as he chopped with a knife, spelled with his wand, kneaded with his hands. His sleeves were rolled up, uncovering his toned forearms with a snake tattooed on the right one. Hermione stared at the perfect blue veins jutting out. As if feeling his eyes on her, Draco turned around, and she got the chance to savour the vision that was his face. He looked like a sharp bleached bone that the ocean washed out from a long-sunken shipwreck. His face was angular and severe, with high protruding cheekbones and paper-thin skin. His eyes were milky, cruel and unfocused, and when they landed on her, noticing her staring, they turned thunderous. The line of his lips was harshly downturned.
Swallowing thickly, Hermione cast her eyes down to her hands, feeling a blush creep up her neck and face. She spent the rest of the class like this.
The rest of the day unfolded like a dream half-remembered but still frightening. Charms was next. Today was a lecture-heavy session on layered defensive enchantments, and Hermione tried, really tried, to engage. Her voice, when she answered, sounded too practiced.
During a break, she found herself in the hallway, leaned against the cold stone wall, chewing on a piece of ginger biscuit she hadn’t meant to accept from Susan Bones. Her hand clutched it unconsciously while Susan prattled on about an essay for Arithmancy. Hermione nodded when appropriate, and stared over Susan’s shoulder at a group of Sixth Years giggling by the window.
Hermione quickly ate her lunch at the half-empty Great Hall, then, having fifteen or so minutes to spare she discreetly took out her powder-pink notebook with fully edges and mirror heart on the cover from her bag. Only the first ten pages of the notebook were filled—but she had spent only a week at Hogwarts and in his presence. She opened the notebook carefully, making sure that no one was close enough to read what she had written or was about to write. She took out her white-feathered quill, and, instead of writing down all her hurts and sorrows, her dangerously dark thoughts, threatening to consume and destroy her, she wrote exactly the same observations she had accumulated each time she regarded Draco Malfoy—The vein just below his collarbone pulses slower than the one at his temple—blue, almost bruised-looking, like ink trapped under skin—he scratches it absently when he's thinking, index finger always curled a little too tightly, like he’s trying not to snap—his fingernails are too clean, almost surgical, and there's a tiny white scar at the base of his thumb that wasn't there last week—left-handed grip on the wand, not dominant, compensating, why?—he drags his feet half a second behind everyone else in the corridor but never looks rushed—his breath fogs only slightly in the dungeons, too shallow, like he doesn’t want anyone to hear it—when he turns his head there's a sharp angle just beneath his jaw, bone pressed thin against skin, it catches the light like a blade—his eyes are not grey today but the color of old water left in a basin, clouded, distant, like he's somewhere else entirely, somewhere colder—he blinks exactly once every twelve seconds, timed it, he never stares, only observes—his robes hang looser than last term, like he’s shrinking or shedding or both—he does not smile, not even when Pansy tries to make him—his mouth just tightens, like it hurts to move it—and I wonder if it does—that sort of thing.
After finishing the entry of the day, Hermione found herself flushed and swiftly closed the notebook, stuffing it back into her bag. She left the Great Hall with her head bowed.
By the time Defense Against the Dark Arts came around, she was depleted. Hermione sat beside Dean Thomas, who greeted her with a quick fist bump. She responded with a wan smile and focused on the blackboard. Dean kept sneaking glances at her during the lecture, his brow furrowed. She ignored them.
“Alright,” McClaggan barked, “pair up and attempt the Remotenis Dispel. Supposed to force a disarmed opponent’s wand to return to their hand. Helps victims of disarming trauma—let’s see how you do.”
Hermione paired with Dean. He was patient and careful, and even joked to lighten the mood.
“If I accidentally blast your wand into orbit,” he said, “just know it’s not personal.”
She smiled, but only just.
When it was her turn, she hesitated. Her wand wavered in her hand.
“Remotenis—” she whispered, voice cracking.
The wand didn’t move. Dean waited.
She tried again. Nothing.
Dean stepped forward, gently closing his hand over her wrist. “Hey. You alright?”
Hermione felt tears sting the corners of her eyes and quickly blinked them back. “Fine,” she said, voice clipped.
She backed away and nodded for him to take the turn. As everyone packed up their things, Hermione remained still. She sat in her chair, fingers pressed into her temples, willing the storm inside her to still. She thought she was all alone, but then she heard movement behind her, and, knowing exactly who it was, her head snapped up. Malfoy stood by her desk, his expression unreadable.
“Class is over,” he said dryly, as if she wasn’t aware.
Hermione stood too fast, chair scraping behind her. She meant to walk away, to brush past him without a word, but her foot caught on the leg of the chair. She stumbled—briefly—and in reaching out to steady herself, her arm collided with his, and he instinctively pulled away. His hand jerked back—but not before his fingers caught the fabric of her tights. He stared at his hand that had touched her as if his limb had belonged to someone else, not him.
Hermione looked down. A gash now ran from her mid-thigh down to her shin, the tear widening by the second in her pale pink tights. She put her hand on the rip, as if her fingers could cover the damage, and then looked up expecting to see Draco stare at her exposed skin, but instead, his eyes were on her… pink bow.
Unreadable. Indeterminable. Eyes wide. Pupils blown.
His jaw clenched once.
Hermione’s throat locked up, heart pounding like it wanted out of her chest, and she pushed past him, dragging her back with her. She practically ran down the corridors and up the stairs until she reached her room, and by then, the tears were streaming heavily down her face and the vision in the mirror of her red face and puffy eyes made her sob even more. She violently tore the tights off her legs. And unclasped the bow from her throat.
Almost unconsciously she grabbed the small blade hidden at the bottom of her trunk and unrolled the sleeve of her shirt to reveal her Mudblood scar. She checked her reflection to find that her eyes had glossed over and no actions after that point could be considered her own doing. Slowly, she tipped the blade and tore it into the soft pale flesh of her arm, mimicking the pattern of the old scar—M-U-D-B-L-O—by the last few letters she almost fainted. Holding herself upright by leaning her arm by the cupboard, she quickly spoke a healing charm with her wand in the other trembling hand, but the scar was still bright red—exactly what she wanted. Finally, Hermione took a Sleeping Draught and fell into a deep dreamless and painless sleep.
To be continued…
