How Could This Happen to Me?

The cool night air drifted almost lazily through the curtains, bringing with it the smells of May, and the last thing I wanted to do was open my eyes. If I opened my eyes, then it would all be real, it would all catch up with me. There would be no more wondering, no more second guessing, no more denial.

I finally opened them, and in the darkness I could barely make out the familiar furnishings of the Head Girl dormitory. Instead of bringing me comfort, they only brought another lurch of fear.

I don't exactly remember how I came to be lying in my bed, or even why. There's a somewhat dim, hazy memory of collapsing here hours ago, but it now escapes me what the particular circumstances were.

Another pain emitted from my abdomen and another wave of terror washes over me. I feel the need to throw up, but my dinner has long since been disposed of.

I want it to go away. I want this to all to dissolve into some horrible dream.

But everything in the last few months has been real--all too real.

It was never right. Those stolen moments behind close doors had been so wrong, and yet, for those brief, precious hours, it didn't matter. I couldn't even remember what was right and what was wrong with his arms wrapped around me, and with his powerful kisses, and with his cologne wafting into my nose, and that glorious moment when he was finally there--finally inside me, and all I could think about was how good it felt, and he whispered all those sweet nothings in my ear, and that was all that mattered. But the next morning when I would stand in the shower for hours just trying to get the feel of his fingers in my hair, his touch, his voice, his smell, his very presence off of me, out of mind, I would ask myself how I could be so stupid, so immature, and the only answer I was come up with was that there was absolutely nothing to say for myself.

How could this--this, of all things--happen to me? How could the Head Girl, the perfect, upstanding, snobby, practical, grounded Hermione Granger have something like this happen to her? If I could screw up this badly, if I could destroy my future before it began...what hope was there for me?

Well, technically speaking, I knew how...But...Why me? Sure, I probably should have been smarter about it. I shouldn't have responded so to his taunts of how I would never do anything out of line. It shouldn't have bothered me to always be so predictable. But it had...and now my life was ruined.

I've made my mistake, and there's nowhere to run. All of my dreams have just faded away into a haze of nothing, of only the worst. I'm sick of this life, the constant hiding, the baggy clothes, the lies, the excuses.

It wasn't supposed to happen like this. I had my whole life planned out, and this...this was definately not part of the plan. I didn't want this...I hadn't counted on this. And yet, here it was.

I feel like every time I try to tell someone, anyone who'll listen, that there's always something else, someone else has something to say. I try to make a sound, but no one is listening, they're too busy with exams and homework and friends and boyfriends and girlfriends, and I'm slipping farther and farther down into a void of despair, and I'm flailing, and I'm losing, and for the first time in my life, I'm completely helpless. There is only one thread of hope that keeps me hanging on to my old life.

I want to go back to that time before him. Before this. Back when nothing really mattered except exams, homework, and Harry.

I can't explain what happened, really. I don't know why I did it all those times; I don't know what made me do it. Maybe it was that tone he used, or how he taunted, or just the fact that he was so incredibly irresistible. Maybe it was the fact that he was the only one who had ever told me I was beautiful, that he liked my body, and no matter how badly he might have talked before the sex, he was always so sweet and so nice during it, and he would tell me he loved me and that he'd always be there for me and even when he said it I knew it was a lie because that was what he did--he lied. But at that moment, I hadn't cared, because it had felt so wonderful that I never wanted it to end; because when it ended, there was the awkward silence as the both of us recovered our clothes and put them back on, and everything was the way it was before, and he told me that I was such a whore, the scum on the bottom of his shoes, a Mudblood, and then he'd kiss me--leave that taste of richness and superiority in my mouth--and walk away, smirking. Always smirking.

And now, I couldn't erase it. I couldn't go back and change it, because if I could...Well, I don't know if I would change everything...But it didn't matter. I couldn't erase it.

That question remained: would I? Would I really take back all those times, the fell of his body next to mine, his breath against my ear? The memories of sweaty skin and sticky fingers, hands that trembled and fumbled and didn't quite know what they were doing but did it anyway because...just because, And all those times when I screamed, pleaded, cried, moaned, and when I felt so utterly at peace, and then seconds before it had evaporated and he was back to himself and I was back to myself it was so...so...so indescribable and I wondered why it hadn't always been this way and if this was indeed what was right. But once all such skewed views had straightened themselves, just as we straightened our clothing and out hair, I was sure, so sure, that this was wrong, wrong, wrong. And I didn't know why I was doing it.

I haven't told him. He has no idea that I--that we--that there's a little baby...and it's ours. I don't know how to tell him. What would I say? Just...come out, and tell him? I don't expect his support, his politeness, his help, his money, or his fondness for the situation. I don't even expect him to admit that it's his. I just...

I don't know.

Oh God, how could this happen to me?