Hey all!

Soooo as you've probably guessed by now, both by the name and most definitely the summary, this is the second part to Twisted Love Story.

To those who haven't yet read the first part: I advise that you read it first, otherwise you probably won't understand this and, also, it's a great read if I do say so myself!

To those what have: thank you so, so much for your support and your patience in waiting for me to get my thoughts together.

To everyone: It's supposed to be a one shot, but the story as a whole is 8,599 words. SO I've split it into two parts but posted both parts at the same time… And as promised, I've written a third (and final) part, which I will be editing/revising/rewriting and posting, hopefully, within the next few days.

Side note: I hope this does the first part justice!

ENJOY

Twisted Memoirs

X

April 13, 2004
8:47 a.m.

She looks at herself in the mirror. Looking back at her is a reflection she doesn't recognize. Curly, frizzy hair that feels like straw and looks like she hasn't washed it in weeks. Sad, haunted brown eyes cradled in dark circles because she hasn't slept in what feels like years. Pale, sickly looking skin that is dry and flaky. Hollowed out cheeks, protruding collar bones, pointy shoulders, countable ribs, boney hips.

She is a shadow of her former self. A reflection of a woman scorned, lost, clinging to life only because she has to.

Yesterday was the first day she'd gotten herself out of bed in about a month. She doesn't sleep; she lies there facing his side of the empty bed, stroking his crumpled bed sheets, crying into his pillow that smells of him. She lies in the dark, the covers pulled up to her chin - sometimes up over her head, to drown out the world around her. It is a deafening silence where the only noise is the sound of her own thoughts - and more often than not, the sound of her own heart-wrenching sobs. The only reason she decided to get out of bed yesterday was because Harry spent hours begging her to - and, if she's being honest with herself, she'd wanted to see him. She wanted to hear the truth from his own lips but she also wanted to seehim, to prove to herself that not everything was a lie, to see if the man she had loved was still there somewhere - anywhere, inside him. And he was. The man she had fallen in love with was there, he was just buried deep within the monster that he was - is. The thought is horrifying.

Today is the day, though. And although she doesn't have to go because there's no obligation and because, according to Harry, she's done everything she can, she pulls herself out of bed. She has to go. She needs closure. She needs... Well, truthfully, she doesn't know what she needs. But she cannot be here, when he is there.

She gives herself one last look in the mirror before flicking her wrist, watching the glass shatter as the shards fall onto the counter and into the sink, spilling onto the floor. She doesn't flinch. She doesn't blink. She is numb.

She places her wand on the counter among the shards of broken glass before climbing into the shower.

X

June 1, 1999

She steps out of the shower after wrapping a towel around her damp, naked body and towel-drying her hair. She wipes the edges of the white tub before pulling the curtain closed around it. And as she turns to leave the bathroom, a smile spreads over her lips as her gaze lands on the foggy mirror, a faded heart drawn onto the glass. Her not-so-cold and surprisingly-soft boyfriend's doing. She rolls her eyes, despite the smile on her face, as she opens the door.

It's almost as though she walks into a wall, freezing in the doorway at the sight before her. Confusion settles onto her face, resting in her eyebrows as she stares across the hallway at the wall opposite her. Hanging on the wall at eye level is a picture frame that wasn't there when she went into the bathroom. Instead of a picture, however, there's a large black arrow pointing down the hallway. Underneath it, written in Draco's elegant handwriting, is a question: Do you trust me?

She blinks in confusion as looks down the hallway. A few feet away is another picture frame which wasn't there before. She holds the towel around her middle as she walks towards it. Inside the frame is another arrow and underneath the arrow is another question: Would you trust me if I asked you follow me?

Curious, she follows three more arrows with three more questions. They lead her to the small, old fashioned kitchen. The curtains at the window above the sink are drawn and the door to the small patio is closed. Hanging on the doorknob by a piece of red ribbon is another picture frame. This time there's an "X" - X marks the spot - and underneath it reads: Are you still afraid of the unknown?

"Draco?" she calls out, her voice loud with confusion. Upon receiving no answer, still holding her towel to her chest, she turns the doorknob carefully and pulls open the door.

What she sees next steals her breath and brings tears to her eyes. There he stands, leaning against the iron rail encasing the balcony, with his arms crossed over his chest, a smug look on his face, the morning sunrise shining in his platinum blond hair. Next to him is the old circular table, made of wood, covered in an off-white table cloth. On top is a variety of breakfast foods: a basket of bagels and bread, fruit, coffee and tea, milk and cream and sugar, butter and cream cheese.

"What is this?" she asks softly once she's found her voice.

"Have a seat," he whispers, motioning for her sit in the chair closest to her.

Her brows knit together in confusion, hesitating in the doorway. "What's this about?" she asks again, curiously and shakily.

He smiles then, rolling his eyes playfully as he guides her to her seat.

For the second time this morning – and it isn't even 8 a.m. – her breath is stolen. A lone, silver key is lying in the middle of her white, square plate. She looks up at him standing next her, then back down at the key for a moment before sliding her gaze across the table as he sits down.

"I got the house," he says casually, leaning back in his chair.

She blinks, shocked as she leans forward. "W-what?"

"The house – the one we saw last month in the city. I bought it," he tells her, smiling as he cocks his head to the side.

Her eyes widen in disbelief as she looks down at the key. Her hand shakes as she reaches forward, running her fingers over the cool metal. "You...how'd you..." she trails off, unable to find the words to describe the thoughts shifting through her mind. They'd talked briefly about having a house, joked about officially moving in together. But she didn't think they were being serious – more importantly, she didn't think he was being serious.

He grins, leaning forward to take her hand in his. "It's ours, Granger."

She smiles through tears of happiness. "I dunno what to say," she chokes.

"Say you'll move in with me," he murmurs, his grey eyes shining with love and adoration. "Officially, with more than just a tooth brush and some clothes."

Forgetting that she's still only wearing a towel, Hermione launches herself across the table and onto Draco's lap, pressing her lips firmly against his with a deep breath of, "yes."

X

Everybody tells her not to go. They tell her it isn't worth her pain – but she's already in pain, so what's a little bit more? They tell her that he wouldn't blame her if she didn't go, and even if he did who cares?; she cares. And she doesn't understand.

She doesn't understand why she wants to go, why she feels like she has to. She doesn't understand why it means so much. She doesn't understand why she's more afraid of not going than she is of walking into the courtroom. She can't comprehend why she's so afraid to disappoint him. ["I don't expect you to come tomorrow...but it would mean the world if you would," he tells her softly. The desperation and the hope that is strong in his voice are so solid that she can practically touch them.]

She's standing in the middle of her bedroom [their bedroom], trying to understand and she can't. She looks at herself in the mirror and this time she looks more presentable. Her hair, clean and fresh from her long, 45 minute shower is in soft, elegant curls, falling over her shoulder to the tops of her breasts. The bags under eyes are gone, the red puffiness in her eyes is gone – although it won't last long, she's sure, and neither will her mascara. She'd added colour to her face in an attempt to make herself look healthy and vibrant, but the unhealthily skinny shape of her body proves that she isn't either.

She's wearing a pair of black dress pants, a white blouse and a dark grey blazer over top. Her cloak is also black, along with her purse. 'Is it a coincidence, wearing black today?' she wonders morbidly.
Her stomach growls loudly, rumbling and shaking violently. She is hungry, but her appetite is next-to-none. And even when she does eat, she throws it all up 20 minutes later, unable to keep anything but water in her stomach. It's unhealthy, in more ways than one now.

A loud POPechoes around the otherwise empty, quiet room and in the reflection of the mirror she watches the figure of the raven-haired man materialize behind her. He looks at her through the mirror, his hands pushed into the pockets of his cloak. He looks somber and disappointed. This trial will be the biggest trial the Wizarding World has ever seen and if...her husband...is found guilty – and realistically there's no way he wouldn't be - then Harry, alongside Ron, will go down in history.

"You don't have to do this, you know," he tells her softly, walking closer to her. "You don't owe him anything, you can stay here. I'll-"

"I have to go," she whispers, turning her head to face him. "I have to go for me." It's only partly a lie, right?

"Are you sure you can handle it?"

"I handled yesterday, didn't I?" she asks rhetorically, smiling sadly.

He stares at her sternly, as he knows full well the second she got within the safe confines of her house - it's no longer a home - she lost any shred of self-control and composure she had left. She spent the majority of the rest of the day sobbing into his chest as he held her while they cuddled on the bed and when she wasn't sobbing she was throwing up – and because there isn't much to vomit, she was dry-heaving. After six hours of crying and vomiting she'd finally fallen asleep, in which time he'd kissed her on the forehead and gone home.

To this day she isn't sure what's worse: living a nightmare while she's awake, or re-living the same nightmare – and then some – in her dreams.

"Have you eaten?" he asks her.

She nods, glancing down at the floor.

He looks skeptical, reluctantly accepting her response before taking a deep breath. "Ready?"

Instead of replying verbally, in which case she doesn't have a response, she takes his hand. His hand, larger and rougher than hers, gives hers a reassuring squeeze before the loud POPand tugging sensation of apparition consumes them.

The second her feet touch the ground, she's blinded by a thousand tiny flashes of bright lights.

X

May 16, 2000

The minute the double doors to the Ministry building open, the newlyweds are blinded - not only by the afternoon sun - but by thousands of tiny white flashes. They pause on the landing before the large staircase, their hands clasped together tightly.

Her white dress, sprinkled with tiny diamonds – the groom wouldn't settle for anything less than magnificent, shines in the light bouncing off of it. Her tanned skin glows, absorbing the light, and her wide, pearly white smile twinkles along with her big brown eyes, demanding the attention she deserves.

Next to her, the groom stands perfectly still, back straight, chin raised proudly. His black robes somehow look darker and more elegant, contrasting against the white of his dress shirt. His white blond hair shines in the light, and his pale skin practically glimmers. His own smile and grey eyes are twinkling with unfathomable happiness.

They're the perfect picture of a newlywed couple.

They're the greatest, most surprising couple in the history of the Wizarding World.

The paparazzi, the guests, their friends and family begin chanting for a kiss.

He smirks, dipping his head down next to her face, his lips grazing her ear. "Kiss me, wife," he whispers.

She smiles, turning her body to face him and tilting her head back for access. He lingers for a moment, his right arm slipping around her waist as he strokes the side of her face with his left hand. He grazes his nose against hers, eliciting a giggle from her throat before he presses his lips to hers.

The sounds of cheering and hollering and cameras clicking fills the air.

Then they're running through the crowd, laughing as their guests begin to pelt them with rice and flowers. She giggles loudly and wholeheartedly as somebody – a chauffeur – opens the back door of a large, black horse-drawn carriage. She clambers inside first, pulling her new husband in after.

Both of them are panting as the door closes, leaning back against the structure of the carriage – a soft tug means they are moving. She looks sideways at him, smiling sweetly and sort of shyly as a light blush spreads across her cheeks. He grins back, cocking his head to the side in a 'come-hither' sort of way.

She does as she's told, moving across the space between them before climbing rather awkwardly onto his lap, straddling him as he adjusts his hips for both of their comforts. His arms slip around her waist while hers curl around his neck. She rests her forehead against his, breathing shakily and looking deeply into his eyes.

"Hi," he whispers, gazing up at her as he rests the back of his head against the back of the bench.

"Hi," she whispers back.

Seconds pass. Minutes pass. Moments pass as they stare lovingly at one another.

He moves both hands, pushing his right into her hair behind her head and stroking her cheek with his fingertips with his other. "I love you Hermione Malfoy."

She hums in adoration at the sound of his last name attached to hers. "I love you too Mr. Malfoy."

And then for the third time since saying "I do" and for the first time in privacy, the newlyweds kiss.

X

Draco is led into the courtroom by two guards wielding body armor and wands; the guards and the judge are the only people allowed their wands inside. For the first time in weeks he's able to wear outside clothing: dragonhide dress shoes and black robes with a white dress shirt – a major change from Azkaban's black and white striped jumpsuit and dirty old sneakers, if he were lucky enough he'd be able to snag a pair of dirt-stained, holey socks. The robes are significantly softer and more comfortable. They've allowed him to clean up as well; he shaved his five o'clock shadow this morning, washed his hair and his skin, brushed and polished his teeth. He looks rather presentable now.

However this is the last thing on his mind.

As he enters the courtroom he's only vaguely aware of the audience watching him, glaring and sneering and scowling and crying. They are friends and families of his victims – whom he doesn't recognize. They are his own "friends" and "coworkers" and peers he went to school with. They are witches and wizards who cannot wait for his demise.

He ignores them, keeping his gaze trained ahead of him with his held high. And when he sits down in the prisoner's box on the left hand side of the judge's podium, facing the crowd in front of him, he is unfazed by their reactions and behaviours towards him. Quite frankly, he really doesn't care what they think. As he folds his hands on his lap, his wrists bound together both by metal cuffs and by magic, his gaze falls upon the prosecutor's table. A wizard dressed in court robes with grey hair and sagging skin is silently behind his desk, waiting. He shifts his gaze to the defense lawyer's side of the room – had he bothered to hire a lawyer, a man, probably resembling the prosecutor, would be sitting there.

She isn't here, he notices.

She isn't here yet, he tells himself.

It's wishful thinking on his part, hoping she'll show up. But then, the look on her face when he had asked her to come yesterday had led him to believe that she would. And while a part of him doesn't want her to come – doesn't want her to have go through the details of this trial – a bigger part him, the selfish part of him, wants her to be there.

Needs her to be there.

He needs to see her face.

He needs something to hold on to while he is being ripped to shreds by the evidence that is stacked against him.

He needs to feel some form of happiness, while he awaits his fate. [And hers, he thinks gravely.]

Just then the door opens and his stomach jumps into his throat and his heart drops into his stomach – just at the mere possibilitythat it will be her. He sits up a little straighter, looks a little bit more attentive and waits with baited breath.

It is Potter, wearing dark robes with his wacky black hair combed to one side – Like you had to get all fancy for me, Draco thinks. Following the Head Auror and the lead auror on his case is his wife, Mrs. Ginny Potter. She, too, is wearing dark robes which contrasts against her fiery red hair and still manages to show off her fat baby bump – Of course she's pregnant again, she's still a Weasley, he thinks amusedly. Behind both Potters is the most magnificent being that's ever lived. She's also wearing dark robes, her thick, curly hair falling across her shoulders, her skin pale in comparison to the blackness of the fabric surrounding her. She looks sad, lost, confused. If it weren't for the fact that her hand is clasped tightly in the Weaslette's hand, he's sure she would've made a run for it.

He settles back into his chair, his gaze following her. He is calm now. At piece. And despite the fact that she has stolen his breath with her presence, he can finally breathe now.

X

She can't breathe. She can't think. She can hardly walk, wouldn't be able to if Ginny weren't holding her hand and acting as her legs. She doesn't want to be here – but being anywhere else, at this point, is unfathomable.

She can feel his gaze on her the whole way to her seat, between Ginny and Harry. Can feel it smoldering and firm; unwavering. He's willing her to look at him. It set fire to her skin and, at the same time, an eerie chill down her spine. A part of her wants to look back, wants to see him. But she refuses.

She's too afraid to.

His gaze, however, isn't the only one on her; everyone in the room is staring at her. Watching her. [Hoping for a reaction. Waiting for her to fall apart. Silently berating her. Wondering how on earth she had never known. Feeling bad for her. Trying to understand.] Aside from her husband being the center of attention today, she's probably the most popular person in the room right now.

Especially with the reporters.

She knows what they've been saying about her. Despite today being the first day anyone, aside from her closest friends and family and from the guards at Azkaban yesterday, has seen her, she's seen the papers. [Hermione Granger: muggleborn wife of muggleborn killer. War heroine: victim or accomplice? Mrs. Malfoy brayed by muggle-hating husband.] It seems that for every truthful article stating that she is a victim, there are at least two stating otherwise.

Hermione has come to ignore the stories, just as she's currently ignoring the staring and the glaring and the whispers behind her back. Since falling into a relationship with a certain Slytherin many years ago, she's become accustomed to ignoring such things – and, apparently, ignoring much more.

X

November 17, 2001

She's been spying on them for two hours now – and is it weird that she's both relieved and disappointed that nothing has happened? Nothing; no hand-holding, no kissing, not even an inappropriate foot graze. In fact everything seems rather... professional. Just as he said it would be, a voice in the back of her head tells her. [

I'll be late tonight. I'm having dinner with Melanie to discuss the new project. I'll be home around 10.]

It's not that she didn't believe him, per-say. It's that...well curiosity just got the best of her.

The rag-mags –Twitch Weekly, Witch Weekly, Amortentia - have been reporting, for weeks now, that one Draco Malfoy may (or may not) be having an affair. She'd asked him about it jokingly and he'd joked along with her but that's as far as that conversation has ever gone. ["So, who's the lucky girl?" "What lucky girl?" "You know, the one you're cheating on me with." "Oh, you don't know her."] She'd waved it off before because, quite honestly, she can't see him ever having an affair – he's far too selfishly involved in her. She couldn't, however, continue to squash the little seed of doubt implanted into her brain by those magazines.

He is, after all, a perfect gentleman. And "totally" fit. And, if he were single, he'd be the most sought-after bachelor in history – with his fame and his riches and his name.

Needless to say, she hadn't been in her right mind when she decided to follow him to this restaurant. Nor was she in her right mind when she decided to stay, sitting at a table in the corner of the room so that his back was to her.

After paying her bill – for a glass of water and a small salad – she gathers her things, prepared to slip out unnoticed. At least, that's the plan. She pulls her cloak on and grabs her purse out of her booth before walking the long way towards the front door in order to avoid her husband's table. She walks past the other guests and around the large fountain in the center of the restaurant.

Her hand is on the doorknob when she hears her name being shouted across the restaurant. "Granger!" His voice is clear, firm and smug.

She groans, squeezing her eyes shut as she berates herself inwardly. She opens them again as she turns around to face him, smiling innocently.

He waves her over, cocking his head to the side cockily.

Taking a deep breath to settle her sudden nerves, she makes her way towards them. Melanie, the young witch accompanying him, turns to look at her, smiling sweetly. She has pale red hair, brown eyes, a fair complexion – a killer body, from the angle she had seen her from just five minutes earlier. "Hey honey," she greets him casually. "Fancy seeing you here."

"Yeah, fancy that," he smirks, "considering I told you this was where I'd be."

"Oh, did you? I must've forgotten," she covers quickly.

"You, my dear, haven't forgotten anything a day in your life."

"Well, you know what they say: there's a first time for everything," she points out innocently.

He hums, raising a perfect, disbelieving eyebrow in her direction. "I'm sure."

They stare at one another for a moment, almost challengingly, before she breaks the silence. "Well, you two look busy so I'm just gonna go." And then she turns away from them quickly -

"Granger," he calls after her, halting her mid-step. "We were actually just finishing. Why don't you join us? Let me introduce you."

Hermione clears her throat, turning back to face them both as he pulls himself to his feet. "Sure," she replies awkwardly.

He grins, curling his arm around her waist and pulling her to his side. "Melanie, I'd like you to meet my incredibly beautiful – and nosy – wife, Hermione," he announces, in which case said wife glares sideways at him before offering the woman sitting in the booth a polite smile. "Mrs. Malfoy, this is Melanie Cooper. She's Malfoy Inc.'s newest – and best – intern yet."

"It's so nice to finally meet you," Melanie says warmly, smiling as she offers Hermione her hand. "He talks about you all the time."

"He does, does he?" Hermione asks skeptically. "All good, I hope."

"Nothing but."

"Well he's mentioned you as well, so it's a pleasure," the brunette replies, smiling softly.

"Mel, seeing as we're wrapping it up, would you mind if I spoke with my wife alone for a minute?" Draco asks politely.

"No, not at all."

He smiles, taking Hermione's hand in his as he leads her towards the back hallway where the washrooms are. She follows him guiltily, wondering just how much he knows and just how angry he's going to be. The moment they're out of earshot, he turns to her, staring stone-faced at her. She can feel her cheeks heating up with embarrassment, shifting from foot to foot nervously. She looks down at the floor, suddenly finding it far more interesting.

"You're really something else, you know that?"

She sighs softly, raising her gaze. "Draco-" and she stops when she sees him grinning. "W-what?"

"You know better than to buy into the hype, Granger."

"I know-"

"And you know I would never lie to you."

"I was curious!" she yelps defensively before clapping her hands over her mouth.

He chuckles softly. "You're nosy. And stubborn. And you never believe anything without seeing it for yourself – which is both a strength and a flaw. And I can't decide if you don't listen well enough, or if you listen too well," he tells her, looking amused and mischievous.

She blinks, confused. "What does that mean?"

"It means I knew the minute I told you about this dinner that you would stalk me," he replies smugly folding his arms over his chest.

"H-how?"

"Because I know you. I know that even though we were joking about the stories in the papers, you were still wondering."

She looks down sheepishly.

"I'm not mad, Granger. I just want to know why."

"Because...because look at you," she says softly, looking up at him. "You're this great person, this amazing man and this incredible...businessman who could have any witch in the world he wanted. It certainly wouldn't be hard for you to have an affair, seeing as most women fall to your feet all the time anyway. And I didn't necessarily think you were having one, I just wanted to prove to myself that you weren't – that I was right and they were wrong."

He smiles tenderly, cupping her face with both hands as he backs her gently against the wall. "I'm gonna let you in on a little secret, Granger," he whispers.

She blinks, nodding her head once as she swallows.

"The only woman in the entire world I want, is right here."

She gasps, looking once to her left and once to her right. "Where?" she wonders jokingly.

He laughs, tossing his head back before shaking it as he pulls it back to look at her. His laughter dies in his throat and his eyes glaze over as he becomes serious. "I have everything I want, Granger. Everything I need. Right here, in my hands."

She smiles, lifting both hands to wrap around his forearms as he pulls her face towards his, closing the gap. "Tell me again you'll never let me go."

"I'll never let you go."