Secretary

Hermione

I was always a chronic over-achiever. Everything I did had to be perfect, the best, and this was the way that I liked it. Alas, though I strove for perfection, my life was far from perfect.

I don't know when I started hurting myself, maybe it was when I began at Hogwarts, or it could have been a few years after. All I know is that I liked how the pain made me feel real, like I was really there.

My parents loved each other, I knew that, but sometimes when my dad drank, things would get really bad. They'd fight a lot; I think I inherited my fighting spirit from both of them. Listening to the two of them shoot clever yet hurtful remarks at each other was a regular activity of mine. I would lie on my stomach at the top of the stairs, so they couldn't see me crouched there, and I would draw their arguments in. I hated every minute of it, but at the same time I couldn't tear myself away.

My parents loved me, of course. But in all the wrong ways, it seemed. Mum always doted on me - I was her 'perfect girl'. In some ways, it was like she was living through me. Whenever I accomplished some great task, I swear she seemed happier about it than I was. When I was young, she would sign me up for all sorts of activities, like ballet, girls' football, and piano lessons, telling me "I always wished I could do these things when I was a girl." I always complied, for her. In many ways I think I got the grades that I did for her, too. Her and my dad.

As much as Mum was clingy, Dad was the opposite. He was the firm one, always laying down the law and keeping track of my academic pursuits. "Hard work," he told me, "will get you everything you want in life." Dad worked hard; he always seemed to be working. He and mum had a dental practice together, but it always seemed like he worked twice as many hours as she did. It was from him that I learned my love of books. Sometimes it seemed as though he loved me through literature. Instead of telling me that he loved me, he would read me some grand tale about father/daughter bonding, or the like. I was his little girl, though I never dared act the part. Our family was not an overly sentimental one.

Harry and Ron were the first real friends I had. Our first two years at Hogwarts, our adventures drove me, that and schoolwork, of course. At some point, though, our lives began to diverge, as they naturally would. I was a very different sort of person than the two of them. Ron came from an overly affectionate family, but could never express his emotions seriously. Harry had lived a life devoid of love and acceptance until he came to Hogwarts, and then would let his emotions boil over in a wild fury, and suffocate those around him. Suffocate me, mostly. And me... I wasn't sure what I was. I lived through my work and experienced emotion through pain.

At first, the mental exhaustion I experienced as a result of my course overload third year was enough. It exhilarated me. When I decided to drop a few classes to make life more manageable, however, I felt the need for more tangible pain. As I was helping Harry study curses to assist him in the Tri-wizard Tournament, I discovered that many of them could easily be applied to one's self, and then healed with a simple Healing spell. I only did it once or twice fourth year, but the sense of relief and satisfaction that I gleaned from the act drove me to further experimentation the next year.

My friends didn't notice, of course. I was increasingly spending less and less time with them, as they were with me. Ron was completely wrapped up in his Quidditch woes, and Harry was being a waspish, bitter, asshole. He should have tried my method. It leaves one quite sedated.

I always made sure to hex myself in unseen areas, like my upper thighs, hips, and on my torso. Even after a Healing spell, there were always bruises, and occasionally a scar or two, but my Hogwarts' uniform and robes covered those rather nicely. This is how I played my game all through sixth year. Whenever I was feeling particularly stressed - around exams, when Ron or Harry was being a prat, when I received a disturbing letter from either one of my parents, I would perform a hex or curse that would cause my skin to burn, crack, and bleed, then I would heal myself, and go about my business. If I ever looked worn out after one of my sessions, I would explain it away by saying that I was just feeling particularly overworked. Which I often was, of course.

The day it happened, I was feeling particularly anguished over something scathing that Professor Snape said in Potions class. He usually didn't get to me, but it had been an extremely bad week and everything had been building up to that point. Maybe that's what led me to be so careless. Harry, Ron, and I returned to Gryffindor Tower after class and I excused myself, citing that I needed to do some homework before dinner. I had, say, a ten minute window in which to do it, but I waited until the last minute. I should have known that one of them would come up to check on me. Especially considering that the two of them, put together, were clever enough to figure out the charm on the stairs to the girls' dormitories and to remove it.

Harry knocked, but I didn't hear it, as I was muttering the hex that would cut my upper arm. He crept in, saw what I was doing, and cried, "Hermione!" It was so loud, abrupt, and unexpected that I lost my concentration, and cut way too deep. I could feel the blood gushing down my arm, but didn't have the presence of mind to perform the Healing spell that would make it stop.

In a sudden move, Harry lunged forward and caught me before I hit the ground. I had fainted, which was funny because I'd done this a million times before and had never so much as swooned.

I woke up a few hours later in the Hospital Wing, with Harry, Ron, Professor McGonagall, and Dumbledore peering down at me. To this day, they are the only four people who know why I was sent away from Hogwarts for the entire month of October.

***

Draco

I had control over my life; I was always looking for control. Which was probably why I hated my father so much. He was a control-freak if I ever saw one. However, I'm not really sure from where I got my driving need for control.

I was a meticulous child; I liked to play structured, logical games as opposed to frivolous imaginative ones. The weaker children were drawn to me, which cultivated my talent as a natural leader. I loved to organize war games among my playmates, in particular. I can still vividly remember the summer we had an all-out girls against boys water-wand war. Naturally, I was the captain of the boys' team. Crabbe and Goyle were my seconds in command. Not that I considered them intelligent in any way. Far from it - what they lacked in brains, they made up for in brawn. They still flank me wherever I go, though I grew to a point where I could defend myself quite some time ago.

But my desire to be a leader didn't spontaneously occur. My parents had an influence on that particular character trait. Despite their less than united union, put together, my parents did quite a job on me. My father demanded perfection, my mother placated me by simpering, "Be Mummy's little soldier." He wanted me perfect - formed in his image, and she wanted me to fight against him.

I'm not even sure that my parents hated each other or anything. They were simply indifferent. As long as they kept up certain appearances, it didn't matter what things were like on the inside. Which is probably why I ended up the way that I did. As long as I put on the show of being strong, being in control, it didn't matter who I was as a person. Appearances were what mattered. Draco was Daddy's perfect boy and Mummy's little soldier. He would grow up, go to Hogwarts - where he would, of course, excel, and join the ranks of the Dark Lord and his followers. This was the plan.

My father should have known that he couldn't fuck me over and expect me to like it. I'm just as much of a Malfoy as he is - and I am always in control. I decided that, just to spite him, that I would not become a Death Eater. In fact, I would pursue the very filth that he sought to snuff out. I would court a Mudblood. But not just any Mudblood, of course. I would seek out the most uppity Mudblood in all of Hogwarts, and I would make her my bitch.

Of course, this meant that I had to find a way to be alone with Granger. All through sixth year, she seemed to be spending less and less time with those simpering prats Pothead and Weasel, but the situation never presented itself in which I could will her to me, and take her over. I had quite given up by seventh year, but then a Godsend happened: Granger took ill with a serious case of some Muggle disease (Mentositis? Something like that), and was out of school for a month.

Naturally, she fell behind on her schoolwork, though I heard she had begged to be given work during her stay in a Muggle hospital, but they refused. Upon her return, Granger needed to be tutored, and who better to help her out than Hogwarts second best student, Draco Malfoy? I can never thank Professor Snape enough for making that suggestion. Though I'm rather sure he thought it would annoy the hell out of me as opposed to make me a very happy boy, indeed.