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Summary
Hermione wished at that very moment, despite spending her most recent years trying to survive, for a quick death. Maybe some residual death eater could break into Hogwarts and avada her on the spot. Maybe the ceiling could collapse on her due to someone’s rubbish restoration work on the tower. Or, maybe, just maybe, if her own body took pity on her, her heart would give out at that very moment. Anything to take her out of this embarrassment.
But Hermione knew she wasn’t so lucky.
She was a godsdamned war heroine after all. Fate’s cruel hand had seen to it that she would continue to endure every excruciating second of this horrible ordeal. And it was all his fault.
Eighth Year Dramione. Or, Draco Malfoy is a cruel, entitled arsehole. But Hermione knows better.