I Hate The Way I Don't Hate You

I hate the way you smirk at me
And the way you gel your hair
I hate the way you think you are,
I hate it when you stare
I hate your big bad attitude
And the way you read my mind
I hate you so much it makes me sick
It even makes me rhyme
I hate it that you think you're right
I hate it when you lie
I hate it when you make me laugh
Even worse when you make me cry
I hate it when you're not around
And the fact that you're Slytherin
But mostly I hate the way I don't hate you
Not even close
Not even a little bit,
Not even at all.

-Anya Malfoy, taken from the Leather & Libraries

I never thought it would come to this. This, this living of my life in the shadows, constantly wondering if someone's seen me; this sense of fear and dread that seems to engulf me whenever the sun comes out.

The sun. I hate the sun. I prefer the darkness. I always have. The sun was always just so...cheery. I'd guess you'd say that's kind of ironic, since I hate living my life in the dark. But, it's not like I have a choice and even if I did, it's not as if I'd want to live in the sun. Or any place remotely filled with so much cheer, for that matter.

But it's comforting to know that I'm not alone. If there's one thing that I'm more terrified of than the sunlight, it's of being alone, knowing that no one cares about you or what's going to happen to you. But I'm not alone; together we help each other to get through life, and it's no so bad that way.

All I want, all I've ever wanted was for everything to be like it use to be, like it was before everything got so complicated. But, like I said, it's not like I had a choice of which side I was on. What's the point of being on 'sides', anyway? In the end, we all die on the same battlefield, leaving the stench of death to hang in the air.

There's a saying about grass or some such nonsense...'the grass is always greener on the other side of the fence.' Well, whoever said that is a bloody idiot and has obviously not been on 'the other side of the fence'.

I have been. Correction, I am. Yes, that's right, I am. I am on the other side. What's it like, you ask? Well...let me tell you, it's not so green as this person says it is. On the contrary, it's quite dark and depressing and all around lonely. The other side looks just as dreary, too. So, more or less the same, when it comes down to it. Now that I look at it, it sucks, for lack of a better word. But hey, that's life. What are you going to do?

Now that I look at it, my life's probably not that bad. Actually, I live quite a nice life, now that I think about it. But I never asked for it to be this way. We all bargain for our lives at one time or another, weather or not we want to; and it's not like we can ask for what happens to our lives to be perfect. No ones' life is perfect, yet perfection is what I'm fighting for. What I've always fought for. But I guess we can only hope that it all rises up to meet us, and everything will fall into place.

Oh, everything fell into place, all right. Just after the Christmas holiday of my seventh year. But the funny thing is, nothing even happened to me - or Ron and Harry for that matter. Harry and Ron were still my best friends; after all we've been through, how could we not be? They didn't even have girl friends to distract them from me; which surprised me, because they were Hogwarts golden boys and had been on Witch Weekly's Top Ten Most Eligible Bachelors list every year since they were sixteen. Though, it wasn't a secret that they were rather flirty with most of the female species of Hogwarts when it came down to it.

We were, now that I think about it, as close as we'd ever been. No one died that I knew of, we hadn't had any horrible fights with Voldemort or between ourselves, I didn't suddenly become depressed with the urge to kill myself every five seconds, and there was even the occasional boyfriend-of-the week-for-a-good-snog that I (surprisingly, to everyone else) had going for me.

No, my problem was that I had just run out of things to learn - if that's possible for me.

Honestly, I was a perfectly normal, if not a bit nerdy, eighteen-year-old witch. But, the trouble was, I just ran out of things to learn. I had even surpassed Percy Weasley and Tom Riddle, two of Hogwarts most brilliant students I might add, as far as the curriculum went. The professors had a difficult time finding something challenging for me that I hadn't already mastered or grasped onto immediately, too. I was stunned. I knew I was smart, everyone knew I was smart, but there was nothing else for me to read it seemed...and it scared me.

I had written to my parents before the holidays, who are, of course, Muggles, and they sent some Muggle British text books (everything from algebra to calculus, from physics, biology, chemistry, and mounds of ancient English text) to learn in my spare time. I finished the equivalent of high school in less than two months - and that was before Christmas. Ha, what a joke.

And I was Head Girl, too! I had meetings to keep, first years to watch out for, Harry and Ron to help, responsibilities to maintain and I had classes to attend - that alone should have filled my schedule. But I still found myself doing nothing for hours on end, day after day. Ron had once joked that I had some goal to read all of the books in the library before I graduated, and that I probably knew the library better than Madame Pince, but the horrifying truth is that I did both. I had read every single book in the library; some many times over, and I even knew about some books that Madame Pince didn't remember. She let me have my own study room, complete with a table, chair, and mini sofa. But the truly amazing thing is that she gave me full un-restricted access to the Restricted Section, a first in Hogwarts history, I'm sure.

I guess that's when it all started. I started reading everything in there, mostly the "dark" books. There were mounds of them. I became obsessed, constantly reading them. I drank in their knowledge like a drug addict took in their drug of choice. These books were my drugs, and I loved every bit of them. They reminded me of the drugs, too - of course I'd done drugs before. I was a teenager, not just the stuffy bookworm I know everybody sees. I've been to parties with my Muggle friends where drugs were handed out like candy - ah, the blissful rush of that first hit. That's what I got every time I opened a book or turned a page, but this was better, so so much better. But then the blissful haze fades and everything becomes muddled when the rush is over and life just generally sucks, then. Well, I could always deal with the 'aftermath' of running out of that blissful rush, but when I ran out of these books as well, it was too much to handle. It's like when your supplier cuts you off, coldly and without warning. Not that I ever had a supplier, mind you.

But soon enough I ran out of those books, too. It must have been a personal record; it only took one month to finish the hundreds of piles of books. Even Ron and Harry noticed how putout I seemed, but they just didn't understand how I needed them.

So, I did the only logical thing I could do: I wrote a note to Malfoy. Harry and Ron didn't know, of course, they would've killed me if they did.

He was a Prefect, and not Head Boy, quite surprisingly. A Ravenclaw named Randolf O'Connor had beat out Malfoy for Head Boy, but just barely. Malfoy didn't seem too hurt, though, and actually seemed to be more civil towards Randy than everyone else - if that was possible for Malfoy.

My note to him was quite simple:

Malfoy-

Meet me in the library - Prefects' Meeting Room - Thursday at 3:00 pm. I know you don't have class then, seeing as Slytherin usually has Quidditch practice Thursdays at 3:30. I have a few questions about the Dark Arts.

I knew he'd come; rumor was that Malfoy was very into the Dark Arts. That was fine with me, as long as he could supply me with what I wanted. He was Malfoy, and he had a use. I wouldn't have cared if he were shagging Harry and Ron on the side so long as he could get me books, although the thought of that was a bit too much for me to handle. You get the point.

It had been a crisp March morning, just in that time when winter hadn't quite finished and spring hadn't quite bloomed, and there was a breeze that spun ribbons around you and left your bones chilled. I had been sitting on top of the round table of the Prefects room, wearing Muggle jeans and a black jumper under my usual school robes. I had a deck of playing cards in front of me, and I was playing Solatire. It was a good, quiet game. I liked poker better, but there wasn't anyone else to play with. I heard the door crack open and then close softly after waiting no more than ten minutes. I had been early - as usual.

I looked up to see Malfoy standing at the door, his ever-present smirk plastered to his face, wearing an expression that clearly said 'I know something you don't know', dressed in - surprise, surprise - all black, and holding a bag with his Quidditch gear in it slung over his shoulder. Black suited him.

Calmly, he sauntered over and took his customary chair, propping his black boots on the giant oak table like he owned the place. Arrogant bastard. "Granger," he acknowledged me, he eyes sparkling approvingly.

"Malfoy," It was a good thing he was as cute as he was (he was also on Witch Weekly's Most Eligible Batchelor's list for the third year running - much to Harry and Ron's displeasure) and could get me what I wanted, or else I'd have whipped that smirk right off his face. I did it before, even if it was in the third year.

"So, you mentioned that you wanted to know some things about the Dark Arts?" he said as if he were offering me the chance of a lifetime. Please. "Maybe we could start with something easy...like a Polyjuice potion?" He looked pleased with himself, and was obviously not taking me seriously.

Been there, done that. My second year, in fact. And I told him just that. He looked surprised, if not a bit amused. "Besides, the Polyjuice potion isn't even really considered a Dark Art; everybody knows that." He looked insulted, but it was true, it didn't take a rocket scientist to figure that one out, just a bit of brains and a month to make. Not that Malfoy knew what a rocket scientist was, anyway.

Malfoy sat there, that sneer on his pale face once again. Oh, I just wanted to wale into him. But I didn't. Head Girls didn't do that kind of thing; although Ron certainly would've liked it if I had given him what he asked for. So I sat there, waiting while he sized me up, in more ways than one, I'm sure. He had grown over the past year or so - he must have been a little shorter than Ron, who stood at a towering six-food-four inches, yet taller than Harry, who was right at six-foot. He looked different, too. It took me a moment to realize he'd cut his hair; it was about time too. When it had been long, hanging just under his ears, he looked almost girlish, the long style only adding to his high cheekbones and perfect skin. His 'old' look reminded me of Michael Jackson, with the deathly pale skin and gangly hair - not that there was anything wrong with Michael Jackson. Now it was shorter and spiked, sort of giving him a hard-core, punk rocker look - in a manly Wizarding kind of way, of course. But he was still the same, somehow: shrewd, calculating and dangerously commanding.

After what seemed like ages, Malfoy spoke, removing his feet from the table and leaned forward towards me, "It's funny, don't you think?"

I looked up at him, "What's funny?"

"You are the last person I expected to go Dark, Granger, that's what's so funny,"

'Go Dark'? I wasn't 'going Dark'; I just wanted to learn about it! "Malfoy, I'm not 'going dark', as you put it. But, I guess you'd know about 'going Dark', wouldn't you?" I smirked and went back to my cards.

"Do I? Well, I guess I do," He leaned back in his chair again, propped his feet up on the table next to me, looking amused, "But I know when I see someone like you. It's written all over your face, how much you want to feel the darkness flow through you veins,"

I looked up, he was serious; it was laughable. Serious, like he was during class - Malfoy always got this look on his face whenever he was really serious or concentrating on something that was important to him. So I said, with a plain frankness that I'm sure surprised him, "Of course I do,"

"So what are you going to do for me if I get you these books? You'd never be able to get your hands on the kind of books I have access to without a lot of money - or the name Malfoy - so what's it going to be?" He didn't ask me why I wanted to get these books.

Well, the idea was brilliant if you asked me. Anyone else would've killed to get me to do his or her work for nothing, but when I proposed to him that I do his homework for him, he had the audacity to look disappointed. What had he been expecting? Sexual favors? Right, I would've given him sexual favors the day that I dropped out of school. Now, I wasn't a prude, but there wasn't a bloody chance in hell that I was going to become a two-dollar whore for Slytherin's Sex God of the year, or whatever the girls called him. He was all talk in any case - I would know. I may have had the occasional 'mysterious after-Quidditch snog' with with Moon or Zabini, but we had an understanding; they were my booty-call, as the Americans would put it. What happened between us, stayed between us. Besides they were nice to me, and funny. They had a good sense of humor too; at least when Malfoy wasn't directing their lives. But most of all, they weren't Malfoy. Everything was different when it came to Malfoy.

I finally finished my game, and looked up at him, "Look, Malfoy, it's either yes or no. Hurry up and give me your answer, if you please, I have a meeting with Randy and Dumbledore in ten minutes," I gestured to his bag of Quidditch gear and said, "and, if I'm not mistaken, I believe you have Quidditch at that time, too."

He swore under his breath, I nonchalantly checked the time on my watch, "You can just say no if it bothers you that much. It's not that big of a deal; they're only some Dark Arts books that I want to read. It's not like I'm planning to take over the world - I don't have time for that." I laughed; Malfoy didn't think it was funny, though. Ron and Harry would've laughed.

"Okay, okay, deal. Transfiguration, Potion, and History of Magic. You'll do my essays," was that all? I thought, surly there had to be a catch. There was always a catch. "But..."

"But what, Malfoy?" Aah, yes, here it comes. I raised one of my slashing brows; I heard Malfoy had a thing for eyes.

"But a Malfoy has to be in the room when the books are open. If someone who wasn't a Malfoy tried to open one of them," his voice trailed off. Obviously this had been what had disquieting him.

I took a stab at finishing his sentence, "Something horrible happens to them?"

"To say the least," he replied.

"Well," I reasoned, "there are worse things in life."

"Don't I know." he stood up, and grabbed his bag, "Okay, we'll meet here every...every Friday, after the Friday Prefects' meeting."

"Deal." I hopped down off the table, and offered my hand, which he took - if not somewhat reluctantly. His hand was still strong and caloused, not soft and supple as I had thought it would be from the stories the girls told each other, not like it had been so long ago...

So we met for the rest of the year every Friday after the usual Friday Prefects' Meeting. Harry and Ron never figured out, and if they did, they were kind enough not to bother me about it. I guess they figured I wouldn't listen to them, no matter what happened. Or they were just too dense to know any better, assuming I had Head Girl duties with the up-coming school year and all.

It wasn't even that bad. He'd bring a different book every week, and he'd work on the homework that I didn't do for him while I read. At first he tried to explain things to me, but he stopped when I ignored him and told him that I would ask if I didn't understand something. I'm very stubborn when it comes to help, but if I need it, I'll gladly ask for it. That rarely happened. Though, one time I asked him to show me how to do a spell right - it wasn't 'dark', so we could do it safely without getting caught - and after he showed me, he asked me a question.

"Granger, could I ask you a question?" He leaned back on the table, looking a little hesitant.

"Obviously, you just did," I smiled at him in my Know-It-All smile and went back to 72 of the Darkest Spells that Aren't Really Dark Spells by Vivian McGoven.

"Why?" His eyes looked intently at me in an unwavering gaze, and I waited for him to finish the question. But he never did.

Why? 'Why' could have had such a broad range of answers, any number of them being wrong or right. Why did I want to learn the Dark Arts, and why did I ask him when there were plenty of other Slytherins who were 'Dark', or why did I even stay in the same room with him for hours on end once a week? Why did the moon have beams of light and the sunrays, and why didn't I have a boyfriend at the moment? So, I answered it the best way I knew how. "Why not?"

He seemed pleased enough with the answer, and didn't try and anniciate a conversation again - we never were too great at the whole 'friendly conversation' thing. He ignored me, and I ignored him. It was a win-win situation.

But the change was so gradual I didn't even notice it until it had slapped me in the face. I realized it during, of all times, dinner. Even then, I ignored it, or at least tried to. It was late May, and we were in the Great Hall, as usual and I was sitting in between Harry and Ron; Ron had just given me my juice - Ron always filled my goblet with pumpkin juice, and when I looked up, there were his eyes. I didn't even seem to notice that I had nearly dropped my cup; luckily for me, Ron caught it obviously passing it off at an accident. I was so entranced with his silvery eyes; they looked intently at me, an unwavering and secretive look. It had sent my pulse scrambling; it scared me, he had never had that affect on me before. I dismissed it, or at least tried to, the whole occurrence having lasted less than a few seconds and went back to telling Harry about the car I was getting when I returned home for summer holidays ("Really? That's great, Hermione! You can come pick me up from the Dursleys' - can you believe Dumbledore's made me stay with them this whole time?" Harry said).

Killing sprees of Muggles and Muggle-borns had been rampant for the past year or so, but in May the number had amplified to staggering death totals. There was nothing we could do to stop them at school, no matter how much Harry, Ron and I worried about it. Draco, however, didn't seem affected by them. He seemed, overall, untouched by it - the affect the killings were having on the school was amazing. For once, people seemed scared - the danger of the Dark Mark rising once again was too close for comfort, and those old enough to remember what it was like Before, were scared to hysterics. But none more than Harry. My new knowledge of the Dark Arts might become useful, I thought, at finally defeating Voldemort.

So, it was near the last week of May that he asked me the question that would forever change my life, "Granger," it was his usual greeting...and he was sitting in a different chair that day. He hadn't brought a book, either. That was unusual.

"Malfoy," I nodded to him, settling down in squishy cushions of my own chair. "No book today?"

Instead, what he said next almost made me...well, I don't remember, but it certainly hadn't been the comment I'd been expecting next, "Granger, I know you remember that night back in our fifth year. Why?"

Shit. We had sworn not to talk about that again. I had almost forgotten about that night. I made it a point to forget about it. Evidently, Malfoy had not.

It had been a heat-of-the-moment, rash decision of mine to prove to him that he wasn't as great as he thought he was. It hadn't gone the way I'd planned, either. The result of my rather dim-witted choice was us ending up in bed, and him being my first. Oh, let me tell you, there was a lot of 'explaining' to Harry, Ron, and the girls in my dorm as to why I hadn't slept in my own bed. But I had never regretted sleeping with him, strangely; I suppose that was his question.

I tried my best to look outraged, but my heart wasn't in it, "Look, the 'why' isn't important. It was nothing; it is nothing. It was a mistake, and -"

"And you still want me,"

He said this like it was nothing. The nerve of him! He was right. Of course I wanted him. I always wanted him. Dimly, those thoughts surprised me, but not overly so...it was to be expected. Maybe this is why he helped me, because he loved me.

He loved me. God, how many more dumb mistakes could a girl make in her life? Oh, I wanted to scream, hit something, run away...I wanted to do something, anything.

But I recovered, "But Malfoy, you still want me too," our eyes connected, full of storms and, deep within them, affection.

"Again and again," he walked over to me and took my hands. I let him pull me to my feet, our eyes never breaking contact, and as when he kissed me, I answered back as if I'd only been waiting for him to do so. It wasn't like Moon or Zabini's kisses, which were soft and possessive, or even Ron's, which were shy and tentative. No, these were hot and demanding, searing and painful, and everything that I had ever wanted in a man.

But, damn it, why did that man have to be Malfoy? Harry and Ron would surly never talk to me again if they knew I was in love with the git. I'd do anything for him, anything at all, I realized, horrified. And he knew it too.

But I lost all thought as he walked me backwards, finally pinning me against the wall, and gloriously assaulted my mouth. His hands tangled themselves in my hair, and I grasped his robes for dear life, thinking that if I let go, I would fall to my doom.

When he pulled away, grasping for air, he looked at me. His expression was raw and the sexual nerves that charged the room were just too great. But he held onto himself, thank goodness. He backed away, knowing that if we kissed again, there wouldn't be a need for a bed when the Prefects' table was so close at hand.

"Hermione," he had never, not once, in all our seven years together, called me by my first name. It was beautiful, the way he said it, like silk cascading down in a fountain. "Hermione," he repeated, "look at me. You have to choose where your loyalties lie. You know there's no possible way for us to keep up any kind of façade to be together."

I felt, and probably looked, very vulnerable. I hated every moment of it, the way that he was able to make me feel that way. "I know." He sat down in his chair, looking very tired all of a sudden. "You love me."

"I do." Well, at least he didn't deny it. But it didn't make things any easier. "But who do you love more, your pathetic friends or me?"

Aragont bastard, he knew very well which of them I loved better. But that only made the choice harder: leave Harry and Ron to be with Draco - he had never really been 'Draco' before - or leave Draco for Harry and Ron? I wish I could have killed myself instead of choosing.

"Hermione, you'll have everything you ever wanted and more. I promise. Power, beauty, knowledge...me." His eyes glittered with anticipation for my answer. He only had to hold out his hand and wait for me to take it.

"This had better be worth it," I said to him as I put my put my his, loosing myself as he once again drew me body against himself, "because if I have to regret choosing you over Harry and Ron once, I swear I'll kill you, Draco."

Draco, I had never said his name like that before. It was nice. I hated him for it.

"Oh, you won't. I'll make sure of that." He smirked, and kissed me again. I loved the way he kissed me.

So the year ended. I never told Harry and Ron about us until after the year had ended. Well, there had never really been an "us", it's not like we were a couple. We hadn't continued with our meetings, and only saw each other on Friday's at the Prefects' Meetings and in the one or two classes we had together. It was probably better that we didn't see each other, at any rate.

Harry and Ron didn't take it well, not at all. I had expected as much.

"Hermione, why him?" Harry exploded. Ron just sat there, numb.

"I didn't choose to fall in love, it just happened! I...it...we..." how did I explain to them that he was my other half? He, despite all the horrible things he ever did to me, to us, was everything I wanted and more? I loved him more than I loved myself, and that I would do anything for him just to be around him. And that most of all, I hated him for taking me away from my life? That I hated him so much for the simple fact that I didn't hate him at all?

After many tears from all of us, I did what I knew I would have to do from the beginning. I said good-bye to the two men that had loved me for seven years, saying, "I swear, I'll never tell them where you are." I said I loved them, and turned away, a single tear sliding down my cheek.

But now, even in these times of trouble, it's his arms that hold me in the night, warding off the horrible dreams and thoughts. The memories that haunt me night after night. Our life is grand, if not dark and secretive. But it doesn't hurt as much knowing that he loves me. Even if we're always watching our back.

He was right, though. I have never regretted going with him. I hate him for it. I hate the way I don't hate him, not even close, not even a little bit, not even at all.