Secretary

Part Two

Hermione

//I've acquired quite a taste for a well-made mistake. I wanna make a mistake. Why can't I make a mistake?//

The official story was that I had contracted Meningitis, a potentially deadly Muggle disease. I don't know why Dumbledore decided to go with such a notoriously nasty disease, maybe he thought it would increase the believability that it had incapacitated me to such a degree that I couldn't continue at Hogwarts. After all, who would believe that Hermione Granger would stop attending classes for something minor like Pneumonia or Mononucleosis? He even went so far to protect me that he subjected everyone in Gryffindor Tower to a Meningitis test, as it was quite contagious. Though incredibly freaked out by the whole ordeal, Harry and Ron kept up the ruse among our housemates.

In reality, I was sent to a Psychiatric Hospital in Edinburgh. It was an intensely ugly place - eight stories high, made out of murky white cinderblock and having very few windows. As a result, very little sunlight fed into the building, though it wasn't the only thing that made it a dark place to be.

I hated it there, even though I knew that I had a problem that needed solving. Everyone there treated me like a china doll - like I would break. They coddled me and even (dear God) used baby-talk with me. Had they not taken my wand away upon my arrival, I would have hexed them into oblivion. And I didn't even have any schoolwork to take my mind off the hell that I was enduring. They said I needed my rest; that I needed to heal.

The worst part, by far, was my therapy sessions. I hated them with a fiery passion. Five times a week, I was led to Dr. Songie's office, where I was made to lie down on a puce colored couch and to pour out all my feelings to some git who pretended to care. Well, that's harsh. I'm sure he did care, but he knew sod all about psychology. I've read many books on the subject, and he couldn't have pegged the source of my problem if I had stripped off my clothes, started cheerleading, and spelled it out for him.

At first, I tried my damnedest to blow off the sessions. I would sit and nonchalantly make up any thing that crossed my mind. I had him convinced that I had a serious Freudian Oedipus complex for a while. Which proves what a right prat he was, as I'm not a boy, nor do I wish to have sex with my mother.

However, in due time I realized that they wouldn't let me leave the hospital until I proved to them that I was getting better. And I wanted nothing more than to get back to Hogwarts, where I could throw myself into my schoolwork and forget this whole ordeal ever happened. So I pretended. I even managed to have a "break through," where I cried over my own dejected situation and bemoaned my self-destructive ways.

I should have been an actress.

They let me start to attend group sessions, where I patted my fellow nutcases on the back when they made a break-through, cried when I felt the need to "empathize," and flashed triumphant smiles at the therapist when they congratulated me on "strengthening the resolve in the group."

They said that I recovered in record time. By mid-November, I was back at Hogwarts. Dumbledore nearly had to send me back to the hospital when I realized how much work I had missed - I practically went into cardiac arrest right then. I was told not to worry, as I would be supplied with a tutor who would help me get back on track. I would also have all of the Christmas Holidays to catch up on the work I had missed as well as to complete any new work assigned from the time I got back to the end of the term.

Though I may have been bowled over by the amount of work for which I was responsible, that didn't mean that I wasn't looking forward to it. Sure, I hated being in the hospital and took the whole affair almost as a joke, but that didn't mean that I couldn't understand my condition. For the sake of my friends and family, I had to stop hexing myself. Thus, going into complete overhaul in terms of my studies was a welcome distraction from the temptation to whip out my wand and say those choice words whenever I was feeling stressed. And this was the only reason that I actually agreed to let Malfoy be my tutor. As always, he would be a king-sized prick, and I could fight with him as much as a pleased, thus releasing my "inner-demons" (Dr. Songie and his bloody psycho-babble).

It just so happened that I got back to school on the day of the first Quidditch match between Gryffindor and Slytherin. Though I would have liked nothing more than to take a long, luxurious bath and curl up with a good book, Harry and Ron insisted that I go to the match and cheer them on. They were trying to act as normal as possible, but it was quite obvious that they just didn't want to leave me alone. I agreed reluctantly, as I knew that otherwise they'd just find someone to baby-sit me for the next few hours.

I really didn't like Quidditch. Nor any sport, for that matter, so it was nothing specific to the wild Wizard sport. Of course, for years I always went to the games to cheer Harry - and later Ron - on, but more often than not I was bored out of my mind. Once or twice I brought a book with me, but the looks I got from my fellow Gryffindors convinced me that this wasn't the best course of action. That day, however, it wouldn't have surprised me if they would have gladly let me read. The pity hung off their faces and danced in their eyes. I didn't mind it, though, since they thought I had just gotten over some terrible illness. I was suddenly very glad that Dumbledore hadn't told anyone about my true condition. Those looks of pity would have continued on until the day that I died, and it would have irked me beyond belief.

The game continued on in all its infantile glory, as I sat in the stands, peering up nonchalantly at Harry looking for the Snitch. He should really consider getting contacts, it would make playing the game easier. To my great joy (sarcasm), Malfoy took notice of me. Now, it's not that he was a crap Quidditch player, but he always played the game wrong. When he wasn't tailing Harry or trying to mess him about, he was preening himself and flashing smiles at the Slytherin girls. That day, however, he reached a new low in fucking up the game - he decided to pick on me.

"Hey, Granger!" he taunted, hovering just in front of the Gryffindor box. Naturally, I didn't respond to his petty childishness. "Back so soon? Too bad, really. We were all taking bets on how long it would take you to kick the bucket." He smirked at me, the bastard.

"What a pity that you didn't die, Granger. One less Mudblood in the world would have been lovely." I wanted to hurl myself over the side of the tower, grab that smug bastard by the collar, and shake him for all he was worth. But as I was fifty feet off the ground and he was safely riding his broom, I decided against it. Instead, I turned on my heel, and ran back to Hogwarts.

I hated him! Not that I'd expected anything different from Malfoy. However, I certainly didn't expect him to wish me dead in front of everybody mid-Quidditch match on my first day back. And, to be honest, I was rather emotionally unhinged by the whole thing.

Which is probably why, upon entering my room in Gryffindor Tower, I tore off my robes, rolled my skirt back off my thigh, and poised my wand to hex myself.

I sat there for what seemed like an eternity, wand at ready. Did I want to do this? Yes. Should I do this? No. Did I care? Maybe.

At long last, I collected myself and decided against the hex. I couldn't let Malfoy get to me like this. After all, I would be working with the prat for the next month, at least. And I couldn't go cutting myself every time he wished me dead. That would leave a lot of marks.

I had to compose myself. In two days time I would be face to face with him, tucked away in a study room in the back corner of the library, listening to the smug bastard lecture me on all the work I'd missed. Why did I have to let the bloody wand cut so deep? Arguing with Malfoy had better cure me of the dark urges creeping about my skin.

Draco

//You'll never feel the heat of this soul. My fever burns me deeper than I've ever shown - to you.//

Granger didn't look at all happy. In fact, she looked quite pissed off. Though it was lovely to see the little bitch as smug as ever, I would have imagined that someone who had just gotten over a potentially fatal-disease would at least looked a little winded. But all the better for me: it's easier to torment someone when they don't look all sickly like. If I played my cards right, I could make this even better than mussing her up at the Quidditch game. Damn, that was bloody wonderful. I'd never seen her so miffed. I wondered why she didn't try and curse me. Better for me that she didn't, though.

I couldn't wait to see what kind of response I could elicit out of Granger now that I was solely responsible for her first term marks. It was delightfully naughty, the spin that Snape had placed on this assignment. Apparently he hated Granger as much as he was irked by me (or my father, more specifically), so he decided that her grade in Potions would be incumbent upon my evaluation of her performance in our tutoring sessions. And I planned to make her suffer.

All things being relative, this skanky room in which they expected me to tutor her was disgusting. No one had probably been back here in, say, ten years. I used a few cleaning spells that I knew before the Mudblood arrived, which improved the dank corner a bit. Not by much, though, but at least now that the dust was off the windowpane in the far northeast corner of the room, and a little light could enter the space.

As I said, when Granger showed up (half past three, on the dot) she looked positively incensed. "What Granger? Not happy to see me?" I drawled. I love drawling, I'm very good at it.

She didn't answer. Someone had obviously informed her of the bearing my word would have on at least one of her grades, and she seemed intent not to piss me off. Yet.

I smirked at her. This would be very fun. If Granger wasn't on the offensive today, I could do anything to her that I liked. Making her my bitch was becoming increasingly easy.

"Well, come here." I commanded, pointing to one of the musty old armchairs situated along the right-hand wall. I waited for her to sit down. Eventually she concurred, and I sat myself down in the chair opposite hers. "So, Hermione," I queried, making my voice particularly condescending and cajoling, "do you have any pets?"

"What?" she asked me, incredulously.

"Just answer the question. I'm curious." I didn't actually give a damn whether or not Granger had any pets, but watching her squirm was amusing.

"Um, yes. I have a cat. Named Crookshanks."

"Lovely. And where are you from? Do you live with your parents, in a house or in a flat?" This was brilliant; she was practically seething.

"Woking, Surrey. I live with my parents, in a house." Granger answered me through clenched teeth.

"Hmm," I nodded, keeping my expression and tone very simpering and mock-sweet, hiding my surprise at the fact the she lived no more than two hours from me. "Hermione, do you want me to be your tutor?" I made sure to stress her first name in such a way that would irk her. It took quite a bit of effort actually, as I'd never called her by her first name before. It felt foreign on my tongue.

"It's not like I have a choice," she countered, "I want to bring my grades up. And if that means that I have to be tutored by you, so be it."

Oooh. She was angry. Bloody fantastic.

"Yes, I see. Of course the entire thing will most likely be bloody boring. I have no patience for Mudbloods such as yourself. I'm sure we won't have anything to say." Well, that was bloody true.

"I like being bored." If looks could kill, Granger would have knocked down all of Gryffindor tower with the look she was giving me.

I stared straight into her fiery eyes, "And you haven't missed much. It's going to be very dull work."

"I like dull work."

I wasn't expecting that. Granger was matching me blow for blow. If she weren't such a bint and if I weren't hell bent on beating her into submission, I might be impressed by her intellect. But I wasn't. Instead, I was annoyed. She was beginning to piss me off.

End Part Two