The Used

Power.
Glory.
Need.

Used.

You're trembling again, girl. Just the other day you promised yourself you wouldn't do that anymore - no more fits - no more hysterical sobs - no more nights of terror and loneliness.
Next time it happened, you would go to Dumbledore.
Yes, you would walk straight up to his office, spit out the password, climb the stairs, knock on his door.
You would enter, head held high and not hung in shame, like now, not appearing as a defeated heroine, a useless piece of - of -
dirt.
You would sit down, not on invitation, just lower yourself into a chair and make eye contact with your Headmaster, and tell him.

And whilst doing so, you would not crumble.
Each word would come out of your mouth, perhaps sounding harsh, cold, hard - it wouldn't matter, as long as you spoke the truth.
As long as you let him know.
You would tell him about everything - how it had started, an early spring night in May, how the fog had clung to your robes, the flutter of your heart like a tiny bird - not even the smallest, most private details would you preserve for yourself.
You would spill the beans, quite literally.

And his reaction?
Didn't matter much. When you were finished, he'd be free to act as he wished. Tell you off, put you in detention, suspend you, expel you - heck, it didn't matter.
Just let me speak the truth. Just let me share it with someone - anyone. I can't bear this anymore. The pain is too great.

But no.
You didn't have the courage.
You still don't.
You're trembling again, huddled in the corner of your neat and perfectly clean Head Girl room where every book has its place, where every possible speck of dust has already been cleaned away.
You feel the hot tears coming, and you know there's no point in trying to blink them back. Much in your life can be organized and fixed and stored, girl, but not this.
Not this, child.

And it's cruel and hopeless and pointless. You're trapped. There's nothing you can do, no one you can confide in. Harry and Ron - they wouldn't understand. Oh no, they would be too shocked and confused - disgusted - to say or do anything. No comfort can or will be sought in the arms of the fantastic two, Harry Potter and Ron Weasley. Great as they are, this, they can not solve.

Power.
Glory.
Need.
Used.

You have to do it by yourself, girl. This is not you - distraught, shattered, moaning and crying. You're even more miserable than Moaning Myrtle herself these days. And that's not you. You always made a point of keeping your head above the surface, no matter what happened.
No matter what happened.
Be it the worst.
This, now, was the worst.

But tryas you may, you can not forget it. Memory Charms inflicted upon yourself, slashed wrists, sleeping potions - useless. The memories are too clear, too fresh, too painful.
Yes, though you tru to push them away, they come back, every night they come back, every damn Potions Class -
you recall -

How his arms came around you. How strong he was, your surprise at his warmth and gentleness. A caring hand came up to stroke your face, wiping away the tears. A hushed voice, suddenly so soft and low and silken, whispering comforting words -
'It will be alright, Hermione, my girl. Everyhting will be fine in time.'
How you believed him. How it was your fatal mistake, that very first kiss - or would you call it a kiss? You brushed your lips briefly against his. He stiffened. He pushed you away.
But -
something had happened. A spark was lit.
You were only seventeen, and naive, foolish.
You believed in love.

You hug yourself now, rocking back and forth. Not wanting to remember anymore. Oh no, please, someone help me, I don't want to -

How he surrendered. A cold night outside the Transfiguration classroom. His soft lips met yours, you kissed, though it was still brief it was real.
How you cried that night, how the tears burned on your pale skin.
And the secrecy that followed. Your eighteenth birthday. You were of legal age now, at least. You kept telling yourself that it wasn't so bad.
And it wasn't.
He pushed a strand of hair away from your face. Up close he was actually beautiful - remarkable, strong, special.
He traced the outline of your lower lipe with a slightly calloused finger.
And you closed your eyes.

You jerk your head back, stifling a cry. Not now, my girl, not now, not yet.

My girl!

Power.
Glory.
Need.
Used.

His reasons, weak excuses. Whispered words, starting to sound more like threats than anything else - 'I don't want you to tell anyone about this, Hermione. Not ever. This was a big mistake, it was my fault. Forget about it. Forget everything that happened. Miss Granger.'
Miss Granger.

Forget! How can you forget?

Now, now, Hermione, my girl. Don't cry. You promised yourself. But you're trembling, no, shaking, now, viciously, an uncontrollable force rips your heart and your body in two shattered pieces.
Power.
Need.
Glory.
Used.

What were you?
A toy?
An experiment?
The pastime of a sicm and twisted man?

It will haunt you forever. Perhaps it was a game to him, but it will haunt you forever. Destroy you, in the end.

You love him.
You fucking love him.

And you promised yourself, but it's no good.
You still cry.
You still shake, shudder, tremble, moan and ache and long.

You fucking love him.
You fucking love Severus Snape.

You cry out loud.

Used. Used. Used.