Disclaimer: None of this is mine. Characters, location, world etc belongs to JK Rowling and the title belongs to Badly Drawn Boy.
A/N: Hi! Soooooooo I wrote a story like a bajillion years ago for Tamora Pierce and I just don't recommend it, but now it's summer so I thought I'd give writing a shot again. Over the past year or so I have found myself converted from a Ron/Hermione shipper to a complete and total Dramione fan by all the absolutely brilliant writers out there. So I figured I'd go the Dramione route. The title comes from the song "A Minor Incident" by Badly Drawn Boy, from the soundtrack for the movie "About a Boy".Thanks for reading and please review!
Hermione Granger, bookworm extraordinaire, stared at herself in the mirror. The loud voices of her parents echoed from downstairs, hurling angry insults at each other. She was pretty sure she could hear the word "ferret" in there. She chuckled derisively to herself as she thought of Draco Malfoy, and from there her thoughts led her to school- home, as she now thought of it. She doubted anyone she knew would recognize her right now. Her hair, usually wild and out of control, but at least clean and shining, was now one big matted, tangled knot, and the roots were starting to get greasy. Her usually bright brown eyes were currently dull and bloodshot, surrounded by puffy red skin. Hermione, like many girls, was not a pretty cryer.
She continued to search her own eyes in her reflection, looking desperately for a glimmer of hope. But there was none. She looked down at the Xacto knife in her hand, the one she used for scrapbooking when she was home during the summer. She made a scrapbook every year of her life at Hogwarts but hadn't started yet this summer- she had, after all, only gotten home yesterday. Her eyes darted down to the knife again. It was gleaming, the sharp edge catching the light and reflecting it into the mirror, where the light was refracted once again into Hermione's swollen eyes. She glanced between herself and the knife, herself and the knife. And then slowly, very deliberately, she raised the knife to her arm. But not her wrist- no, it would be seen there. She needed to feel right now, but she wasn't a masochist, and she refused to wear long-sleeved shirts all through the rest of the long humid summer. Even now, performing possibly the most irrational act of her life, Hermione thought things through.
She raised the sharp blade to her inner upper arm, where she could hide any scars against her body should anyone look her way. She took a deep breath, wondering how she had gotten to this point. But really, she knew. The knife was resting on her skin now, and as her mantra whirled around her head, she pressed.
The knife skimmed along her skin but didn't break it.
She brought it back to where it had been and pressed a little harder, and she could feel her skin tearing a little.
She ran the knife over the same spot, and finally beads of deep crimson blood welled up, a blessed relief. Merlin, it felt so good!
Eager to continue, she brought the knife to a different point and pushed down harder than she had before. Warm blood seeped out of the crack and she sat there, breathing hard.
She continued, now frantically ripping at her skin, hoping the pain inside would stop when the physical pain set in.
But it didn't.