Broken

by: EndlessDaydreaming

A/N: follows Canon, 2-6th book. Oneshot.

~.o.~

"I'm falling apart

I'm barely breathing

With a broken heart

that's still beating."

Broken by Lifehouse

~.o.~

1992

To say that Draco Malfoy was having a bad day was an understatement.

Not only did he lose the Quidditch match against that bloody Potter, but was also severely scolded by Marcus Flint for being such a "complete dunder-headed fool that managed to miss a snitch hovering right beside him."

It wasn't Draco's fault that he just had to annoy Potter somehow. He just had to. He couldn't let Potter get away with accussing him of buying his way into the Slytherin Quidditch team.

Well, technically it was true, and technically it wasn't Potter who said so but his Mudblood friend, Granger.

Buck-toothed, bushy-haired, bloody know-it-all, Mudblood Granger, Draco sneered in his mind as he furiously shoved his hands in the pockets of his robes, stomping down winding corridors. The steam was practically blowing through his ears, and he was still donning his dirty Quidditch robes. He couldn't care less, though, because all he wanted was to find a nice, quiet place to blow off some steam and mull over things.

Even if it was true that he bought his way into the team, what was wrong with that? It's not as if he killed someone to get what he wanted. It was just so bloody unfair that Potter got to get in the team as a first year, when that Scar-head didn't even know anything about Quidditch!

As for Draco, Quidditch had always been his dream. He had been patiently waiting for Second Year ever since he was a little boy, just so he could be in the Quidditch team.

But what happened in first year? Famous Harry Potter was put into the team, against the rules. What the bloody hell was that all about? If Potter could cheat his way in, so could Draco.

Apparently, if it was Gryffindor Saint Boy-Who-Lived Potter, it was alright to cheat. If it was evil Slytherin Draco Malfoy, it was a crime punishable by hell.

Where was the justice in this world?

Oh right, it died a long time ago ever since Draco was born into the Malfoy family. The name itself was like a wand to your throat – dishonor it, and you die. Just one step out of line...

Speaking of which, his father was sure to kill him. He hoped his father wouldn't find out about the loss of his Quidditch match, but he doubted it – his father always knew everything. His stomach suddenly clenched, as if anticipating his regular punishment of Crucio right there and then.

Maybe he could blame it on the Mudblood. After all, it was she who insulted him and made him want to insult her back, and by doing so insult Potter during the match, too, making him distracted.

"Stupid Mudblood, how dare she insult me...humiliate me...can't even play Quidditch, can she?" he mumbled furiously, as he absent-mindedly turned a corner.

Stopping at a dead end, Draco exhaled an annoyed huff and was about to turn around when a voice called him.

"Why, hullo, dear sir! I haven't had a visitor in quite awhile!" a jolly, booming voice said.

Surprised, Draco's eyes narrowed to leer past the shadowed corner where the voice seemed to come from.

"The last one was ol' Dumbledore, told me he had to use the room to store his precious Mirror, see," the voice chuckled.

Mirror?

Draco approached the shadows, and casted a Lumos. A very small cicular portrait, about the size of a teacup plate, hung on the wall. It was a portrait of a round man in ancient scarlet robes, his long hair as white as snow.

"Told me I shan't let anyone in except him, he did," the old man smiled.

Well, let's see about that...it must be something important if Dumbledore locked it up in here.

His curiosity getting the better of him, Draco put on his most innocent smile. "The Headmaster sent me to clean his precious Mirror, sir. Said he didn't want it to get dusty after all the time it's been here. His most prized possession, that Mirror. He wants it in tip-top shape all the time."

"Come on in, then, lad! Wouldn't want to disobey the Headmaster, now, do we?" the man chuckled again.

Lying must be in his genes, he was just that talented.

In a blink of an eye, a door appeared before Draco. Forcing down the smirk that was fighting its way to his mouth, Draco nodded a thanks to the portrait, opened the door, and stepped inside the darkness.

The door closed shut behind him, and torch lights blazed into life. It was a small room, and no word was better to describe it than "square." There were no windows, and there was a thick layer of dust everywhere. No other furniture was found inside the room, except for a tall mirror that stood against the end wall.

He recognized it then – the Mirror of Erised. It showed anyone who looked into it his deepest, darkest desire.

Stepping closer, Draco realized just how tall the Mirror was. It loomed over him quite threateningly, and he almost took a wary step back. What he saw in the Mirror, though, stopped him mid-step.

His own face looked back at him, and he saw just how surprised he really was. His stormy grey eyes were wide open in shock.

Beside him, was what shocked him the most.

A slender, delicate hand held his. Chocolate doe eyes looked back at him, warm and loving. Petite, rosy pink lips curved into a smile, seemingly just for him.

As Draco looked at his reflection, he saw that the Draco in the Mirror was smiling. The smile looked foreign on his face. Foreign, but real. He couldn't even recognize himself.

Draco was scared. His heart was racing, and his mind was reeling.

Before he can feel anything else, he bolted out of the room, and ran and ran until he reached his dorm room, striped off his clothes, jumped into bed, screwed his eyes shut, and tried to forget what he saw.

It didn't work, though, because the image was forever burned into his mind. It was as if it was etched at the back of his eyelids.

The next morning, he woke up even more terrified. His dreams were no better than the reality he had last night.

Even though it was a dream, he could swear that the warmth in his left cheek was still very much there.

He could still feel traces of her lips on his cheek.

Dashing out of bed, he slammed the door into the bathroom, waking his roommates up.

He came down to breakfast with his left cheek raw from all the scrubbing and washing that he did.

But before he went to bed, he went back to the room again, where the Mirror was. He just had to check, had to see that what he saw was just some sort of hallucination.

He ended up repeating the same cycle as the other night: dashing out of the room, going to bed trying to erase the image, and waking up horrified of his dream.

He repeated this cycle every night.

Because there is no way Draco Malfoy can accept what he saw in the Mirror of Ersied.

There is no way that what Draco Malfoy's deepest, darkest desire was Hermione Granger.

1993

"You know, Granger, you could pretend to look like you cared. At least pretend. Aren't Gryffindors supposed to be nice?" Draco smirked. He adjusted the bandage on his arm where Buckbeak the bird freak mauled him.

It was just a scratch, really.

But hey, there was no harm in over-reacting things a bit. Just to see if a certain someone cared enough...

Draco sat cross-legged in front of the Mirror of Erised, facing his reflection. Beside him, also seated, was Hermione Granger.

Hermione arched her brow, her mouth forming words.

Draco had spent so much time in this room. He had been visiting this room for a year now. It was a week after he first entered this room that he started to talk to Mirror-Granger. It was absurd, really, but this was his drug. It made him feel better, it made him feel special, it made him feel like he had a..friend.

It started off as a mocking joke, really, when he first "talked" to Mirror-Granger. He was surprised when she mouthed words back. He was even more surprised when he realized he understood them. A few days later, it seemed too normal, talking to Mirror-Granger, that for him the voice of Hermione Granger came out of the Mirror image's mouth.

The same couldn't be said for the real Hermione Granger, though. Their spats seemed to increase, even. He just couldn't help it! The sight of her sickened him. The sight of her smiling like that at Scarhead and Weasel sickened him. The sight of her laughing with them sickened him.

What sickened him the most, though, was the angry look she threw at him all the time.

But it was the only way to get her to look. The only way to tear her attention of from those bloody leeches that seemed to stick to her.

A year ago, Draco Malfoy would think he was insane to even think of wanting Hermione Granger's attention.

Now, Draco Malfoy thought that he was insane.

But he didn't care. Because if insanity felt this happy, that every time he was looking in the Mirror of Erised, he was in a world of his own, shut away from all the things that seemed to want to tear him apart...then Draco would rather be insane.

"Nice? I think you're mistaking us for Hufflepuffs, Malfoy," Mirror-Granger said.

"What, can't Gryffindors be nice, too? Are you saying you're all evil?" he smirked.

"Oh, shush, or I'll poke your wound," smirked back Mirror-Granger.

Draco smirked even wider. "Is that a threat? I told you – you should have been sorted into Slytherin! The Sorting Hat must have malfunctioned."

Mirror-Granger laughed.

Draco smiled. He could stay in here forever, here where there is no judgement, no threat, no expectations, no hate – just acceptance.

The sound of the school bell rang distantly from somewhere far away. It was the end of lunch time, and Draco had to go.

"I'll be back later. Try not to miss me," he winked, as he stood up to brush his robes.

"Try not to miss me, Draco," Mirror-Granger grinned.

He really didn't want to leave, but he had to. He left, jogging to his next class.

He visited the room everyday, talked to Mirror-Granger everyday, and was reminded every single day that he wanted Hermione Granger – he saw her in the Mirror, after all. But, with that reminder of his desire, was of course, a reminder of reality – he couldn't have her.

And the stinging cheek he had a few days later was a reminder of how much the real-life Granger hated him.

He deserved it, though, really. He mocked her friend, after all – Hagrid. The mocking was out of annoyance and a slp of the tongue, really, and was meant to spite Potter and Weasley, not her. And the trial for that freak bird? Sure, the bird was a freak, but Draco didn't want it executed, nor did he want Hagrid out of school. Hagrid was a filthy giant, but he was a good teacher. It was all his Father's doing. "A good excuse to finally get rid of that filthy giant," his father had said.

How he found out, Draco didn't know. Draco surely didn't tell him.

1994

"You look beautiful tonight."

Draco watched as his reflection in the mirror danced with Hermione Granger. She was dressed exactly as he had seen her just a few minutes ago, in the Yule Ball. Her dress fluttered around her feet, her cheeks flushed as she smiled, and her eyes twinkled like the stars that Draco could have seen if there were windows in the room.

He hadn't noticed it, but he had been sitting in the room for an hour or so. He sat cross-legged on the stone cold floor, ignoring his grumbling stomach as he watched himself dance with Hermione.

"Thank you. You don't look so bad, either, Malfoy," he saw her say.

As his mirror-self held Hermione close, he wondered how anything so beautiful, innocent, righteous and kind could be "dirty." His father had always taught him that "Mudbloods" were "dirty." Anything that wasn't a "Pureblood" was "dirty."

And yet, here he sat, watching as the most beautiful creature in the world laughed and smiled in his arms.

She was a "Mudblood."

Maybe he'd been living in a lie. Either it was a lie, or a distorted truth. How can Hermione Granger be "dirty," when she was everything but?

But the real-life Hermione never treated you well, did she, Draco? His mind told him.

That's because I don't treat her well, he argued. She's the most patient, understanding, brave, loving person I know – i've watched her, and I know. I know all about her S.P.E.W., the things she does for Potter and Weasley, the things she stands up for and believes in. She has the purest heart in the world, and I-

Silence.

And I don't deserve her. I've called her Mudblood, and insulted her every possible way I can, just because I'm a spoiled brat who wants her attention, and because my father will kill me if I treat her any better.

And as Draco walked out of the room once again, down the winding corridors and back to the Great Hall where he ditched his partner Pansy Parkinson just a few moments after the Ball began, one thing rang through his head:

I don't deserve her.

He stopped short, quickly hiding behind a column as he spotted Hermione below the staircase of the Great Hall, crying.

He almost went to her.

Almost.

And maybe he would have, if Krum didn't beat him to it.

Maybe he would have, if circumstances were different.

Maybe he would have, if she didn't hate him.

1995

"I'm sorry I'm late," Draco called as he bustled into 'his room.' He dropped his satchel to the floor as he himself dropped down, exhausted, in front of the Mirror of Erised.

"Are you alright? You look horrible," gasped Mirror-Granger, who appeared to be sitting right beside his reflection.

"No thanks to your red-headed friend. Bloody strong, that Bat-Bogey Hex of hers," huffed Draco. He sat comfortably, his legs loose out in front of him and his hands supporting his weight behind him.

"It was your fault for turning us over to Umbridge and for joining her Inquisitorial Squad in the first place," Mirror-Granger stubbornly replied.

Draco sighed. "Look, I had no choice, alright?"

Mirror-Granger raised a brow at him.

"Fine, fine, I really did want to join. I mean, who wouldn't want a chance to get all-mighty and powerful Potter in trouble?"

"Stop it, Harry's a good person, he-"

"Isn't as special as everyone thinks he is! He always gets the attention, the pat in the back, the 'hero's welcome', and everything else! He's always the good guy, and I'll forever be known as the bad one, the one in Slytherin, the one who no matter what he does will forever be evil!"

Draco found his fists bloody. Unconsciously he had started punching the floor. He looked up, towards the mirror, to see that Mirror-Granger had her arms around him from behind, her chin resting on his platinum blond hair. She didn't say anything – just held him there. He lifted his bloody fists from the floor and reached for her hands around his neck, only to feel nothing.

Just empty space.

And that was when the reality hit him.

The reality that none of it was real.

All the conversations, the laughs, the smiles – none of it were real.

Most of all, the acceptance wasn't real. The Mirror simply showed him what he wanted to see, made him hear what he wanted to hear. Mirror-Granger wasn't real. She was just an illusion, a fragment of his imagination and desires.

She wasn't real.

And it was time to let go of it. Let go of the illusion that only seemed to haunt him and hurt him, to confuse him and make him hope. He was tired of hoping, just to be disappointed. Tired of hoping that perhaps the real Hermione Granger would give him the time of day. He was tired of the "Some day"s and the "I wish"es.

As he lifted his gaze to the Mirror once again, his eyes stinging, he saw her arms around him.

She was crying.

And he found that he was crying, as well.

Closing his eyes, he turned away and stood up.

He didn't open them until his back was to the mirror, and his hand on the doorknob.

He didn't look back.

He left, and didn't look back.

But he just couldn't stay away.

And always, always, he would come back.

Not as often, but he would come back once in a while.

He would come back, and not say anything.

He would just watch her wrap her arms around him, crying.

1996

The door creaked open.

Draco hesitantly entered, shaking. His hair was a mess – he had long since stopped bothering to fix his appearance. There were bags under his eyes, and he was deathly pale. He had lost a lot of weight, and he looked raggedly tired.

He approached the Mirror, where a straight-faced Hermione stood. He stepped closer, until his fingers on his left hand were touching the Mirror's surface. His fingers touched her cheek, wishing that she was real, that she was right there, in front of him, warm and alive.

All he felt was the cold and smooth surface of the Mirror.

He felt his body shaking, and warm trails of tears sliding down his cheeks. He rested his forehead on the Mirror, as if he was resting it on Hermione Granger's.

"I don't want to do this anymore," he whispered. "I can't. I'm breaking, I don't know what to do. If I don't suceed, my family-" he broke off, a sob choking his words.

"I don't want to do this anymore," he repeated. "I can't do this anymore. I need someone to help me," he sobbed.

"But I know that no one can," he whispered, his eyes squeezing painfully shut at the truth of it all, as new tears fell. "And I know that I have to finish this. I have to do this."

The fingers that were touching the mirror clenched into a fist as he backed away from the Mirror.

"And I know I have to stop this. This insanity, this dreaming and hoping. It's enough. I can't afford to dwaddle in things that will never be, or the present will eat me up alive," he said, his voice raspy.

Taking a deep, shuddered, breath, he looked one last time into Hermione Granger's sad eyes.

"Please...Please, Hermione...would you smile for me one last time?" he whispered, his eyes stinging once again.

Mirror-Granger smiled softly, her warm eyes melting his.

And that was enough.

"It's time to end this."

He gripped the object in his right hand tighter, and felt it cut through his skin.

"I love you," he whispered to Mirror-Granger.

He pulled his right arm back, and flung it back with full force towards the Mirror. A deafening crash sounded throughout the small room as the Mirror shattered.

The hundreds of glass shards fell in slow motion to Draco's eyes. His happiness, his dreams, his love – all came crashing down.

As he stood over the wreck, his right hand bloody from the stone he gripped too tight, glass shards surrounding him, he couldn't feel anything.

He couldn't feel anything at all.

He was broken.

Nothing was going to fix him.

And that was what he wanted.

He wanted to make himself inhuman – cold, and unfeeling. Maybe it would help him get things done.

He was broken.

And he was the one who broke himself.

A/N: I apologize to those readers who've been waiting for updates in my Incomplete stories. I promise I will get to them soon, I just need my inspiration. I've been feeling really down lately, and thus this sad-ending oneshot. I am in dire need of emotional de-stressing. Typing this up helped a lot, though.