Honorary Slytherin

He had a knife too. She had a knife, and he had a knife, and she was fairly certain that his knife and her knife were quite similar. Similar in the way that they were used for the same thing. To cut. Not that she would anymore, oh no, once had been quite enough, more than enough, to last her for the rest of her life. But she knew he still did. Or thought so anyway.

Hermione had actually found the knife during a late patrol of the dungeons, when she had accidentally kicked it across the stone corridor, causing it to go skittering along, making obnoxiously loud clanging noises. Well, it wasn't that loud, but the silence had seemed impenetrable until she had kicked that knife. Hunching over, her fingers grasped the engraved medal handle of the pocket knife. She picked it up, and without a thought or a moment's pause to inspect the contraband item, she stuffed it greedily into her pocket. Hermione figured that if she ever decided to cut again, she would use this knife, as it was considerably smaller than the one she had used before. Not so much damage this time.

It had taken her two whole days before she looked at the knife. She had been visiting Ron and Harry, as she often did, sitting in the Common Room, enjoying what little piece of sanity they could all share. Bored, she had pulled the knife out and begun to click out the blade, and click it back in.

Clickclickclick. Click.

"Hermione." It had been Harry that stopped her, and he had been staring at the blade as if it was the Dark Lord himself.

"Why on earth do you have that knife," Harry had asked confusedly, quietly, eyes skimming over the sharp silver blade. It was so incredibly sharp, that it scared him. Scared him more than thestrals, more than boggarts, more than Lucius Malfoy on a bad day.

"I picked it up on one of my rounds, Harry," Hermione said stiffly, returning the blade to her robe pocket.

"And you keep it in your pocket," Ron, who had been oddly silent through the whole ordeal, asked from his perch in a burgundy armchair.

"I guess I had just forgotten to take it out," Hermione retorted icily. What was this? The Spanish Inquisition? They had no right at all. They didn't even know her anymore.

"You guess," Harry asked angrily, if not hurt.

"Yes, Harry. I guess. I had forgotten that I had the knife in my bloody pocket, and I honestly have no idea why you're making this out to be such a big deal. It's a pocket knife, a tiny blade- that's all." But even as Hermione said these words, she wasn't sure if she believed them. Had she really forgotten to take the knife out? Or had she wanted to keep it in her pocket forever, because it filled her with a sense of security, however false, and comfort? Was it just a tiny blade? Was that really all it was?

"Nevermind, Hermione. It doesn't matter. I guess I'm just worked up over you; you seem to be growing more and more distant with each passing day," Harry said softly, moving from his armchair to where Hermione sat slumped over on the Common Room couch. "I, we," Harry said, motioning to Ron, "miss you a lot. All the time, Hermione. We just miss having you here with us, in the Gryffindor Tower. You're always locked away up in that Heads' dorm of yours."

It wasn't enough that she was depressed. It wasn't enough that she didn't get the male attention she deserved. It wasn't enough that she had no self-confidence. It just wasn't enough.

Now her friends were mad at her and had accused her of being unsocial.

Hadn't they?

Well, it didn't matter because five minutes later Hermione had left the Gryffindor Common Room, strutting purposefully back to her 'hovel'. As she rounded the last corner on her journey back to her dormitory, her hand delved back into her robe pocket. The entire walk back, that little knife had been haunting her. Calling out to her. She wanted to take it out. She wanted to look at it. She wanted to see how sharp the blade was. She wanted to cut herself.

Until she saw the initials engraved on the handle of the blade. 'D.M.' was carved perfectly into the handle of the knife.

D.M.D.M.D.M.

It went through her head like a song. A very annoying, corny children's song that played on infomercials around noon. This knife is Draco Malfoy's, Hermione thought to herself incredulously.

Of course, that didn't mean that Draco cut himself. He probably didn't. Lots of boys kept pocket knifes. In case the needed to cut a loose string off of something... or carve something... or something... right?

Didn't they?

Having a pocket knife in no way meant that you cut yourself. But to Hermione, it meant that you might. That you might be just like here, holed up in some decrepit old bathroom, viciously mutilating yourself until you couldn't see straight. And that meant that the very first thing on Hermione's 'To-Do' List was to find Draco and confront him about his knife.

Which she did four days later, on a Friday evening after dinner had ended. Draco had been standing on the flight of stairs outside the Great Hall, talking to some boy, obviously a Ravenclaw by the emblem on his robes. A younger year, too, as Hermione hadn't seen him in any of her classes. Hermione marched up the stairs towards Draco; he looked at her warily as she stood next to the Ravenclaw boy. What was she doing here?

"Malfoy," Hermione said, making sure not to speak to icily. She didn't want him to turn her away.

"Granger." Draco nodded to the Ravenclaw, motioning that he should get lost. Which he did. Very, very quickly. No one wanted to get in the middle of a Granger/Malfoy fight. Especially not right before the weekend.

"What do you need, Granger," Draco drawled, crossing his arms over his chest.

"This," Hermione spit out like a crazed person. "This knife, Draco. It's yours isn't it? Huh? It's yours."

"Yes, Granger, that would be my knife." Draco plucked the knife from Hermione's slender fingers, just like he was taking candy from a baby. "And they call you the smartest witch of our age. Honestly, Granger. Who else has the initials 'D.M.'?"

She felt stupid. Honest-to-God stupid, for the first time in her entire life. Why had she verbally attacked him? Why was it such a big deal to her, whether or not the knife was his and whether or not he cut himself?

"Malfoy, I...I-I," Hermione stuttered out, not finding the words to apologize.

"Granger. Spit it out."

"Shove it, Malfoy."

"Shove it where, exactly?"

Hermione was sick of him. Sick of his suggestive taunting, brutal teasing-absolutely sick of him. Yet she couldn't tell him off for having a knife and she found that her feet refused to budge. She was stuck there. And the scariest thing was, it was her own will to be stuck there.

But she wasn't going to stay there for long, oh no, she had more dignity than to stand there acting like a mad person. Grabbing Malfoy's wrist, she wrenched his arm towards her, twisting it and shoving the sleeve of his robe up until it reached his elbow. What she saw was everything she had been hoping for, everything she had wanted, everything she had assumed.

Draco Malfoy was a cutter.