Chapter Text

Part 1

Sixth Year: The Crack in the Foundation

Several Weeks Prior

“Severus – oh, Severus – you would help him? Would you look after him, see he comes to no harm?”

“I can try.”

Narcissa was still so beside herself with heartache and worry for her son, she didn’t notice the man entering the sitting room that was decidedly not Wormtail. She jumped and turned towards the man as his deep voice broke through their conversation:

“Yes, yes – he can try. But who will ensure that the boy succeeds?”

Present

Hermione was born dying.

Well, perhaps dying in a different manner than everyone already was, she supposed. After all, each person was thrusted into the world against their will, forced to bear witness as their body submits to the incredibly slow process of decomposition. She was not unique in that regard– she just had an additional layer. One in which she was born dying for more, often in the name of others.

Hermione was born dying for more knowledge, clawing away at the pages of various tomes ranging anywhere from Moste Potente to Plato’s Republic (which she read in spite of the fact that she secretly loathes philosophers).

Hermione was born dying for more answers, of which the questions for changed daily (her current query being related to how governments permitted the rise of fascist regimes after witnessing their presence and impact less than two decades prior).

Hermione was born dying for more courage, especially to face the upcoming challenges she very much feared (she was starting to worry that she was born with all the courage she would ever possibly have, and that Godric Gryffindor deemed it so when she was sorted into his house).

And most exhaustively, Hermione was beginning to suspect she was born dying to find more strength, more power, more anything to protect a certain scarred sixteen year old wizard.

She scarcely had time to live with all the dying she was doing.

No matter, she reasoned within her mind, squaring her shoulders as if she was in the face of an invisible threat. To be born dying is a noble pursuit, surely. Hermione was determined to convince her brain of this newly developed mantra, ignoring evidence of the contrary presented in the likely permanent dark circles under her eyes and the rigidity of her spine, prone to snapping at any moment. Her body hadn’t been in such a state since last year, when she had both the OWLs and a deadly encounter with Death Eaters at the Ministry looming over her.

Couldn’t hold it together for one bloody night, huh, Hermione?

Evidently she couldn’t, in spite of the fact that she had no choice but to. One person in this castle had to care for the well-being of Harry Potter… no matter how exhausting it might be. Dumbledore certainly didn’t, a position Hermione quietly kept to herself after witnessing the many occasions he – either knowingly or unknowingly – placed a child in life threatening situations in order to win an extravagant game of chess with a dark wizard.

Ron did, but only in the way a man like Ron could care for a best mate. She felt a flicker of rage in the pit of her stomach, recalling how she had noticed Ron being more preoccupied with the food at the start of term feast rather than the fact Harry had been missing from said event. Hermione had wanted nothing more than to shove the chicken leg he was happily gnawing on deep into his esophagus. She almost told him as much during the argument that followed before she stormed away from the table in search of their friend. Perhaps she was crueler than she originally believed herself to be. Or perhaps being born dying was a lonely and agonizing fate that left her two degrees of separation from others at all times, unable to relate to their lack of urgency in life.

They were certainly doing it the right way compared to her, busy pacing in the empty expanse of the entrance hall when she could be happily filling her stomach instead. Alas, Hermione’s brain was both her savior and her tormentor, depending on the context of any given situation she stumbled into. Her brain was fully operating in torment-mode at this moment.

Several curled locks of Hermione’s hair escaped from her poorly executed braid to the front of her face as she made a sharp turn, some pieces creeping into her mouth. She hastily brushed them away and continued with her pacing, only partially worried that she would burn a hole through her shoes with the friction they were having to withstand. On par with torment-mode, the majority of Hermione’s concerns were instead fixated on Harry’s unknown whereabouts, an unfortunately common occurrence throughout the years as Ron had previously attempted to reason with her.

It’s not like he hasn’t done this before, he had said, aggressively tossing the chicken leg back on his plate as his eyebrows furrowed inwards, like he was mad at her for even bringing it up. I mean, bloody hell, Harry wanders off more often than not. He’s probably busy fulfilling his new weird obsession with Malfoy. ‘Sides, when did you start getting all fussy over him?

Hermione had tried to interject and explain why his likely decision to tail Malfoy was a reasonable cause for concern, given both of their tendencies towards the “duel-first, ask-questions-later” mentality. She didn’t feel it was even worth the breath it would have taken to address the general threat to Harry’s life that has always existed. However, Ron seemed rather preoccupied with the presence of her concern rather than the reason for it, which was simply an issue Hermione did not have time to unpack. She had walked away from that table knowing she was leaving both of them to stew in their anger.

So, here lies Hermione, withering in her fury. A fury which can unfortunately be somewhat attributed to herself. She had enough insight to recognize she had been angry before even initiating her argument with Ron. It was the ingenious part of her brain’s torment: not only was she concerned for Harry, she had been feeling oddly unsure as to how to approach the situation. It was a state of unknown that Hermione did not appreciate, and could feel her frustration growing with every question that raced through her mind:

Should she wander off in search of Harry by herself, without having the slightest idea of where to begin? Was it reasonable to involve a professor, knowing a student was potentially missing on the first day of classes without permitted leave? Or would that be too rash and result in Harry receiving detention on his first day back at the one place he considers home? He would surely be frustrated with her, even though he would put in a valiant effort to hide it. Hermione did not want to be likened to a wet blanket by her friends again, and feelings of insecurity were already bubbling in her stomach at the mere thought of it– but this was Harry’s life she was gambling with here, who could possibly care about being considered a drag when her friend could be in danger– oh, sure, Harry being late to dinner was really a matter of life and death, get a grip Hermione– she’s a nightmare, honestly–

To be stuck in such a state of indecisiveness was unbecoming of a Gryffindor.

She was hesitating. Or she was stuck. Maybe both. She was passionate enough about the issue at hand to start the year off squabbling with Ron and leaving her dinner untouched, and yet she was essentially doing the same as him a few corridors away: waiting. With a sense of importance and urgency, yes, but waiting nonetheless. Hermione felt she was just as useless here as she would have been remaining at the welcome feast. She felt shame creep in at the thought. Why couldn’t she spring into action, the way Harry was never fearful of doing– the way she had done herself on countless occasions? When did she become the kind of person that was unsure of the correct path forward? What divine intervention or act of fate was she waiting for?

She sighed heavily as she slowed down her steps until she came to a steady halt facing the closed main entrance of the castle. The looming doors felt like a hurdle she would never jump over. Hermione knew realistically they would give with a simple Alohomora as it was not yet curfew. But she was a lover of poetry and romance just as she was of arithmetic and history, so she couldn’t help but to view the doors as a physical manifestation of the barrier lying between her and all that she has been born dying for.

Hermione nearly jumped out of her skin as a faint clicking noise sounded unexpectedly from outside, preceding the sound of the castle’s entrance doors groaning deeply and opening just wide enough for a lean body to slide through, its outline illuminated by the moon outside. Hermione, already frozen in place by the entrance, felt as though she was stunned once more as the face attached to the body was none other than Draco Malfoy.

Hermione was in fact not a lover of divination– this was a widely accepted truth. But some dark part of her brain briefly considered it as an area of study worth pursuing once more as the aforementioned invisible threat was suddenly no longer invisible.

The one saving grace she had in this situation was that Draco Malfoy appeared just as unprepared for such a confrontation as she did. He almost immediately paused his initial pursuit down the entrance hall, his dragonskin oxfords not making nearly as much noise as her second-hand Mary Janes did on the stone floor. She could see in real time as his mind processed that a stray Gryfinndor was standing a mere three meters in front of the doors. Malfoy’s eyes narrowed as he appraised her, surely sizing up the potential opponent he saw before him. Hermione figured it was only fair to do the same.

She might have described him as flustered, if he wasn’t Malfoy and she hadn’t known him for nearly six years already. His pale face was tinged red, either from exertion or anger Hermione could not say. The signature white blonde hair was no longer adhering to his equally signature slicked style. It was longer and looked unattended to, fine pieces waving and falling over his forehead just so that it kissed the end of his lashes. The overly formal dress robes he had taken to wearing since fourth year were no longer perfectly tailored to his figure, bunching up slightly around his waist. Though she refused to meet his eyes directly, it was obvious they were a confusing mixture of exhausted and alert, jotting around to take in every detail of the space as though his life depended on it.

To an unsuspecting muggle, he would look like an attractive man that was perhaps a bit tired. To Hermione, he looked positively wild by the typical pureblood standards.

Something twisted in Hermione at the sight of him. There was no doubt it was Malfoy in front of her. And yet – it wasn’t. Sure, he was still the spitting image of a young pureblood lord, with arrogance and wealth naturally dripping off his character. But this wasn’t the same spiteful bully she had grown up with. One who could turn his face ugly with a single word, who could not begin to conceive of the phrase ‘a hair out of place,’ who had the sweet tooth of a child that was never told no. This was a ghost, and one who wasn’t expecting to be perceived, at that.

She tried not to think about how the dark circles under his eyes rather matched her own.

“Fancied a moonlight stroll before the feast then, Malfoy?” The silence became too much as Hermione broke it first, speaking the words before her brain had a chance to process them.

Hermione’s voice evidently ended the freezing charm placed on Malfoy’s body. It was seconds before the whisper of a sneer appeared on the corner of his mouth, promising the cruelty she was used to coming from those dark lips. On instinct, her fingers twitched towards her wand stowed in her robe’s pocket.

“Fuck off, Granger.” He spoke it simply, like it was a given she was to indeed fuck off on command. Hermione, ever the listener, had the sudden and strong desire to do anything in the world besides fuck off. Her already-present anger threatened to bubble over as she considered doing something incredibly childish in retaliation. Perhaps she could dock house points from Slytherin so they would have to start the school year in the negatives. Or she could slap his pointy face, as she loved to revisit the memory of her doing so in third year and would rather enjoy starting a collection of such experiences. Ginny’s classic Bat Bogey Hex might be a potential route, simply for the entertainment it would provide. She almost just wanted to scream you fuck off, you posh prick and see what would unfold.

Instead, she said stupidly, “I’m waiting for someone.”

“Wait somewhere else.”

Hermione’s answering scoff contained as much mocking as she could purposefully muster. “Very eloquent solution. Why didn’t I think of that? There must be somewhere better to wait for a person to arrive than the entrance hall.”

“Careful, Granger. Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit.”

“Is that why you’re always in short supply of it?”

It was truly a feat against nature that his sneer remained perfectly intact as he simultaneously snarled at her, pushing past to make his way towards the Great Hall. “Fuck off, Granger.” It was the same rude statement from before, but its intent was different. Malfoy’s tone was soft in spite of his words and disposition, so much so that Hermione could just barely make out the warning in its undercurrent. He was providing an out for her, perhaps – and a promise for much worse should she press on.

Hermione should be logical and make her escape from Malfoy, ignoring him as she so often sought to do and continue her search for Harry, instead. She was about to turn away from his retreating form and towards the doors she was quickly beginning to hate the sight of, when her previous thought pulled her up short. Hermione was promptly reminded of her friend’s situation. But even more so, she was reminded of her conversation with Ron earlier about said situation. Particularly about the concerns with Harry’s new tendencies towards stalking.

The twisting sensation within her from before was reinvigorated as she aimed her eyes on the center of Malfoy’s back, envisioning a target. Her fingers were now confident in their movements as she retrieved her wand, inspired by the mental image. She could feel her pulsing heartbeat and sense her body temperature rising as she all but shouted at his retreating form, “I’ve never been one for coincidences.”

Malfoy stopped abruptly not ten feet from her, continuing to give her his back. He threw his head back and up towards the stone ceiling of the hall, as if to plead with Salazar himself for respite. “Bloody fucking fuck, why are you still speaking–”

“I don’t believe in them. Call me a skeptic. So, I can hardly ignore the fact that evidently two students have been absent from the start of term feast and only one of them has returned. Alone. Tell me, Malfoy, what conclusions do you think a skeptic like me could draw from that?”

He righted his position and slowly turned to face her head on. Though still looking like he was halfway through receiving a Dementor’s Kiss, Malfoy appeared more… awake. Resolved. He was evidently committed to engaging in this battle with her, and Hermione could hear the out he gave her moments before Disapparating.

“I think–” He lazily drawled, leaning forward as if to tell her a secret. “I’ve got better things to do than listen to you prattle on mindlessly. Go run off to annoy the Weasel and Scarhead instead.” It was here in which his sneer became vicious, and though she expected it from the beginning, it didn’t make swallowing the venom spewing from his mouth any easier. “Unless, for some reason completely unbeknownst to me, you can’t? Now, that would be a lovely start to my school year.”

Hermione was unfortunately well acquainted with the look on Malfoy’s face, the one where he knew he had done something terrible and was about to–or already had–get away with it. Her stomach promptly dropped at this realization.

He laughed once with malice as he continued. “Based on your concern, I can only assume it’s Potter you’re putting this performance on for. Salazar knows no one in their right mind could be this passionate for the freckled-fuck.”

Finally, like a true Gryffindor, she only saw red as she impulsively began charging at him until they were standing barely an arms length apart, wand trained directly to the smirk on his smug face. “What did you do?”

“I wonder what I will enjoy more: Saint Potter with a snapped wand and a letter of expulsion for missing the start of term, or witnessing the withdrawals a know-it-all like you will endure with one less idiot to bore.”

“Malfoy, I swear to Merlin if you–”

“Poor little mudblood, all alone, no one to witness her pathetic, swotty–”

“Where is H–”

“Or maybe you’ll be more upset having one less Gryffindick to ride–”

“Where is Harry?”

“If I were to wager, I’d fancy throwing my coin away on his piss-poor face being all mucked up and bleeding, preferably while taking his sorry arse back to London. But, alas, how would I know? Just wishful thinking and all. Though I do love a good bet.”

It was moments like these that Hermione questioned why she was likened to as the rational one of the trio, for there was nothing reasonable about her reaction.

Hermione could feel her rage dancing across her skin, like so many small fires. He fucking hurt Harry and left him on the Hogwarts Express, likely immobilized. Either Malfoy was severely underestimating her intelligence, or he wanted her to know what he had done to her friend. To cause her pain or to get himself caught, Hermione did not know, nor did she care. All she wanted to do was hurt him in return.

“A betting man, are you?” Hermione willed her tone to be as gentle as was feasible for her at this moment.

“Oh, most certainly.”

“Interesting. And since we’re considering the circumstances of others, what kind of wager would a betting man like yourself take on that of your father?”

Hermione did not cast Petrificus Totalus, but she might as well have for how quickly Malfoy froze. She allowed herself a small smirk before continuing, lest the curse ended early.

“I imagine a Death Eater traitor would not be the most popular addition to the lunch table at Azkaban. But, alas, how would I know? Perhaps they aren’t siccing the Dementors on him at every given opportunity. And maybe Voldemort isn’t ordering his men on the inside to ensure he is being punished every minute for his failure. I’m sure he’s having an absolute ball in there.”

Malfoy did not so much as blink. Only his breathing increased slightly as she took one step closer to him, lowering her wand from his face to his chest. She let the end of the vine wood push up directly against the Slytherin crest on his robes, resting slightly above his heart. As her brain was unable to process anything from a logical standpoint with her pulse hammering in her ears, Hermione finally allowed her brown eyes to meet his grey ones as she went on.

“Poor little pureblood, no daddy to run to when the mudblood deigns herself to speak back to you. I wonder what he thinks about his precious son now. Maybe he is proud and doesn’t care about you being a useless git without having a father to throw your punches for you. But I doubt it. In fact, I’d wager that you’re hoping rumors circled back to Azkaban about his son bec–”

A blonde head snapped up– panicked eyes, akin to dark thunderstorms, held her hostage in their agony– a gasp escaped her lips and she swore he could feel her breath as she did–

Hermione halted her attack immediately, any words she was planning on saying caught in her throat and left to be a mystery to them both. The memory was unexpected and most unwelcome in this moment. That fact did not stop her body from tensing and her fists from clenching, yearning to do some action unknown to her conscious mind.

She was catapulted back to the present with a noise she didn’t anticipate: laughter. Malfoy’s answering laugh was utterly wicked. Worse, it had a somewhat… decisive edge to it. Hermione’s previously heated body chilled abruptly as he fixed his gaze on her one last time, absolute in its unwanted attention. She commended herself strongly on not stepping back and continued to smirk along with him, likely due to her very new inability to move her muscles and the absolute turmoil occurring in her head.

Malfoy pushed her wand off his chest and to the side with his pointer finger, encountering barely any resistance as he did. “Oh, mudblood, you don’t know what you’ve done quite yet. But I assure you – you will.” He stalked away from her and towards the Great Hall without another word. Hermione let him.

A blonde head– dark thunderstorms– a gasp–

Hermione knew when she became the kind of person that waits, hesitant and unsure of the correct path forward. In fact, she could probably pinpoint the exact moment that had shifted, though she would be loath to admit it to anyone– including herself.

Oh, woe is me.

Chapter Text

It was hard to decipher how much time had passed before Hermione regained command over her legs again and was able to sprint towards the Great Hall. Quite unwillingly, water started welling up in her eyes – not from sadness, Merlin no, but from wrath. She was a whirlwind of emotions that she couldn’t begin to process, and truthfully, she had no desire to. Through sheer brute force, she allowed her focus to center itself on one thing only: Harry.

If what Malfoy was saying was true, Hermione had wasted precious time meandering about the entrance hall like a bloody fool instead of immediately going to a professor. How quick she was to abandon her priggish ways, knowing they were both effective and gave her results. Now, it would be a miracle if Harry wasn’t halfway to Kings Cross Station already. The tears that had been building began to stream down her face as she thought of him injured and in pain. To what extent, she didn’t know. Hermione could only hope Malfoy’s dueling was as pitiful as it was in second year.

Blast, she was so angry! Hermione wondered briefly if a person could die of anger before she forced her attention back onto her friend once more. Her only option was to barge into the Great Hall and inform Dumbledore immediately. Use Harry for his own means he might– but, in order to use him, he would first have to ensure that Harry was within reach and safe. She was confident, if not a little put off, that Dumbledore was the only option.

Her Mary Janes no longer stood a chance against the force of her feet tearing down the hallways, only allowing them a second of relief when she burst through the doorway. More than a few heads of the those sitting closest to the entrance turned her way, some in shock and startlement, others in disgust and judgement. The latter of the expressions coming from students shrouded in green and silver, naturally. Hermione dismissed them entirely, not having a single moment to waste on entertaining a group of Slytherins even if she wished to (which she was as likely to desire as Luna Lovegood was to denounce Wrackspurts).

Hermione’s gaze honed in on the Headmaster seated at the left end of the room, sipping from his goblet and chatting away in a blissfully ignorant manner with the other professors at the High Table. She clenched her fists and leaned forward with intent, but her dramatic march was interrupted before it could even begin with a hand engulfing her wrist and pulling her abruptly back.

“Hermione?”

Her head snapped to the owner of the limb that was daring to touch her, fully prepared to bite the hand trapping her in place clean off when crystal blue eyes entered her field of vision. Ron.

Her lanky, red haired friend looked at her with an absolutely baffled expression. His wide eyes surveyed her character as if she were a stranger. “Bloody hell, Hermione, you look like you’re on a warpath.”

“I am,” she seethed through her teeth, trying to yank her right arm – her wand arm – back into her ownership to no avail. Hermione let out a small shriek of indignation and adjusted the target of her warpath from Dumbledore to Ron accordingly. “Ronald Weasley, you let me go this instant or I swear–”

“Hermione,” Ron, still utterly perplexed, spoke her name very slowly, sounding out each syllable like she was a child. “Please, I’ve been looking for you for ages. Now I find you flying into the hall like you just escaped from You-Know-Who himself and… Just– just come, sit down and talk to me, please.”

Her breathing didn’t slow and her temper didn’t lessen, but the words of a pleading friend broke through her exterior– just barely. Hermione glanced back towards Dumbledore, who was paying no mind at all to the tribulations of his students, before returning her gaze to Ron. She allowed her shoulders to drop a fraction of a centimetre as a signal of defeat before giving him a curt nod. Ron sighed heavily in relief, and turned to lead them both to the Gryffindor table on the far end of the room, his hand still latched tightly around her wrist.

She should have known, with their standoff occurring directly in front of the Slytherin table situated by the entrance, that she would not get off without at least one snake seizing the opportunity to hiss.

“I hear it takes five years to train a mudblood properly. Looks like Granger here missed a couple of sessions.” Hermione heard the purposefully loud, snide remark that belonged to none other than Daphne Greengrass. The honey blonde’s pride in her attempt at wit was clear through her pursed-lip smirk, which only grew as she was awarded with multiple cackles from her fellow sixth years.

Hermione, now crossing the threshold of “completely out of her own mind,” snapped her teeth at the girl as Ron continued pulling her away. She relished in Daphne flinching backwards as she did.

Ron led her away from the snake nest with a chorus of ooooo’s trailing after them. Ron stared at her with a dumbfounded face, opening and closing his mouth several times before nearly tripping over his long legs. In some logical, forgotten part of Hermione’s brain, she wondered if this had been the most times she’d witnessed Ron’s jaw drop in a single sitting.

“Herm– did you just– are you absolutely mental?” Ron continued to babble at her as he sat them both down at their spot on the Gryffindor table, still with one empty seat present. Her blood boiled once more as he went on, “What in the name of Godric Gryffindor happened to you in the last thirty minutes?”

Her legs felt like they were bouncing up and down at the speed of light, unable to sit still in her urgency. Hermione’s eye flickered back to the High Table as she responded, “Ron, I need to talk to you about Harry–”

“I know, I know,” Ron exasperated, glaring down at his now empty plate of food, save for a few stray chicken bones. “Look, I’m sorry for saying… y’know, I didn’t want to start off the year fighting, but I just… no matter what I thought, I shouldn’t have let you run off after Harry alone.”

She grit her teeth at the unbelievably unimportant conversation he was attempting to have with her right now. “That’s nice, Ron, but–”

“And now, I really hate myself for letting that happen, because– well, look at you! Hermione, what the hell happened–”

“If you would stop interrupting me for five bleeding seconds, I would be able to tell you.” Hermione snapped at him. There had yet to be a single person she’d encountered since dinner that she hadn’t snapped at, both figuratively and literally. She would have to remember to feel sorry about that later tonight when she goes to bed. If she is ever able to fall asleep, of course. That would be highly unlikely if Harry died from blood loss hundreds of kilometres from here.

The hurt expression on Ron’s face following her comment did make her backpedal a bit. Hermione took in a deep breath, mainly to ensure she would have the strength needed to soften her face as much as was reasonably manageable for her in this moment. She also took extra care in making her words were less forceful for her third attempt at informing him: “Ron, I’m sorry. Truly, I am, and I would love to discuss everything more in depth later, but we simply don’t have time for this. Any of this. We need to speak with Professor Dumbledore immediately.”

Red eyebrows bunched up and met in the center of his freckled forehead at her appeal. “Why? What happened, then? Is Harry alright?”

Before Hermione had the opportunity to go into extreme detail on all the ways Harry was very much not alright, in walked their best friend through the entrance she had been dragged away from moments before. She froze in place for a split second before nearly folding over herself, sagging in relief, feeling as though she would melt into the floor with the amount of tension released from her body.

Harry. He was alright. Not good, as Hermione could see the actively drying blood covering his face become more and more prominent the closer he came to their table. But he was here, and he was fine enough for her to discharge herself from the responsibility of having to avenge him– for tonight, at least.

She was, admittedly, still angry –oh, was she ever– but the many small fires that lit up along her skin from before began to dim ever so slightly, no longer providing fuel for her rampage.

Hermione was in a dazed state as Harry sat down next to her. She was reminded of the strange cartoon her father occasionally made her watch with him when she was home, the one where the adults made a wah wah sound every time they spoke so the audience couldn’t understand a word they said. That’s all her ears could process as Harry and Ron began to speak, her brain hammering in her ears as loud as her heart had been beating before. She was evidently recovering from an adrenaline rush, or whatever the hell it was that had happened to her over the last hour.

Staring intently at his somehow uninjured yet bloodied face, Hermione interrupted their nonsensical speech. “You’re covered in blood,” she accused him. She hadn't intended to make it sound like it was his fault. But it didn’t matter anyhow, as she realized Harry didn’t notice in the slightest before she had the chance to feel bad.

He tried to crack a joke at her, which was in truth the worst decision he could have made in that instant. Snapping out of her self-induced Stupefy, she cleaned off his blood and made quick work of lecturing him about just how worried she had been, demanding to know exactly what had happened. She wanted to hear the story from his trusted mouth, not from the jaws of a venomous snake. And for all her efforts she put towards searching for her friend and driving herself up a wall with worry in the process, she was awarded with a not now, Hermione.

Not now, Hermione.

Her silence was immediate, and it was not out of compliance with Harry’s request. Ron carried on without notice of her change in disposition, ever the follower and always on board with his best mate. He had apparently already forgotten their argument, the search for their friend, her momentary breakdown. Ron and Harry both had moved on to other matters while she was stuck in the past, also referred to as five minutes ago. Their message, no matter how subconscious it might be, was clear: she was to fall in line accordingly and move on.

So, Hermione played her part, joining in on the conversation her friends deemed to be more important. Saying her peace at the right time. Looking contemplative as Harry discussed Slughorn’s questions on the train. Commenting on the concerning appearance of Dumbledore’s hand. Listening to the Headmaster’s speech on hope and doing the right thing.

How easily they ignored her rage. She always thought it was most obvious when it lurked beneath the surface, silent as the grave. Perhaps they were just easy prey for it, instead.

She didn’t know why it occurred just then, but Hermione could not ignore the sudden impulse as she slowly lifted her head to find a blond one across the hall.

Moments before Dumbledore started speaking, she overheard his wicked reanimation of bashing Harry’s nose in, just as most of the students in a 25 metre radius had. He had sounded like his usual self: a prick. But, if Hermione had to explain her reasoning, she supposed she needed to make sure… had to see if he looked like he knew.

It shouldn’t have surprised her so greatly to find his icy gaze already zeroed in on her, but it did nonetheless. At first glance, she was relieved with what she saw. Malfoy, though still looking like the apocalyptic version of himself, continued to have the familiar appearance of a posh bully. He didn’t quite look like he was plotting her murder– yet. Which, if he did know, that certainly would have been the case.

Unfortunately, her relief was short lived as she saw his brows furrow slightly, eyes stalking up and down her rigid figure as he did. Hermione quickly discerned that his look was calculative more than anything. It was difficult to make out, what with his relaxed position at the table among his peers, his left arm resting on the back of Pansy’s bench. But Hermione had witnessed Malfoy’s look of thoughtfulness in the countless classes they shared together these past years: the way his mouth fell into a straight line as he worked through a cipher in Arithmancy, or how his sharp nose would twitch every few seconds when completing preparatory N.E.W.T. level translations in Ancient Runes.

His brain was working through a puzzle centered specifically around her. She did not like the way her stomach jolted at the thought of that.

Malfoy, displaying annoyingly excellent multitasking skills, continued on having a conversation with Theodorre Nott and Blaise Zabini in spite of his eye contact with her. The Slytherin boys were seated around both him and Pansy as they talked, the girl paying them no mind as she was far too preoccupied checking her hair for split ends.

Zabini’s face manifested itself as serious and worrisome. Nott, on the other hand, carried a devious smirk as he spoke that might have rivaled Malfoy’s if he wasn’t, well, Malfoy. The snake at the center of them all made a quick remark to his cronies, interrupting whatever Zabini was trying to communicate. Though Hermione did not know what was said or its context, she watched as Pansy turned towards him in marked outrage and as Nott howled in response, drowning out the sound of Dumbledore’s commentary on security restrictions. McGonagall trained a withering eye on Nott as the Headmaster continued without missing a beat. The brown haired pureblood wagged his fingers twice at the professor in a mocking wave.

Hermione only decided to end the strange staring contest and turn away from the puzzling scene when Malfoy’s signature sneer made its unfortunate appearance, vicious in its silent taunt to her. She gave her best effort towards ignoring the encompassing feeling of grey eyes still on her person as she listened to the end of Dumbledore’s speech, not retaining a damned single word.

***

“Godric has it out for me, I swear, because why does Harry have to look even more fit when he’s all tussled and bloody? I need to be evaluated by Madam Pomfrey for the thoughts I’ve been having since dinner.”

“She’ll just dose you with Dr. Ubbly’s Oblivious Unction and call it a day.”

“Brilliant. I rather enjoy the way it makes my brain go all fuzzy for an hour or two.”

Hermione snorted at the redhead, watching her disorderly attempt at putting away her clothing while she sat on the bed opposite of her friend. Hermione wasn’t sure why Ginny even bothered at this point, as they both knew she was going to give up halfway through and not finish unpacking until November. And that was being generous.

It was nice, though, to have some sense of normalcy after the chaos of today. Chatting with Ginny about the welcome feast, her controversial crushes (Ginny was very much still dating Dean), preparations for classes in the morning. She was able to be Hermione Granger, the brightest witch of her age, once more. She had calmed herself down significantly since the events of the welcome feast, and was heading very quickly towards embarrassment over her actions and rather strong feelings.

She stopped herself from continuing down that train of thought. Hermione was not some angry, vengeful creature. No, that was a dream, and one she does not plan on pondering over any time in the near future.

“... Malfoy looked absolutely wrecked, though. But in a tortured, pitifully attractive way that I wouldn’t mind exploring if he wasn’t an absolute wanker.”

Hermione’s grin vanished as quick as it came before she turned her head away and out towards the window of the tower, glaring at the stars as if they were to blame. Apparently she was going to be forced to acknowledge tonight’s existence. Ponder she must. “I hardly noticed.”

Ginny hummed mindlessly in response, folding the same blue top for the fifth time and flipping her glossy hair over her shoulder as she did. Eventually, she tossed it wordlessly to the side before plopping down backwards on her bed. Ginny raised her hand up above her head and to the ceiling, admiring her gold nail polish as she continued. “Well, it was hard for me not to notice, what with his new keenness towards crowd work. Could use a little more workshopping if you ask me, though. That reenactment of bashing someone was absolutely dreadful. Corlia Ashfauwk would be appalled by such acting…”

Wah wah. Her friend’s joking commentary was drowned out by Hermione’s current internal struggles with… something. Something Malfoy had mentioned earlier that she hadn’t allowed herself to think about until now. But when night falls and a person is left to their thoughts, no matter how unwillingly, it’s only natural for doubt to come in and make its home in their mind.

“Do you think I put on a performance?”

“Come again?”

“I mean, do you think– am I… dishonest about how I present myself? My actions and my care for others?”

“Hermione, I think the only person I know that is more self-involved in other people’s business and general wellbeing is my mother. But I think that’s an impossible standard for you to reach anyhow… unless you end up having seven children to mind for. Eek. You’re a swot through and through, it’s impossible for you not to care.”

She knew Ginny meant it as a compliment, truly, she did. Knowing that did not stop her answering grin from being stretched extremely tight across her face, taking all her effort to stop it from becoming a grimace. Unfortunately, her and her brother were very similar in their inability to fully grasp their words and actions before they occurred. Hermione stopped any unkind remarks she initially thought to say in response and instead answered, “Thanks, Gin.”

Ginny’s answering smile was warm and oblivious. “Of course, babe. What makes you ask, anyway?”

“No reason. It’s just something I read once in a book that stuck with me, I guess.”

“Classic,” Ginny laughed. Hermione did too. Just as she was meant to.

A few moments of silence passed before Ginny shot up into a sudden seating position on the edge of her bed, looking as though she just had a painful realization. “What the fuck am I doing?” She muttered and grabbed her wand from the bedside table, casting a simple combination of a packing charm and Wingardium Leviosa to sort out the rest of her clothes into their respective storage spaces within seconds.

Hermione gave her a crooked smile and commented quite innocently, “It usually takes you at least three months to remember you’re a witch.”

In response, Ginny Wingardium Leviosa’d a pillow directly into Hermione’s face.

Hermione had laughed in spite of herself and her feelings. She continued talking with her fiery friend for half an hour longer about everything and nothing at all before retreating to her sixth year dormitory on the floor above. Her mind eventually found rest there, falling asleep to thoughts about anger, performances, and wicked sneers.

Chapter Text

“Ron, I promise you, the eggs are not going anywhere. You are perfectly permitted to breathe in between bites.”

“Thaf’s wah yew fink, innit?” Hermione scrunched her nose as she saw a terrifying symphony of bright yellow yolks and egg whites mixing around his mouth as he spoke. She was incredibly grateful he had the decency to swallow before continuing. “They don’t call them runny eggs for nothing, do they?”

“Charming. I’m confident if you tell the same joke for a few more decades, eventually one of your future children will feel sorry enough for you to laugh at it.”

Harry snorted at her barb, wild dark curls covering his face as he bent over his own plate, picking at a single piece of bacon. He was frustrated still, but looked to be on the cusp of improving. She knew he would not soon drop this obsession with Malfoy, especially after what he overheard on the train, but she had not been willing to entertain his theories on their way to breakfast. Uncertainty from that decision filled her entire being as he watched him sulk. She gently pushed away her own plate, suddenly feeling nauseous.

Hermione had woken up that morning and elected to follow through with her original plan from the night before, in which she would pretend like yesterday didn’t exist. She hadn’t emerged from her slumber with sudden clarity like she was expecting, or at the very least, was hoping for. There was no rational way to describe her… her surge of emotions she experienced and the actions that resulted from it. She had been fixed in a state of confusion and hesitancy for weeks already, yes, as evidenced by the fidgeting in her hands steadily increasing the longer she looked at Harry’s face. But there was a clear distinction between harboring doubt and all she had done: snapping at her friend, threatening to bite a student … taunting a son about the agony his father was experiencing. No matter how much he deserved to hear it.

She was no stranger to hate and wrath. On the contrary, Hermione was well acquainted with those feelings. So much so that she would be quite reluctant to admit how frequent of a visitor they were to anyone but herself.

The defining difference was the manner in which they were manifested yesterday. Her anger typically presented itself in ways that boys like Harry and Ron weren’t able to recognize without her literally spelling it out for them. She didn’t yell, or shake, or throw punches like a madwoman…well, always, that is. Most of the time she just got quiet, or her tone got sharper, or her words would come across more as attacks.

Yesterday, something in her broke. Hermione was daunting the day she would learn exactly what that something was.

So, she looked hard at herself in the mirror this morning after her shower, eyes tired and drooping from her emotional hangover. She appraised her wet yet still bushy curls, which once dry would be utterly untamable and falling nearly to her hips in length– in spite of how lifeless the strands now appeared. She assessed her more-hollow-than-usual cheeks, missing the rosiness they so often held in years prior. She glanced over her figure that filled out significantly this past summer, but her stiff posture and colourless skin left her unable to appreciate the changes as she should. She observed her mouth with its pink lips that were too cracked and inclined towards resting in a sullen frown. Hermione stood at that mirror until she convinced herself of two things:

1. She recognized herself in the reflection.
2. Yesterday and all that occurred was just a fluke– something that happened in the heat of the moment, borne from her concerns for Harry. And it would not happen again.

She had been rather successfully playing her part as Hermione Granger so far that morning. And before she could do something stupid like bring up her (nonexistent) confrontation with a certain Slytherin yesterday, Hermione reached across the table and rested her hand over Harry’s. Upon contact, his tanned fingers stopped their mutilation of the bacon strip. Green eyes, akin to a fresh pickled toad as Ginny would say, met her own. She gave him a half-smile that she hoped looked reassuring, despite herself feeling like she would get sick at any moment.

“What do you say we find McGonagall and see which professors will be graced with the Chosen One’s presence in their class this year?”

Harry’s lips curled up at the sides as he rewarded her with a laugh, which would have warmed her heart immediately if it was any other school year, if she was any other person. “I say cheers to that. Though I suspect the new arsehole of a professor for Defense Against the Dark Arts will view my attendance as a punishment.”

“Well, in that case, you have no choice but to sign up for the N.E.W.T.s. You would hate to miss the opportunity to make Snape more miserable than he already is.”

“Hear, hear.”

Hermione lifted one of her cheeks up higher, her half-grin evolving into a wry smile. She glanced over at Ron with the intention of asking him whether his stomach was quite full yet after a third helping of eggs and if he was ready to crack on. Her question was cut short before it could even begin as she saw Ron, not still shoveling food into his mouth, but glaring down at the interlocked hands of his best friends.

Harry, known for his subtly, quickly drew his hand back from hers and folded it with his other one beneath the table. He cleared his throat loudly as he did, seemingly fully on board with making the moment as awkward as possible. Hermione scowled at him as she sat back, watching as he refused to meet her withering stare. It took a great deal of strength within her to hold back on the brutality bubbling within her, to not comment on the cowardice of the Chosen One. She stopped herself only on account of the promise to herself: in order to forget about yesterday, she needed to avoid repeating it.

At least until she made it past lunch.

***

Her temper didn’t get the opportunity to stew for very long, thankfully. Hermione was pursuing seven N.E.W.T. level courses this year, and was thrown into the madhouse she lovingly referred to as education immediately. She very much appreciated the excessive Ancient Runes assignments she received and difficult mental practice of nonverbal shields in D.A.D.A. It was the ideal distraction for her prison of a mind, offering her minimal opportunity to think about anything other than the start of term.

Much to her chagrin, Hermione was not able to completely forget her woes. One person in particular remembered for her. And he appeared bent on not allowing her to forget them, either.

Malfoy may have very well been a ghost, for both his appearance and the manner in which he haunted her all day. Hermione had no respite from him. He seated himself two tables behind hers while they were translating second century Germanic runes all morning. He elected to be only one dueling mat away from hers in D.A.D.A., in which she got to witness him silently throw out continuous Stinging Hexes towards Nott, who would invent a new curse word every time an attack landed. Malfoy was always there, lurking in the background, not allowing her to drop her guard for a moment.

It was standard for him to be as much of an inconvenience as possible, as he historically enjoyed making her and her friend’s lives worse. But his strategy had changed, and she was not prepared in the least for it.

He was staring at her– much more than he ever had in years prior. She always knew when he fixed his attention on her, as goosebumps would suddenly appear on her skin and her heart would forget to beat for a moment or two. He watched her in their classes, in the corridors, in the courtyard. He selected his table and dueling mat for the morning classes as if the sole objective was to be within surveying eyesight from her.

When the Slytherin table was too crowded at lunch time to provide him with a proper view, Hermione felt her temper spike as she watched him grab a second year seated directly in her line of vision by the back of their robes. He yanked until the student’s momentum sent them backwards, releasing an affronted "Hey!" before they were splayed out on the ground. Malfoy hardly flinched as he stepped over the innocent body and settled in on the bench, eyes utterly cold and unforgiving as he watched her.

Malfoy was making it extremely difficult for her to forget last evening. Some part of her was sure he was aware of that– and worse, reveled in it.

She refused to give him satisfaction in this. She avoided meeting grey eyes at every opportunity, ignored the presence of silver hair every time it was within eyesight. She felt very much like a person pretending not to see a venomous snake in the grass. Her insides started to twist as she got the feeling he was rather enjoying her show of feigned ignorance… savouring it.

It made the potions dungeons feel more and more like a looming trap as she approached them with Ron and Harry for their afternoon class.

Of course, it didn’t help that the dungeons always felt like a place Gryffindors go to die. The dark pathways illuminated only by the occasional small candle, casting a slight green hue, twisted and turned throughout the chasms of the castle. The uneven stone floors echoed loudly with each step, sound bouncing off the dark corners as if to alert nearby predators. It always felt as though someone – or something – was lying in wait. Hermione’s breathing quickened, continuously looking over her shoulder until they reached the potions classroom.

Professor Slughorn was a large older man, donning bright purple robes that matched his bumbling persona. The new professor did help make the place seem less disconcerting with his sociable disposition, no matter how foolish his attempts at gaining favor with Harry were. Harry, who would have made a terrible actor in another life with his inability to hide facial reactions, clearly wanted to spend as little time chatting with the man as possible.

As she placed her bag down at the nearest table, an ominous chill raced through her body, shoulders going taut almost immediately. Her ghost’s haunt continued.

Hermione, refusing to look anywhere near where the menacing presence was, zoned out her friends' animated debate about professional quidditch leagues. She stretched her ears as if they were a Weasley Wizard Wheezes product and attempted to see if she could hear him– that was allowed, wasn’t it?

Tragically, Malfoy was committed to being as silent as the dead. Hermione, instead, could hear his partner in crime Nott quite clearly describing all the ways he could get a man off with nothing more than the use of his pinky– in alphabetical order. Her cheeks flushed as he passionately advocated for circles as a method, whatever that means. She was in a state of unbelief that he would unabashedly discuss such a topic in a classroom. Or that Malfoy would just sit there and listen to him.

Perhaps he was zoning out his friend, too.

Hermione could have kissed Slughorn when he started the lesson. She was eager to get the class over with and escape the suffocating dungeons. She answered his questions about Polyjuice Potion and Veritaserum immediately, which Harry and Ron sniggered at, believing her unable to resist the opportunity to show off her intellect. The belief had some truth to it, sure. But largely, Hermione just wanted to finish the day and run away to some place where ghosts couldn’t reach her.

“It’s Amortentia,” she blurted, continuing to barrel through the professor’s questions. Perhaps she was also too hypnotized by the lull of the potion to not answer. “The most powerful love potion in the world.” Hermione leaned forward and took a deep, appreciative whiff of the lustful scent. She immediately started speaking before she had a chance to think: “It smells differently to each of us, based on what attracts us. For example, I smell freshly mown grass and new parchment and–”

Hermione cut off her speech and jerked her head backwards abruptly, trying to put as much distance as she quietly could between her and the potion. The flush that was previously in her cheeks deepened, as she could feel them turning red against her will. Keeping her eyes down as Slughorn rambled on, she felt her old friend anger start up the internal fire that seemed to live within her. How dare her body betray her with those scents–

“... what Felix Felicis does, Miss Granger?”

She lifted her eyes back up at the request, rueing the day she elected to become the class know-it-all. Hermione supplied her answers dutifully once more, definitions and descriptions cited word for word from Advanced Potion-Making. She heard Slughorn give the orders to concoct the Draught of Living Death in exchange for a vial of liquid luck, and mechanically set herself up at her station next to Harry and Ron.

She wanted to care more about the rare opportunity to brew such a complex potion, or the possibilities and potential a sample of Felix Felicis could provide to her. Three months ago, perhaps she could have. But that Hermione was missing, and the one that held the reins now could only care about two things:

1. How easily her ire was provoked as of late.
2. The wretched soul associated with the smell of new parchment, rich dragonskin leather, and cypress trees in winter.

***

Hermione was going to explode.

“I’m telling you, Hermione, you gotta add a clockwise stir in. I know it’s sacrilege to say a book is wrong, but I might have to take my chances with you this time.” Her friend gave her a cheeky wink that was most certainly intended to be affectionate, before beaming down at his perfectly pink potion.

Hermione was going to punch him.

“Time’s up!” Slughorn shouted at the sorry lot of sixth year potioneers. All of whom failed at achieving the pale, scentless quality that was famously associated with the Draught of Living Death. Well, almost all. The Chosen One pulled it off without a hitch.

“Excellent, excellent, Harry!”

Hermione was going to set the dungeon on fire.

She watched, incapacitated by her rage, her jealousy, her everything– watched while Slughorn handed her friend a priceless bottle of Felix Felicis for his efforts.

The only thing that provided her comfort in this moment, strangely, was Malfoy. Hermione impulsively peeked in his direction after Harry quickly pocketed his reward and saw a murderous expression that was a mirror of her own thoughts.

It’s not that she cared about the prize all that much, she was too distracted by the Amortentia (that had now been thankfully stored away) to harbor any strong desire for it. No, she cared that it was Harry who won it. Harry, who copied off her work for every single damned potions assignment they’ve ever had. Harry, who spent most of his time glaring at Snape in past potion classes than actually taking it upon himself to even learn anything from him. Harry, who was decidedly not the brightest wizard of his age and could never fucking dream of having the brains to–

It was unfair and unkind to think that. She knew. But Merlin, how in the hell did he– did he even–

Ron’s voice startled Hermione in her state of furious contemplation, causing her hand to jerk to the side and knock over her jar of sorophorous beans all across the table and floor. Absolutely fucking brilliant.

“Bloody hell–” Ron jumped back, the squirming beans causing him to crinkle his lips in disgust. “Well, I was going to ask if you were heading back to the common room with us now that class is done. Looks like you’ve given us clean up duty, though.”

“It’s fine,” she muttered, snatching up the jar as she began to grab the little devils one by one. It would have to be done by hand. Potion ingredients such as these could not risk being contaminated by external forces of magic. “I’ll handle it. You guys head back, I’ll see you there.”

“You sure, Mione? I mean– I don’t mind helping either, really.” Harry offered quite kindly to her, his eyes the portrait of guilt. He truly was a decent friend, a good soul.

Hermione didn’t care.

“It’s fine,” she repeated, mouth twitching as she yearned to say something else. Something that would not be easily forgivable. “It was my fault. Go. You guys have quidditch tryouts to talk about, anyway.”

Harry and Ron gave each other a quick side eye before slowly nodding and making their way out of the dungeon. Ron rubbed her shoulder on the way out, hand lingering a little longer than it needed to. She found no comfort in the action.

With class ending five minutes ago and the professor sprinting off in the direction of the loo as soon as it did, Hermione should have been left alone to clean up the mess with only her rage and cruel thoughts for company.

She should have assumed the Fates would not grant her that small mercy today.

It didn’t matter that she wasn’t looking in his direction, or that she was directing all of her focus onto the beans she was collecting. The delicate hairs on her arms went erect and her pulse increased tenfold, creating a demented kind of twister within her from the intense heating and cooling occurring in her biological systems. Her body knew he was there, and that was enough.

Hermione intended to ignore him regardless, on par with her refusal to acknowledge the events of yesterday. She also felt she had no choice but to ignore him, lest he view her attention as an opening to seek revenge. Especially following her words-that-were-never-said on the day-that-never-happened. Any confrontation he wished to have with her would be too soon.

In spite of knowing this, Hermione stupidly chanced another side glance in his direction. Unfortunately, he appeared to decide that her intentional disregard of him throughout the day was due to come to an end.

Malfoy stood in a suspiciously relaxed fashion, admiring a glittering object in his left hand that Hermione couldn’t quite make out from the other side of the classroom. He closed his fist around it, obstructing any potential view she had of the object. He regarded her with eyes as dark as she had ever seen them, before taking predatory steps in her direction.

“Do you know what the town folk say to the village idiot after he wins a game of wizard’s chess?” Malfoy posited, drawing his voice out in an abysmal attempt at portraying innocence. “They ask him to do it again.”

Hermione froze her ministrations, gently setting the halfway full jar of sopophorous beans on the table instead of slamming it the way she wanted to. “Are you calling Harry a cheater?”

“No,” he smirked. “But I’d wager you want to.”

“I did not– I said no such thing.”

“I know– hence the emphasis on wager, Granger. You might recall how I’m partial to them.” He stopped his swaggering walk a metre away from her, leaning his left elbow on her table while poking around the remaining stray beans with his free hand. Malfoy gave her a sly leer like they were both in cahoots on something, though she was admittedly slow to the draw. “I bet you want to throttle him. Wouldn’t mind watching that, personally.”

Hermione slowly turned to square herself up with him, finding roguish deep grey eyes once more. She would not be able to ignore his existence today. May as well fully lean into the opportunity to release the anger that had been slowly building itself up since breakfast.

“I don’t know when you decided you were permitted to be within the same vicinity as me, let alone speak to me. But allow me to make this clear to you now: if I hear more than five words out of your disgusting mouth by the year’s end, I’ve heard five too many. I cannot begin to list the ways that I want nothing to do with a repulsive, elitist bastard.”

“Good thing I’m a trueborn elitist, then.” He counted out the words as he spoke them on his fingertips, full lips pouting sardonically when he surpassed five. “Oops. I went over by two. How will you unleash your fury on me, mudblood?”

“You’re not worthy of it.”

“But I’m sure Potter will be when you cut his throat in his sleep for stealing your swotty spotlight. Seems that cheaters do win, afterall.”

“Harry wouldn’t cheat.” Later, Hermione would think about how she could have put in a little more effort towards sounding convinced of that statement. “And even if he did, he would tell me.”

“You’re sure of that?”

“Positive.”

“Because he shares everything with you?”

“Yes, Malfoy, it’s called having a friend. I know the concept is horrifyingly unfamiliar to a fiend like yourself–”

“And same goes for you? You tell him everything?”

Her vantage point was ideal compared to her friends, able to have her view extend slightly beyond the edge of the cabinet. She stretched her head and body as far right as she could manage…

A blonde head snapped up, sensing the movement she shouldn’t have dared to make…

She was involuntarily entranced by a pair of panicked eyes, akin to dark thunderstorms, that were holding her hostage in their agony. A gasp escaped her lips and she swore he could feel her breath through the window as she did, watching him jerk backwards and withdraw his arm–

Hermione felt a dreadful sense of deja vu. The memory she worked so hard to keep buried six feet under the surface of her conscious mind at all times was rapidly excavated– its body was thrown before her feet, forcing her to bear witness to it for the second day in a row.

It would take all her energy to bury it once more tonight.

She shouldn’t have hesitated, regardless of her distressing thoughts and quickly returning nausea. It provided him with far too much opportunity to land the final blow.

His smile was as lethal as Harry's Draught of Living Death that was still resting on the table beside him. Malfoy took another small step closer, her body reacting to the movement like she had touched a live wire. She could count his hundreds of eyelashes from this distance, so light they were nearly transparent.

He extended his arm towards the cauldron and its perfectly brewed potion, hovering the closed fist over it. She could make out his grip relaxing in her peripheral vision and heard the clear sound of an object hitting liquid, following in quick succession with a burning sizzle. Her nose flared as she maintained her eye contact with the snake, unable to look away as she was simultaneously stuck in both the past and the present.

“Perhaps you could be honest with him too, mudblood, if you thought of him as more than just a responsibility. I hear it’s quite hard to open your heart to a person you view the same as you do homework: something to get over with. Give Potter my worst. Do ensure he knows it’s from me.”

He walked out of the room, taking his venomous mouth and the last lingering scents of parchment, dragonskin leather, and cypress with him. Once gone, Hermione turned her head to the left just in time to see the mangled remains of Harry’s bottle of Felix Felicis being swallowed by the deadly draught, its promises and potential vanishing from the world as quickly as they came.

Her thoughts and feelings were wreaking such havoc inside of her, she didn’t even realize the whisper of a satisfied smile had crawled its way onto her face at the sight of it.

Chapter Text

“What do you mean undeserving?”

“I’m simply pointing out that it was another student’s work you used to win, not your own.”

“What the hell are you playing at, Hermione? I’m not going to apologize for using the book I was given. Just say what you really want to: you’re mad that it wasn’t you.”

“Oh, I was mad before. But now that I know I lost to a cheat, my conscience is clear. It’s the Chosen One’s that I’m starting to question–”

“Over a fucking potions assignment, are you serious–”

“Guys–Mione, please– this isn’t worth it–”

“How right you are, Ronald,” Hermione seethed, storming out of the common room and into the girls dormitory.

Ginny followed her up a few minutes later, begging her to talk to Harry. She understood how Hermione felt, she didn't like the idea of him following a book’s orders anymore than the next person after what she went through her first year. But Harry was so upset downstairs and the last thing he ever wanted to do was argue with one of his best friends wah wah wah–

Ginny’s pleas continued for a while longer. She stopped listening at a certain point, eventually nodding to stop the redhead’s rambling more than anything before returning to the common room. Hermione walked up to her friend, one of the only people in this world she would die for, sitting on the couch with his head in his hands and hair covering his face. She pushed his wild curls back as far as was feasible with one hand until he looked up at her, his face red with frustration but eyes shimmering with sadness.

Harry blurted out his apologies, Hermione said hers. Harry meant it, Hermione tried to. Harry moved on with all forgiven, Hermione played her part and did so, too.

And as Harry started to discuss his upcoming meeting with Dumbledore, Hermione started to wonder if this anger had an expiration date.

***

The next few days were quieter than the first.

She suspected Harry and Ron were being cautious with her, now that both of them had been on the receiving end of her questionable outbursts of late. But after a couple days of dormant activity, the boys were convinced all was back to normal. Harry’s disdain for Snape was only overshadowed by his excitement for the covert lesson with the Headmaster that weekend, and Ron couldn’t spare his attention for anything but the upcoming quidditch trials.

Hermione was… fine. Realistically, she didn’t know what she was. She didn’t yell or fight with anyone, at least. No biting. Not one bitchy remark.

It made her feel numb. She supposed that was better than the alternative, and she continued telling herself as much whenever her skin started feeling itchy, searching for a release she didn’t know how to give.

Her ghost continued his haunt, too, though more subdued than before. As if he was waiting for her to make the next move. Hermione planned to keep him waiting forever.

Hermione hadn’t realized she zoned out at the beginning of their first Herbology lesson, daydreaming about the sight of liquid luck drowning in a draught of death, until the tiny Head of Hufflepuff house came barrelling through the doors of Greenhouse Three. Harry and Ron jumped along with her at the arrival of the professor, as they had been busying themselves reading through different incantations scribbled along the margins of the prince’s book. Hermione clenched her jaw but said nothing, committed to the numbness for the time being.

“Settle down, settle down!” Professor Sprout’s squeaking voice carried throughout the greenhouse and the sound of her chatting peers, her cheeks glowing with the clear sign of an outdoor life. She wasted no time jumping straight into the lesson. “Now, dearies– as some of you might be able to tell, we have a group of Snargaluff stumps joining us. Who can tell me the main purpose of our friends here?”

“You can harvest pods from them,” Neville closely resembled Hermione from previous years as he all but leapt forward to answer her question. “Each one contains small tubers that are used in most healing potions. In their raw form, they can act as small explosives, though.”

“Yes, yes– quite ironically, too. Excellent as always, Mr. Longbottom, take 10 points for Gryffindor.” The professor waddled over to the nearest stump, seemingly not at all bothered by the sharp bramble vines that Hermione knew would attack with one wrong move.

“Collecting these pods and extracting the tubers within will be the term project for most of you this year. However, for a select few, I am offering the opportunity to complete a more advanced assignment.” Professor Sprout did not try to hide the way her eyes glanced towards both Neville and Hermione at her words. “I have been fortunate to acquire the most interesting specimen: Nebula Daemonis.”

“Mist Demon,” Hermione gasped, immediately awakened and intrigued in spite of herself by the name of the incredibly rare plant. She felt a dark kind of greed pool at the bottom of her stomach, feeling oddly overly defensive of an opportunity she knew would be hers.

“Quite correct, Miss Granger. Mist Demon, also referred to as The Pale Paine, is a deadly tree found in Bulgaria.”

Neville looked like he might faint from joy as he stated, “It’s leaves contain tiny white spores that release a thick mist–”

“–causing any living creature within a 20 metre radius to have its skin or protective laying slowly disintegrate and liquidize into the ground, providing nutrients to its roots below.” Hermione finished, her mouth twitching as she did, not allowing herself to think too hard about why.

“Another 10 points for you both,” Professor Sprout beamed at the pair. “Professor Dumbledore was kind enough to help me acquire not one, but two Pale Paines. As it will take at least two students to manage the care I have in mind for each, I want to offer up the chance to four of you.”

Unsurprisingly to anyone, Hermione and Neville’s hands soared into the air first. She gave a threatening once over of the room, guided by that dark greed and daring anyone to take this away from her. Her silent warning was unnecessary, however, as only Ernie Macmillian and Hannah Abbott volunteered for the other two openings. She let herself be submerged back into numbness.

“Splendid, splendid!” Cheered the professor, beginning to corral them into the back room of Greenhouse Three, shouting back to the rest of the class: “The rest of you can open your books to page 136 and start studying the appropriate greetings to give to Snargulaff stumps before you touch them– it will significantly lower your risk of being suffocated by the vines. Remember to wear gloves, for heaven's sake!”

Professor Sprout opened the door that led them into a small room, of which very little light was present within save for what two tiny windows would allow. Pale Paines famously thrived in dimmed, dark places. The room was dense in thousands of little leaves, nearly transparent in color and dangling multiple metres across the room as if they were very well vines themselves. Little white bumps decorated them, making them look far too beautiful for something so deadly. Hermione’s mouth twitched once more at the thought.

She followed the trail of long dropping leaves until her eyes rested on the monstrous plants themselves. Two Nebula Daemonis sat in the center of the room, each trunk about the width of their textbook, if she had to guess. The trees stood a little higher than Neville, who was nearly as tall as Ron these days.

“They’re saplings,” Hermione commented, appraising the leaves growing closer to the trunk. The white spores were much more noticeably defined than those further from the roots. “Pale Paines normally grow up to the size of a small building, do they not?”

“Precisely, Miss Granger,” Professor Sprout responded, walking up to one of the plants and affectionately resting her hand on its trunk as if it were a kitten. “The wee darlings won’t be fully grown for another few years yet. In the meantime, it’s perfectly safe to be within their vicinity.”

Neville was all but swooning as he appreciated the deadly trees, walking towards them just as the professor did as if he was in a trance.

Ernie cleared his throat, looking intrigued but still abundantly cautious of the young killing machines. “What is it you want us to do with them, Professor?”

“The saplings are being relocated and planted in the Forbidden Forest in a few weeks time due to the destruction of their natural habitat in Bulgaria, what with all the devil’s snare taking over and driving away prey. For those weeks, you will tend to them and make sure they will be prepared for that feat. Only one in ten attempts are successful due to the sensitive nature of the plants, so we need to make sure they are as strong as possible.” Professor Sprout pointed out the supplies they would be utilizing in the corner of the room, and some basic tips on not killing themselves in the process. “Afterwards, you can finish out the term assisting your classmates with the Snargaluff stumps, but you will have already received your final marks.”

The professor clapped her gloved hands, grey curls bouncing around her as she did. “Now, then– I think I’ll have Miss Abbott and Mr. Longbottom work on one, and Miss Granger and Mr. Macmillan can take the other. You can look up proper care for Pale Paine saplings on page 254 of your books. Cheers!” She beamed at the group before buzzing out the door to attend to the rest of the class.

Neville ran to the plant on the left immediately, leaving Hermione and Ernie to claim the one on the right. Her companion carefully assessed the pale creature, giving her a side look.

“I’m all for protecting and nurturing life, don’t get me wrong– but why would they want to put a plant on school grounds that will kill anything that comes near it? Especially in such a brutal manner.” He wrinkled his nose at the thought.

Hermione shrugged, and began collecting their supplies. “I think it’s a rather elegant method. Plus, there’s something poetic about people coming too close to beautiful things only to find pain and destruction as a result.”

“I suppose,” Ernie commented offhandedly, turning to face her as she handed him a pair of tweezers. “Wow– your eyes look brighter in the dark, somehow. It’s nice.”

Hermione paused her actions, taken aback for a minute from Ernie’s attempt at…flirting? What an odd time to choose it too, considering the fool didn’t really listen to a word she said. She prayed to Merlin that her temper would leave her be long enough to muster an acceptable response.

Her mouth formed itself into an annoyed grimace that Hermione couldn’t help as she responded, “Thanks.” Ernie, ever a man, only processed her verbal confirmation of gratitude and smiled at her in return.

She wondered if she would make it through the coming weeks without unleashing her newfound cruelty on him, too.

***

Hermione was teetering off a ledge she didn’t even know existed a few months ago.

Another week had passed. From an outsider’s perspective, that week was on par for the Gryffindor trio’s typical year at Hogwarts. Harry finally attended his first lesson with Dumbledore, which centered around an unnecessarily confusing backstory that amounted to Voldemort’s mother drugging his muggle father with a love potion. Ron continued getting sick nightly with team trials quickly approaching, only coming around long enough for a few piss-poor attempts at flirting with Hermione. Meanwhile, the majority of Hermione’s time was spent nursing a murderous tree with another boy hellbent on giving her an unnecessary compliment every five minutes.

She almost missed the numbness from a week prior, where there was nothing more than the tingling for something more. Now, every day felt like she was clawing viciously at an already bleeding scab of emotions, unable to find purchase or satisfaction.

Her ghost had been denying her.

Malfoy had not let up with his newfound interest in her, yes – but he refused to engage. Her suspicions were correct in that he had no intention of initiating the next attack. The thought, which once pleased her a week ago, now made her eye twitch.

He was a terrible, rotten man that she should want nothing to do with. And she didn’t, in truth. But Hermione could no longer deny that she never felt a high quite like the one where she watched him act on her deepest, most private thoughts and destroy Harry’s prize out of pure spite.

She wanted that feeling again. But not like that, and not from him.

Instead, Hermione had the pleasure of heading down to the quidditch stadium to watch her friend try out for a position she already knew he would get, for the simple fact it was Harry deciding if he would. He swore to both her and Ron that he would remain impartial in his choice. However, Hermione was well acquainted with Harry’s heart and knew it would never lead him to a decision that would intentionally hurt one of his best friends – especially Ron.

It would be like watching a play she knew the ending to from having seen it twenty times already. Except this time, she would feel a centimetre away from exploding at any given moment. Grand.

Hermione turned the corner of the pathway she had taken to enter the southside of the stadium, when she abruptly stopped in her tracks. Robes of green and silver, which had no place at Gryffindor quidditch tryouts, were shrouding a snake by the entrance. The owner smiled at her, eyes dancing as he clearly appreciated her moment of surprise.

“Nott,” she greeted plainly, as if she intended on meeting him here.

“Present,” Theodore Nott gave her the classic wicked Slytherin smirk, daring her to continue conversing with him. Hermione was in no mood to back down. She was itching for a punching bag, metaphorical or not. Besides, whatever reasons he could have for being here could not be wholly innocent. It was only reasonable to obtain information from him, after all– to make sure he had no nefarious intentions towards Harry. She was able to convince herself fairly easily on that account.

“Yes, I do have eyes and can see that, thank you. The question I’m faced with is why,” Hermione stepped closer to him, so they were both straddling the entrance of the stadium, leaning against their respective sides of the threshold. “I’m fairly certain the Gryffindor team selects players based on merit alone. I’d wager you’re sorely lacking in that respect.”

“Fond of wagers, are you?” Nott raised a brow at her, and Hermione couldn’t help but feel that he was baiting her– if that was the point of this confrontation. “Well consider this in your calculations: I’m fairly certain I would rather chew glass than don those ghastly maroon robes.”

“That can be arranged,” Hermione answered with a sickly sweet smile.

“Bless my soul, Granger, was that a threat? I knew you had teeth after the welcome feast, but I didn’t realize you grew a pair of claws, too. I thought Gryffindors were nothing more than a bunch of pussies.” His grin reeked of insolence. “Cats, that is.”

Hermione grinded her teeth but elected to move on, sensing a person like Nott could talk to her about absolute nonsense for hours for the sheer entertainment of it all. “What are you doing here, Nott?”

“Waiting for Draco dearest.”

She was beginning to contemplate the likelihood of Ivan Pavlov coming back from the dead to perform secret experiments on her. Hermione felt as though she had been conditioned to react to anything involving Malfoy, including something as simple as his name. She tried to hide her quickly escalating breath as she responded, “And pray tell, why does Malfoy want to watch Gryffindor quidditch tryouts? Does conducting his own humiliation rituals get him off?”

“Haven’t had the pleasure to pry that information out of him. Draco’s no fun when it comes to sharing.” Theo pouted momentarily before returning his face to its natural smug state.

“Then why does he want to watch them?”

“He doesn’t.” Theo’s knowing grin grew impossibly large.

Hermione bit the inside of her cheek, curling her hands into fists out of sheer annoyance. “You’re not going to give me a single damned straight answer, are you?”

“Well, I’m not straight, so that would be difficult regardless. But I shall take pity on you this once and give you some semblance of a response.” She felt an odd sense of deja vu as Nott leaned forward, acting as though he was about to tell her a secret. “So long as you’re too stuck up the Chosen One’s golden arse to have some real fun: no.”

It was a blow to her pride, and he knew it. Comparing her to that of a mindless minion, no better than Crabbe and Goyle. She pushed off her side of the threshold aggressively as she hissed, “Go on and chew glass then, Nott. Do try not to choke on the blood in your mouth while you’re at it. I’ll try my best to give a fuck if you do.”

“I know you won’t, curls, but it’s the thought that counts!” Theo shouted at her retreating form before sauntering away himself, clearly finding her quick temper incredibly amusing. If he and Malfoy were planning something devious, which is the likely scenario, she will be sure to show him just how hilarious her temper could be. Rita Skeeter certainly enjoyed it the past year.

As she made her way down the tunneled entrance, she didn't know why, but Hermione had the sudden thought that his eyes reminded her of Harry’s.

She exited the tunnel, the grass of the quidditch pitch just within sight. Hermione, effectively distracted by the thought of green eyes and mindless minions and feelings of frustration, wasn’t in the least prepared when a hand encircled her wrist. Alarm shot through her entire being. Acting on instinct rather than any formal thought, she snatched her arm back immediately. Hermione drew her wand and whirled around to face her opponent, when the flash of a blond head made her pause. It took her a second to realize that the face attached to it wasn’t the one she initially expected.

“Woah there, Granger, easy! You know, if I wasn’t trying out, you would have made one hell of a Keeper with those reflexes.” Cormac McLaggen winked at her as if his comment was full of praise rather than being a tribute to his own narcissism. He stood with a level of brashness and pride worthy of Slytherin, leaning casually on his expensive broomstick while his sandy blond hair flopped in the wind. From his quidditch attire, Hermione could only logically assume he was putting his hat forward for the trials.

“Well, I suppose I move extra quickly when a man touches me unexpectedly,” Hermione drawled irritatingly, though McLaggen elected to completely ignore her tone and the wand aimed at his person. Instead, he laughed.

“I’ve always thought you were a crack, Granger. On top of being a bird with a banging body, that is. It’s certainly gotten harder to ignore you this year.” He said grinning, paying no mind to her flustered state that he caused for all the wrong reasons. “That’s why I wanted to stop you. After I’ve cemented my spot on the team, I was thinking you and I could grab a couple pints during the Hogsmeade trip in a few weeks.”

Hermione could only blink. “Pardon?”

“Don’t worry, we’ll start with butterbeer. Wouldn’t want to get too pissed, right? Especially if you want to really appreciate the tales of my Uncle Tiberius’ exploits like I know you will.”

Hermione scoffed and lowered her wand, the vain bastard not worth an ounce of her magic. First Ron, then Ernie, now this? She could barely get one man's attention for five years – which had suited her just fine – and now she was all of the sudden expected suffer through multiple of them? “I rather think–”

“Oh, sorry, seems like Potter’s rearing to get this started.” He interrupted her would-have-been brutal response, peering over her head to where Harry was trying to create some type of order among the rowdy quidditch players. “I’ll make sure to go easy on Weasley for your sake. Later, babe.” MagLaggen winked once more at her before rushing past her, slapping her bottom on the way out.

Slapping her bottom on the way out.

Hermione could hear Harry’s shouts, Ginny’s teases towards Ron, the loud chatter of Gryffindors readying to watch their friends compete for a spot on the school team. She could smell the turning autumn wind and see the faint sunlight gleaming down from the unseasonably blue sky. But that was all just nonsense, extra sensory input that she wasn’t really processing, because all of her attention was forced to replay the physical sensation of his hand on her arse over–

And over–

And over again.

It was a terrifying, shocking realization how small a man like McLaggen could make a witch as bright and powerful as Hermione feel in a matter of seconds. All it took was a few disgusting unwanted advances and a pair of slimy, wandering hands. The acknowledgement of that horrifying truth obliterated any amount of self control she was half-heartedly holding onto these past days.

She needed to hurt something. Someone.

Eons could have passed before Hermione started moving again, every step automated by some external force. Her wrath was so potent, it made everything around her seem a little hazy. She knew she had reached the stands where Neville and Luna were sitting, beckoning her to join them. She knew Luna instantly began talking to her about nargles and how they were operating in high quantities today, likely to impact the result of the trials. It was all happening behind a fog, though– a type of mist her rage was actively trying to plow through, hoping to find anything worthy of latching itself onto.

Silver broke through the haze. Her ghost was here, standing in the entrance tunnel opposite to the one she came through. Half hidden in the dark, with Theodore Nott posted steadfast by his side, no doubt updating him on their encounter. That felt like a lifetime ago already– she was practically pleasant to him compared to her wretched feelings now.

Even from this distance, Hermione could faintly make out blond eyebrows turning inwards as they appraised her. She didn’t care what he saw. If he wasn’t an entire stretch of a quidditch pitch away from her, she might have very well entertained using him as an outlet for this… this thing building itself up inside her.

But Hermione was to play the cards as they were dealt to her– and the Fates, finding favor in her at last, had set her up for a royal flush.

McLaggen was up for his trial for Keeper, flying with unearned confidence and swagger across the sky. He swerved in and out of the three metal goals, saving penalty after penalty that Ginny threw his way with the very hand that assaulted her moments before. By the fourth successful save, Hermione’s anger took control. She let it, harboring no care for doubt or hesitancy– only action, regardless of how violent it might be.

Confundus.

Something that was stressed early on in their studies was magic being centered almost entirely around emotions. It’s why a child’s first burst of magic occurs when they’re exceptionally angry or sad, and why a caster has to truly mean an Unforgivable for the sinister spell to even work. The professors emphasized the importance of attending school for that reason alone: to learn to not have their magic be totally reliant on feelings. The nature of emotional magic was an inherently dangerous and uncontrollable force.

The professors failed to educate the class on just how glorious it can feel, too.

Hermione savagely whispered a charm that typically did nothing more than confuse and disorient its target. McLaggen, however, was on the receiving end of a Confundus Charm borne of rage and hatred rather than intellectual thought. He not only missed the fifth goal completely– no, that would have been far too merciful– he also ran his broom off so far to the left that he collided directly into the third hoop, bashing his head into the metal before free falling in the air towards the green pitch below.

Hermione noticed three things instantaneously:

1. The screams of everyone in the stands apart from Luna, who merely tilted her head to the side in speculation.
2. The speed at which Harry’s Firebolt carried him, attempting to intercept McLaggen before he could break his neck on the ground.
3. The wicked, borderline proud smirk on Malfoy’s face as his knowing eyes met hers across the field, not even bothering to see if McLaggen would land to safety.

Chapter Text

When does a person change? Hermione pondered that in her trance-like state, watching everyone move around her as though she casted Aresto Momentum on the lot of them.

“Oh my Godric!” Lavender Brown shouted somewhere from behind her in the stands, her voice reaching octaves Hermione only heard when she would squeal after seeing a mouse in their dormitory.

Hermione watched Harry race nearly perpendicular to the ground, his Firebolt taking him speeds that would have been impossible had Sirius Black decided to purchase him any other broom. He always did fly the fastest when it concerned that of a human life– either his own or another.

When does a person change? Perhaps they change when a road block comes along and forces them to take a detour, a path they would have never considered when the main road was open. Maybe it’s an external force of the environment, pushing them to become something other.

Drops of blood fell at concurrent speeds with McLaggen’s body in the air, creating a sinister kind of rain around him. The rest of the red liquid was smeared around his face like a mask, leaving Hermione and everyone else unable to tell if he was even awake or not. But she doubted it, judging by his arms hanging uselessly above his head, struggling to keep up with gravity.

They were both so close to the ground. Harry wouldn’t let up, though, just as Hermione knew he wouldn’t. There would either be two alive bodies or two deeply injured, mangled ones in the next few seconds.

When does a person change? Perhaps it’s when they tire of the way others treat them in their current state. Maybe they feel that in order to be taken seriously – to be seen as more than what is externally obvious – they must cause disruption. That the only way to feel like they exist is for others to look upon them and be forced to see them, regardless of how negatively they may be perceived.

In the corner of her eye, Hermione saw Neville reflexively grab Luna’s arm as Harry extended his own hand forward. Though action was certainly a familiar one to him, he was reaching for 110 kilos of human flesh instead of a miniscule golden Snitch. Ginny covered her mouth with her hands, watching from her position on the field, frozen like the rest of them.

Hermione wondered briefly why nobody did cast Aresto Momentum. Perhaps they were waiting for her, expecting the brightest witch of her age to live up to her title. Or maybe they were just humans witnessing something scary, bodies shot full of epinephrine and unable to do anything but witness.

McLaggen couldn’t have been more than ten metres from the ground when Harry slammed into him, wrapping an arm around his waist, his shoulders, his elbow– whatever he could grab. They corkscrewed in the air together for a moment, their situation looking infinitely more dangerous than before. Harry, actually living up to his title as the Chosen One, somehow held on to both his broom and McLaggen as he righted themselves out and slowed the Firebolt as much as was realistically possible. The broom was brought low to the ground before Harry jumped off of the speeding contraption and into the cushy grass, the unconscious blond protected in his awkward embrace throughout the entire maneuver.

They skidded for quite a distance before halting, everyone holding their breath as they waited and listened for theirs. Only when Harry slowly sat up and gave a weak thumbs up did the crowd erupt.

When does a person change? Perhaps they never really do. Maybe they are all born shrouded in shiny lies and pretty deceptions to permit society to swallow their existence a little bit better. Maybe it’s not actually the act of changing, but whether something comes along to remove the extra adornments and reveal their true character underneath.

She considered Ron and Ginny sprinting immediately over to Harry, whose body was slathered in mud yet appeared overall unharmed. The same could not be said to the bloody git passed out beside him.

She considered Malfoy’s eyes, a pair of thunderstorms she was actively trying to forget, shining with a disturbing sort of approval she never asked for.

She considered her body humming at the entire scene: the crash, the fall, the blood, the chase, the eyes–

“I suspected the nargles would be up to no good today. Cormac better check his pockets when he wakes up.” Luna stated simply, as if she were commenting on the weather, completely ignoring the chaos and shouting of the others in the stand around them.

When does a person change? Perhaps it’s less about changing, and more about accepting– crossing the line from denial to acknowledgement. Hermione was dancing across that line like it was on fire, terrified to fall one way or the other.

***

“You would think after a few days, everyone would be over the incident at trials and allow me to walk to class without being bombarded,” Harry muttered darkly, his mood worsened after a group of third years spent the past five minutes sneaking pictures of the Chosen One– until Ron snatched their camera and tossed it out into the middle of the courtyard.

“Yeah, I mean, you do something excessively heroic every week. This doesn’t even break the top ten, mate.”

“I don’t even think it was heroic,” Harry scrunched his nose as he recalled the scene from last week, glasses threatening to slide down his face as he did. “Maybe it’s just because it was more gruesome than the average quidditch match. I’ve never seen a face so battered.”

“You’d think McLaggen would think twice about trying out for Keeper with terrible depth perception like that,” Ron mused, far too merrily. “Poor sap had absolutely zero hesitancy ramming himself into that goalpost.”

“Yeah,” Harry said with an undertone of forced casualness, sneaking a peek at the member of the trio who was being uncharacteristically quiet– even for a conversation about quidditch. “What do you think, Hermione?”

Breathe. Hermione turned to find Harry giving her an expectant look. She met his challenge and stared right back at him with a blank face, quite proud that she didn’t trip over her feet once as they continued their trek to class.

Hermione knew she had been neglecting putting effort into… well, everything. She hardly conversed, ate even less, barely spent any time in the common room. She knew it had begun to hurt Ginny, seeing as she no longer frequented her friend’s dormitory for their almost nightly chats. Ron hardly noticed, fortunately, still riding his high from quidditch tryouts.

Harry, on the other hand, was skeptical. He didn’t say anything to her– not directly, at least. But she found his green eyes on her more often. Almost as much as her ghost, with the only difference being that Harry’s gaze didn’t make her insides turn. Sure, she felt some guilt creep its way in, but she had that feeling whenever he looked at her long before the trials and for a completely different reason. Mostly, she just felt–

Their staring contest and Hermione’s train of thought was interrupted by another fan interceding their walk to class. Except this time, Harry had been spared from being on the receiving end of the attention.

“Hi, Ron,” Lavender cooed with a sly smile, twisting a painted finger around a blonde curl. She had been throwing extra attention his way ever since he reclaimed his position as Keeper– nevermind that his competition was no more than a bloody pile of bones in the hospital ward.

“Uh, hey, Lavender,” Ron’s voice broke slightly mid greeting. He cleared his throat in a last ditch effort to maintain appearances.

“Do you think you could help me with my Snargulaff stump in Herbology today? You removed the pods so effortlessly last time.” Lavender batted her eyelashes at an impressive speed. Hermione raised a brow, surveying Ron’s forearms covered in still-healing scratches and marks from a pair of thorny vines. Seemed quite effortless, alright.

“Well, uh, I would, but Harry and I are partnered up and, uh, I don't know–” Ron cut himself off, turning to look at Harry with panicked eyes and begging for an answer to approach this situation. Harry physically backed away from the conversation, demonstrating his utter incompetence as a wingman.

Lavender pouted, put off but not completely deterred in her pursuits. “Alright, then. I suppose I’ll have to snatch you up as my partner quicker next time.” She winked before turning and walking ahead of them to the greenhouse, hips swinging proudly.

Harry cleared his throat after a few moments. “Well, I wonder which stump Lavender would like more: the Snargulaff’s or Ron’s–”

His comment was cut off by Ron whacking him across the back of his head with their herbology textbook. Harry took the punishment gladly, snorting at his own joke.

It was regrettably impossible to ignore Ron glancing in Hermione's direction immediately following the whole scene, as if to garner her reaction. He dropped his gaze down to the ground and contorted his mouth into a scowl upon seeing only a small smirk at Harry’s joke.

Breathe. She sighed, her features returning to its blank state once more.

Herbology provided Hermione with some respite from Harry’s suspicious eyes and Ron’s bitter frown. The trade for that, however, was enduring Ernie Macmillian’s special attention. It left her with very little time to privately appreciate the rare specimen they were working so closely with. He was like a Cornish Pixie, always buzzing in her ear:

“Your trimming is so precise, Hermione. I would love it if you could show me that technique for the next rotten spore.”

“Your hair looks stunning today, Hermione. You should wear it up like that more often.”

“You smell positively delightful, Hermione. I never knew lavender could smell so lovely.”

Ernie had apparently determined that praising her to death would eventually make her fall over her feet for him. He didn’t seem to realize that would be the only way she would fall over at his feet: death.

It’s not that Ernie wasn’t an attractive boy– he was. His soft brown eyes and charming remarks certainly made him popular among students of all genders in Hufflepuff house if Ginny’s gossip was to be believed. He just, well, didn’t do it for Hermione. It wasn’t just him, either. Very rarely did anyone pique her interest or simulate her intellect long enough to consider a deeper sort of connection.

Plus, to a soul as agreeable and charismatic as Ernie, she was certain her temper of late would send him running straight into the Forbidden Forest at first chance. Pale Paines be damned.

So, Hermione gritted her teeth and said “thank you,” or “that’s nice but I need you to hand me the shovel now, Ernie,” more frequently. She held back from saying anything really negative thus far– it wasn’t truly his fault that any needless comment coming out of his mouth resulted in smoke coming out of her ears.

Professor Sprout popped her head into the back room announcing the end of class, allowing Hermione to sneak away from the Hufflepuff before he could commend her on her form when handling the delicate hanging leaves of their Nebula Daemonis.

She entered the main portion of the greenhouse, heading over to regroup with her friends and begin their journey back to Gryffindor tower. Her stomach dropped upon her arrival to their station, as it became quite apparent that Ron’s upset disposition from earlier had only worsened. Brilliant.

“So, Harry mentioned in class that you lot were invited to some dinner party, for Slughorn’s little Slug Stars?” Ron said bitterly. Hermione’s nose flared at his tone, but she kept her mouth shut. Being left out of anything was always a sore spot for Ron, and nearly always resulted in a tantrum she would desperately love to avoid. Especially now, after everything that happened, when she already felt so–

Breathe. Hermione took in a deep breath, ignoring how her lungs refused to fill themselves fully. Her brain could not go down that road yet. “Yes, Harry and I both were. Though Harry made quite an impressive show of wriggling himself out of it.” She pursed her lips as she recalled the interaction with Slughorn the day before when he stopped them both on their way to lunch. Frustration was slowly eating away at her gut the more she thought about her friend leaving her high and dry. The friend who was now actively avoiding her eye for the first time in days.

She couldn’t say anything to him, though, otherwise she would risk letting everything completely–

“Well, I’m sure you won’t even notice his absence with all the other stuffy pricks that are sure to be in attendance.” The acidity in Ron’s voice would have made a lemon appear sweet by comparison. He shouted the password to the Fat Lady once they were back, stomping more than walking into to the Gryffindor common room.

“Ron–” Harry started, but to no avail. Ron evidently needed to have this moment.

“And next, you’ll both have that snob-fest of a Christmas party where you and all the other darling slugs can talk your hearts out about how smart you all are.”

“Ron, just–”

“Who knows, Mione, maybe McLaggen will be healed up by Christmas. That way you can spend the evening swooning over each other and his rich uncle–”

“Mate, it’s not like that, honestly. Besides, Hermione already talked to me about inviting you–”

Hermione froze mid-step just in front of the entrance, watching Ron stumble himself at Harry’s words. And completely misinterpret their meaning.

“You were going to ask me to come?” He whispered ever so softly.

Hermione clenched her fists and her jaw, hoping that if both body parts remained locked in place, they wouldn’t be able to say or do any cruelty. The decision made it that much more difficult for her lungs to get their fill, straining against her ribs.

Yes, she had talked to Harry about inviting Ron following the encounter with Slughorn yesterday. Hermione remembered it quite clearly because the conversation contained half the words she had permitted herself to speak since the quidditch trials. But she had brought it up knowing that Ron would react the way he was right now, full of jealousy and envy and resentment. The intention from the very beginning was to have them both invite Ron and attend the party as friends. Just as they always did.

Evidently, the Chosen One got to pick and choose his moments to be an incompetent wingman. Hermione wanted to scream and deny deny deny, but the words were already spoken and its effects were immediate:

Ginny’s head popped from its resting position on the corner couch, looking upset that Hermione didn’t tell her while simultaneously allowing a grin to creep onto her face at Harry’s words.

Breathe.

Ron stood as still as she was, eyes all but bulging out of his head at the misleading admission. His pale skin began to quickly redden at thoughts about what “attending a party together” meant.

Breathe.

Harry, in spite of his still skeptical eyes, gave her a small smile as if he was doing her a favor–

Breathe breathe breathe.

Hermione couldn’t breathe she was so– why was everything so fucking– she just– she just needed air.

She didn’t so much as back out of the common room as she did escape from it, ignoring the exclamations of the friends she left behind. Hermione sprinted down the corridors and through the winding staircases of the castle until she was certain her legs would collapse from pure physical exertion. A few of the portraits she flew past gave affronted gasps and surprised squeals, not expecting the sudden intrusion within their hallways. She understood how they felt – she didn’t expect any of it, either.

Hermione didn’t let up when her lungs started to feel like they had been set ablaze or when her eyes began to dry with the force of the wind surrounding her. She kept going until she reached the top of the Astronomy Tower, where the battlements were sure to provide her with plenty of open space and air to just breathe.

A twilight sky welcomed her as she burst through the doorway. Her knees buckled almost immediately as she crumbled to the ground, hands slamming flat against the incredibly old stone structure beneath her. She forced her mind to focus on the rough, natural material beneath her fingertips– using it as a distraction while trying to control the hyperventilation she didn’t fully comprehend that she was experiencing until now.

If she hadn’t left at that moment, Hermione would have said something truly awful. A terrible array of words that a person should never say to a friend, no matter the context. And what was worse, is that she knew–her breath picked up once more–

She knew it would have felt fucking fantastic.

Hermione rose from her keeled over position to sit back on her haunches, head tilted up towards the sky that was actively becoming darker. Her breathing didn’t slow so much as it tapered, becoming shorter and harder yet more manageable. She raised her shaking hands from the stone floor to her temple, grabbing the windblown curled strands at her scalp as she pulled– hard. Needing the pain, needing punishment for such thoughts.

She had been an absolute wreck internally in the days following the quidditch trial. But she wasn’t upset because she felt some horrible guilt about what she did to McLaggen and the extent of the injuries that resulted from it. She was distraught because she didn’t feel bad. The only thing Hermione could bother to care about relating to her actions is that the person she swore to protect had been put at risk in the process. Though with Harry’s natural flying skills, there was likely never any real threat to his well being.

She had felt reinvigorated– sated, even, at the dispense of righteous justice in her eyes. For one excellent moment, Hermione felt sure of herself once more, a feeling that had been foreign to her for some time now. She didn’t have any doubts or feel any uncertainty about her actions. She just acted, regardless of the cost. If anything, she was aching for another taste of it… for someone who could give her another taste. It was terrifyingly addictive.

And now, the consequences of succumbing to such an addiction were laid before her.

Hermione took the first full breath she had all day before she sat back fully on her bottom, scooting herself backwards as if to retreat from it all. She didn't stop until her back hit the cold exterior wall of the tower behind her. She rested against it, bringing her legs up to her chest with her arms wrapped around them to provide some facade of comfort while she considered the dilemma presented before her.

“I’m a bad person,” she whispered to the wind, sounding somewhere between a statement and a question.

Hermione didn’t anticipate that the wind would have a response.

“Confessing your sins doesn’t really work if no one is around to hear them.”

Hermione’s entire body jolted as she turned her head to the right, seeing her ghost standing nonchalantly in the doorway of the Astronomy tower.

Hermione hadn’t been this close to him in weeks. He was impossible to ignore, of course, with his constant unwanted attention towards her. But this was the first opportunity she had since the start of the term to truly observe the dangerous opponent before her. And damn it all, but she was going to take it.

Malfoy still looked like some vampiric version of himself. His pale face appeared even more gaunt and hollow than weeks prior, his body too thin for a person of his tall stature. He always had a captivating, striking presence to him, one a person could only achieve through generations of intentional breeding for perfection– though she was loath to admit it. His mouth was still sin incarnate and his hair was still uncharacteristically unkempt, looking as though someone had run their hands through it repeatedly during a more intimate encounter.

But his natural attractiveness was molding into something more uncanny by the deathly features he was quickly taking on. Hermione’s stomach twisted yet again at the sight of it all– at the sight of him.

Malfoy’s eyes were the only part of his that truly looked alive.

She dug her nails into her legs until she was certain she broke skin, forcing herself to not think any further about his changes or her response to them. “Did you follow me here?”

“A man that sees a woman flying like a bat out of hell through the corridors on a random Thursday evening can’t help but be a little curious.”

“Leave me the hell alone, Malfoy.” She put as much abhorrence into the statement as she could muster.

He nodded at her request before doing the exact opposite. Malfoy strolled casually over to the wall she was resting upon, leaning his own back against it, too. Hermione felt her anger spike at his audacity, but committed herself to ignoring him in the hopes he would eventually get bored and leave. Pretending not to notice his presence was proving difficult, though. Especially with her nose twitching at the traitorous wind which now carried the smell of dragonskin leather and cypress trees.

Malfoy stood there for a few moments in silence with her. Alas, a few moments of silence was apparently all he could tolerate without opening his damned mouth.

“Well, this is dull. What the fuck is a person supposed to do out here all night, anyway?”

“I don’t know, maybe you could try to find yourself, if you had half the mind to.” She snapped, gesturing up at the constellations beginning to appear in the sky as she did so.

Hermione was too busy glaring back up at the stars to notice the small crooked smile that briefly graced his face at her words.

“I do have it a bit easy, don’t I? If I ever feel lost, I only need to look up at the stars to find myself again.” Malfoy turned so his left shoulder was leaning against the stone structure to face her, though she refused to meet the intense gaze drilling into the side of her head. “But what about when you begin having a very obvious existential crisis? There’s no constellation named Mudblood or Annoying Little Swot, after all."

His amused grin turned ridiculing as she snapped her head towards him. Malfoy tapped a finger against his chin in feigned deep thought. “What is a Gryffindor princess to do when she loses her ever fucking marbles, I wonder?”

Hermione laughed once without humor, giving him a sardonic grin as she raised her eyebrow. “Oh, I see– you want to have a heart-to-heart then, Malfoy? Share all of our dirty little secrets?”

He tossed his hands up in mock surrender as he leered, “Maybe I’m just looking for little good old fashioned honesty, Granger.”

“I can give you honesty just fine,” she ominously, dropping her hands from their cradled position around her legs as she turned to face him head on. Hermione felt her blood beginning to circulate once more as her heart thudded rapidly, immediately returning life to her body despite threatening to jump straight out of her chest.

“What truth are you searching for? The one in which you’ve had absolutely zero internal growth and have remained the shallow, loathsome little cockroach you’ve been since we started at Hogwarts? So much so that, from what I can tell, not even Crabbe and Goyle can stand to be around you all that much anymore. Or, how about the fact that you’re a pureblood lord who leads such a sad, unfulfilling life that he has nothing better to do than spend his days stalking a mudblood?”

He waited a few moments to make sure she was quite done with her outburst. “Feel better?” Malfoy spoke the words plainly, not at all appearing bothered by her words much to her dismay. He only tilted his head to the side slightly, tussled blond waves falling with the movement as he copied her in raising an eyebrow. “First of all, I’m not stalking you. That requires a specific level of interest you could never dream of having from me. If I was stalking you, you would know it.”

She scoffed, but didn’t permit her a chance to respond before he continued, “And secondly, I meant honesty about yourself, mudblood.”

She flinched backwards involuntarily at his words. Hermione felt the lie come out of her mouth before she could even consider the truth. “I have nothing to say that warrants honesty. And even if I did, I certainly wouldn’t share it with the likes of you.”

“Why? If anyone were to validate the sins you want to confess, it would be another sinner themselves.”

Hermione stayed silent instead of responding, not wanting to play this game with him anymore. It was an uncomfortable and vulnerable feeling that her soul could be laid bare for his eyes to see… and potentially already had been for a while now. She didn’t want to hear his assessment of it. She was scared of what he might say, and more significantly, scared of her reaction to his thoughts.

When it became clear she would neither answer nor confess, Malfoy gave her his trademark sneer before pushing his shoulder off the wall, disgusted by her cowardice. “If you insist on hiding your vicious tendencies from the rest of the world, you might want to try looking like you actually give a fuck when a man falls to his near death.​ There’s some honesty for you, since you seem to be lacking it.”

He turned and started advancing towards the door. Hermione felt her temper and pride swirl rise up inside her, rejecting the idea of Malfoy getting the last word yet again. She pushed down her fear for a brief moment, long enough to satisfy her other wretched feelings.

“I’ve never known a not-stalker who paid such close attention to a person they were not-stalking.” She said nastily, ensuring the taunt in her words was evident. “If you want to play the role of the uncaring and aloof prat, you might avoid going to quidditch trials for the sole purpose of watching a girl that’s not even on the pitch.”

He halted his pursuit out of the door. Malfoy turned his head to the side just enough for her to make out the sharp slant of his jaw and the dark corner of his eye, still keeping his back to her. It was an interesting juxtaposition to witness, half his body illuminated by the moon and the other half claimed to the darkness beyond the threshold. “How do you know I didn’t simply want to watch a bunch of Gryffindicks make fools of themselves?”

“You didn’t.” Hermione gave a smug grin she hoped was reminiscent of a certain Slytherin with eerily familiar green eyes. “By the way, do tell Nott I said hello– and that I hope any damage to his mouth heals slowly.”

She turned her head back to the sky, effectively dismissing him. It took Malfoy much longer than it should have to remember to walk away from her.

Chapter Text

It all began with a stupid and rash decision on her part, admittedly.

The first time was, naturally, the day after Hermione’s minor breakdown on the Astronomy Tower. The events of said day had wound her up so incredibly tight she could hardly breathe, let alone think– just like all the day prior. And she was progressively getting worse about maintaining control over her emotions and not jumping straight towards the compelling violent solution– just like all the other days prior.

Harry was stuck in a cycle of continuous apologizing all day, desperate to confirm she wasn’t mad at him for inviting Ron on her behalf. Hermione could physically feel her jaw getting tighter and tighter for each “no” she responded back to him. She almost yearned for the disconcerting feeling of his accusatory eyes, instead of this persistent pleading.

Ron then cornered her after potions class, anxious to know if she had selected a dress for Slughorn’s Christmas party yet– to ensure that they could be matching, of course. He was certain his mother would send a few extra sickles his way to spruce up his wardrobe for such an important event. Nevermind that the woman forced him to wear Victorian era garbs at the Yule Ball.

He had seemingly elected to interpret her running away yesterday as a signal of devotion.

So, she was stuck wanting to hit the boy she felt responsible enough to kill for and wishing to hurt the friend she should probably be in love with. Watching Cormac McLaggen strut into the Great Hall during dinner like he was a soldier returning home from war pushed her well beyond her already stretched-thin limit. She needed air once more, before she did something awful again.

Hermione returned to the Astronomy Tower.

It was a perfectly rational solution in her brain– barring the mental gymnastics she did to arrive at that conclusion. Aside from the lurking ghost interrupting her existential crisis yesterday, the tower provided her with the ideal location to be alone and not be at risk for blowing up on anyone. The section of the castle was typically warded off from other students when class was not in session, which was only at midnight on Monday and Wednesday nights, anyhow. Her status as prefect provided her with both the authority and reason to pass through those wards unquestioned.

Her brain conveniently neglected to factor in that for the very same reason, he could as well.

It was a shock, honestly, seeing Malfoy already sitting on the ground of the tower’s highest open battlement. The prick was even resting in the same place she had been the night before, leaning against the wall with an arm lazily draped across his raised knee. The indignation in her gasp was clear at the scene. He seemed marginally surprised at her presence, but remained perfectly collected apart from the arch of his brow.

“What the hell are you doing here?” It was meant to be a question, but it escaped her mouth as an accusation.

Malfoy smiled in the rotten way only he could, mirroring Hermione from the night before as he gestured with unnecessary dramatics towards the starry sky. “I suppose I’m trying to find myself, right, Granger?”

What followed was an interaction very much identical to their previous ones this year. Malfoy’s words were all snark and utterly depraved in order to get a reaction out of her, which he assuredly did. Hermione’s words were all malice and bitingly vindictive to cause as much pain as was necessary to leave her be, which he rarely did.

He got the last word that day:

“Go on and run back to the Daft Duo, then. I’m sure they have another brainless mistake just waiting for you to clean up. That’s the extent of your usefulness to them, isn’t it, mudblood?”

But she was able to live with that– for when she went back the following night, she got the final barb in:

“What, Malfoy, does the thought of someone actually living up to their legacy instead of basking in their own self-righteousness got your tongue? Pity.”

So it continued. For weeks. And as adamant as Malfoy had been about not stalking Hermione, she began seeing him more than ever before.

At the beginning, Hermione pretended she didn’t know why she kept coming back, knowing he would be there with his malicious words and questions she didn’t want to answer. She didn’t need to run away to the Astronomy Tower whenever her lungs stopped functioning the way they should or whenever her skin started to crawl. Anywhere else on castle grounds would have been a suitable option, so long as it had an open sky above her and a private corner to scream into. Hermione didn’t want to repeatedly return to a place where a spiteful, arrogant pureblood would be waiting to torture her all night long.

But she did keep returning, because she needed those nights with him. Merlin, she hated herself for it.

Apart from her intrinsic desire to protect Harry – no matter how much he could infuriate her sometimes – those late night interactions were the only thing keeping her grounded and mostly sane. Malfoy had become her outlet for any and all negative emotions she internalized throughout the day. He was like one of those muggle cigarettes she caught her father smoking a few years back: something for her to hit over and over again until the cravings ebbed, only to build back up again the longer she had to wait for the next drag.

She figured that as long as she had Malfoy or something like him to take out all these new feelings and this– impulsiveness towards bad decisions, that she could return to functioning as normal with her true friends.

And the buzz he gave her seemed to work well enough. Things did return to normal– almost. Hermione apologized to Ginny for avoiding her and not telling her about her “plans” to invite Ron to the Christmas party. The redhead was quick to forgive her, absolutely dying to tell her about her latest date with Dean and discovering what second base actually meant (“I nearly punched the poor boy when his hands went underneath my bra,”). Hermione was able to actually hold a conversation with her friends without feeling like she would erupt at one wrong phrase. Harry’s questioning gaze all but disappeared when he looked upon her now. Ron stopped pestering her about the party once she verbally confirmed herself that she would go with him, which was apparently all he was searching for.

She never completely forgot her woes, of course. When the sun was out and a new day began, Hermione’s mind would resume its operations in full torment-mode. She had to constantly remember to chastise herself over the lack of feelings for almost breaking McLaggen irreparably, especially when she caught herself smiling at the memory during breakfast or in Transfiguration. Instead of focusing on the historical significance of the Phoenician alphabet in Ancient Runes, her mind would berate her for not even trying to be a better person, to be who she was before. Her anger was still ever constant, lurking beneath the surface in everything she did. But then night would fall, and all she could think about was the view of constellations up on the tower.

That day that Hermione finally returned to the Hogwarts library for the first time since the start of term is when she knew that the rather fucked-up plan was working. She regrettably had one of the worst people she knew to thank for it.

The most terrible aspect of it all was not the fact that Hermione needed those nights with Malfoy, though. It was that she had started to enjoy them.

Hermione didn’t have to worry about censoring any cruel thoughts she had with him– he certainly didn’t. She got to be as mean as she wanted, sometimes seeing how far she could push him before he would walk away. He never did.

She didn’t bring up his father again, not since the night of the welcome feast. Mainly because she feared it would make him so mad that he wouldn’t return, and partly because the more sinister side of her wanted to keep it as ammunition for the future.

Hermione never brought up anything relating to Death Eaters or Voldemort again, either. She spent too long burying the memory and would be damned if she had to do it again.

So instead, they traded insults and abuse for up to hours sometimes, all under the pretense that Hermione wanted Malfoy to go be a horrid arsehole somewhere else and Malfoy wanted Hermione to stop being an annoying stuck-up bitch. They went in circles every night:

“Isn’t the library where a know-it-all like you goes when they start feeling randy, to get off to the books? Haven’t seen you there in ages. Must be why you’re such a fucking nightmare right now–”

“Been looking for me in the library in a compromised position, have you? I knew you were a stalker, didn’t realize you succumbed to being a filthy pervert too–”

“Granger, if I was looking to be a pervert, trying to get a peak of a Gryffindor’s delicates would be the last route I would take. At least Slytherin girls can be trusted to wear silk–”

“Then do us both a favor, Malfoy, and go back to the dungeons and–”

“I might be able to if you would ever shut the fuck up–”

Hermione could not deny that she didn’t send a couple hasty jinxes his way following such conversations, or that she wasn’t on the receiving end of some random hexes from him.

The pain – both emotional and physical – was worth it, though. The relief it gave her felt like something she had been searching for this whole time. Her heart would race at the most delicious pace, abdomen clenching in anticipation of something terrible and relaxing once it was delivered. She briefly wondered if this is what sex felt like, before shutting the forbidden thought down immediately.

There was one thing she could have done without. Sometimes he would wait until they both had their fill and sated whatever verbal bloodlust they harbored. Other days he would say it randomly– to throw her off guard, surely. But regardless of when he would do it, Malfoy would always bring it up again. Every day, he asked her:

“You ready to be honest, mudblood?”

And every day, she responded:

“Get bent, Malfoy.”

But every now and then, so rare and sudden that Hermione wasn’t sure if it even truly occurred, Malfoy would say something unexpected to her. Something that could be almost construed as nice:

“Bloody– do you think you’ve quite used every word there is to call me a prick yet? It’s a miracle Saint Potter and the Weasel can even hold a conversation with you with that level of vocabulary.”

“Fucking hell, if that’s what your Stinging Hex feels like, it’s no wonder that imbecile ended up in the hospital wing.”

“Your mouth really is poison, isn’t it?” A statement that should have been offending, but she couldn’t find it in her to be too upset when it was delivered with the corners of his lips turned up.

Hermione was starting to notice things about him, too, that were not wholly unkind. Unlike him, she refused to speak them into existence. She barely let her conscious mind be privy to those thoughts.

She noticed how often he fiddled with his wand, spinning it around the fingers of his left hand with such dexterity and control it would make any muggle surgeon weep. He always stopped the maneuver when he was about to deliver a particularly cutting remark.

She noticed how his jaw would tick when she delivered an insult he couldn’t trump, drawing attention to the facial features that developed from pointy into sharp these past years. Hermione was sure that if she were to trace a delicate finger down the curve of his nose, she would find herself bleeding when she pulled away.

She noticed how he began to curse at her in what was presumedly French, a language she didn't know he spoke until an exasperated Merde crossed his lips. It became a more regular occurrence each night, and sometimes she questioned if he knew he was doing it.

She noticed how he had multiple different sneers, depending on what version of Draco Malfoy he decided to be that day. Some days his sneers were hateful, others they were almost playful. Hermione never knew which one she would get until he opened his mouth, because she truly would get a different Malfoy every night. She had yet to uncover the pattern for why that was.

Hermione hated how familiar he was becoming– hated that she was able to pick up on these traits with such ease now. She just didn’t hate it enough to stay away.

And so every night she returned to the Astronomy Tower to find release. And every morning she lied to herself, saying that the night before would be the last.

***

“Wait– so there isn’t a girl named Alice who wears chains during the performances?”

“No, Gin, that’s just the name of the band. There isn’t even a girl in the group.”

“But why would they name themselves that, then?”

“Hell, I don’t know– why do the Weird Sisters call themselves the Weird Sisters, when it’s a band made up entirely of men?”

“Because they’re drag sisters and they’re fucking weird. Not because of the drag, of course– but because they tried to start a religion a few years back on the basis that all magic comes from toads.”

Hermione’s eye twitched. She often forgot how literal wizarding culture was.

She found herself explaining the lack of pumpkin smashing that occurred with Smashing Pumpkins as they entered the Great Hall for breakfast that Saturday morning. Harry and Ron sat down at the table before them, walking ahead of Ginny and Hermione after they had another small argument regarding the damned half-blood prince in the common room.

Always jump to the worst conclusion, don’t you, Ron had grunted, upset for her daring to question Harry using an unknown spell labeled Levicorpus on a friend. You don’t like the Prince because he’s better than you at potions–

Hermione was impressed, honestly, that she didn’t hex him on the spot. That was probably reason enough to return to the Astronomy Tower tonight, surely. Just to make sure she kept up the good behavior.

The girls joined Harry and Ron at the table nonetheless, attitudes regarding the morning row somewhat muted with the visit to Hogsmeade just on the horizon. Their house table that morning was full of not just Gryffindor students, but Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff, too– primarily old D.A. members.

She sat across from Harry and Ron, settling in next to Luna who was sporting dried blueberry earrings with a matching blueberry necklace, wearing only her best edible jewelry for the trip today. Her whimsical friend was picking out raspberries from the bowl on the table, eating some while pocketing others. Likely for more jewelry making later. Hermione had long stopped asking too many questions about Luna’s practices.

Pushing around her own plate of food, she let her eyes wander the dining hall while her friends chatted excitedly about how they would be spending their day. Hermione gave a good attempt at looking anywhere but the Slytherin table she had so carefully situated herself within viewing distance from. Two minutes was all her raging pulse could handle before conceding to the innate desire.

Her ghost wasn’t there. Hermione’s heartbeat evened out almost immediately at the realization. It wouldn’t have mattered if he was, she supposed. Nothing about his haunt changed much since their nightly encounters. Malfoy never gave any indication that he spent the night before sparring with her, much like she didn’t in her continued attempts at pretending he didn’t exist– most of the time, that is.

It was strange, though, that he never did publicly mock her for it. The Malfoy she knew from previous years would have used her twilight ragings as an opportunity to make fun of her in front of as many witnesses as possible. She briefly wondered if he was ashamed of conversing with her, too.

But she had seen some color return to his cheeks these past weeks, and instead questioned if he needed those nights just as much as she did. Hermione’s stomach was in knots yet again.

Hermione was about to turn her attention away from the snake’s table, when the most intriguing interaction caught her eye.

Nott was nowhere to be seen at the breakfast table, either, and it appeared as though Crabbe and Goyle truly had fucked off from associating with Malfoy. The lack of Slytherin sixth years left Blaise Zabini, Pansy Parkinson, and Daphne Greengrass sitting next to each other. Zabini and Pansy were hunched over their plates in deep discussion. Zabini looked almost mad, his expression stern and his movements jerky while picking at a slice of bread. Pansy’s face was the picture of sorrow, but was attempting to comfort her friend in spite of her feelings. Hermione had never seen Pansy Parkinson look so sincere in her life.

Daphne leaned an elbow on the table, angling her body to position herself closer to their intimate conversation. She had a nasty grin work itself onto her face before speaking her mind, with words that were clearly tactless for whatever situation was unfolding. Zabini’s nose flared and Pansy pursed her lips irritatingly, but both chose silence over responding to Daphne’s cheek.

It was a most curious dynamic– Hermione couldn’t look away. Which was a mistake, of course.

Pansy, likely feeling the sensation of eyes trained on her person, turned her head away from Zabini to meet Hermione’s gaze across the room. She stiffened at the eye contact, but kept her position. Pansy Parkinson of all people would not make a coward out of Hermione.

The dark-haired girl’s eyes narrowed– not in animosity, but in assessment. Pansy was studying her for some reason, like she was trying to figure out where her piece fit in some arbitrary puzzle. It nearly made Hermione squirm in her seat, preferring if Pansy would have lifted her nose up in superiority like she so often did, instead.

Her attention was unexpectedly drawn away from the uncomfortable exchange by Harry loudly inviting Ginny to join their group in Hogsmeade. Hermione looked back towards her friends, just in time to see Ginny give a half-hearted attempt at hiding a smirk.

“I’m going with Dean– might see you there, though,” she said offhandedly, heading a little further down the table to sit with said boyfriend. Harry was oblivious to the way his eyes very noticeably trailed after Ginny.

“She’s sad, you know. Because of Draco,” Luna said quite plainly, taking delicate bites from one of the berries she had determined was fit for eating.

Hermione should have broken her neck with how quickly her head snapped towards Luna at the mention of him. “Who?” It was impossible to keep the hostility out of her voice.

The sweet blonde didn’t even notice. “Pansy, of course.”

Hermione’s spine went rigid immediately. She quickly observed the rest of the group sitting around the table, but no one was paying Luna any mind. Harry was too busy staring at Ginny, and Ginny was too preoccupied pretending not to notice. Ron, Seamus, Neville, and Zacharias Smith were in a heated discussion on the best sweets money could buy at Honeydukes (“If you say anything other than Ice Mice I’ll clobber you–” “Ice Mice? Are you fucking daft? With Fizzing Whizzbees as an option right in front of your ugly face–”).

Hermione, assured no one heard Luna, asked a bit too aggressively still, “How do you know that?”

“Because I asked her the last time she had that look on her face.”

“And she responded to you?”

“She always does.”

Hermione was dumbfounded, contemplating Luna's admission. The dreamy girl only continued on eating her fruit, utterly unaware of the significance of her statement. Or perhaps she was aware, and just didn’t care.

Hermione looked back towards the Slytherin table with a new appreciation for the situation at hand. What she found was Pansy’s eyes not scrutinizing Hermione anymore– instead, they were studying the girl who single-handedly started an initiative to save Crumple Horned Snorkacks from extinction. Her gaze was so absolute, Hermione now wondered if Pansy’s eyes had been on her at all.

•••

The trip to Hogsmeade was normal– at first. They visited Honeyduke’s for some respite from the chilly October air, where Slughorn managed to successfully corner Harry once more. The far-too-genial professor attempted to invite him and Hermione to another upcoming Slug Club dinner, which the Chosen One was able to annoyingly avoid once more. Ron was luckily less put off about witnessing the interaction than he might have been without the Christmas party approaching in a handful of weeks.

They attempted to go to the Three Broomsticks– an attempt that didn’t last long after an unfortunate run-in with Mundungus Fletcher, who was pawning off stolen goods from Grimmauld Place. The skiving man ran off before he could be brought to justice for such actions. Harry was in no mood for butterbeer and socialization afterwards with hate and revenge in the name of his godfather on his mind. Hermione felt a little ashamed as she relished in his fury, feeling more connected to him than she had been in weeks.

As they made their way out of the pub as quickly as they came, two dark figures in the corner of Hermione’s eye caught her attention. She turned her head to the left to see Zabini and Nott standing outside of the Three Broomsticks, just off to the side of the entrance.

She didn’t know why, but seeing Zabini’s still-hard face and Nott’s eternally mischievous one nearly compelled her to stop following Harry and Ron back to the castle. There was some intuitive need to confront them, though she had no idea why. Hermione’s skin felt electrified with an anxiety she couldn’t place.

Well, couldn’t place for the next few seconds, that is.

Katie Bell and her friend Leanne had been walking just ahead of them when they made their exit, clearly arguing for some time. They had only covered a short distance from the pub before Leanne lunged for some package that Katie was holding, causing them both to fumble and drop it. It was a mistake that resulted in the most bizarre scene unfolding before their eyes:

The star Gryffindor quidditch chaser rose up into the air, as if she were a marionette puppet and something else was controlling her strings. Her face looked incredibly pale and haunted– not at all like her usual warm, cheery self. Katie’s mouth opened much larger than what should have been possible before unleashing an unnatural, guttural scream. It was a horrifying scene, the kind that a person couldn't tell if it lasted for seconds or hours, only knowing that it was far too long. She dropped to the ground, hard and without warning, before the eerie shriek had left Hermione’s ears.

Harry and Ron’s reactions were immediate and heroic, rushing to the poor girl writhing on the cold ground. No doubt expecting her to follow suit.

Instead of doing the honorable thing, Hermione remained standing exactly where she was, stuck in a frozen contemplation of the incident before her. Everything about it felt... off. Whatever just happened to Katie was not the result of some innocent levitating charm or a prank gone wrong from Zonko's Joke Shop. There was a corrupted taste to the air around them, leaking like a disease from the wrapped package she had been holding. Hermione took a deep breath, inhaling the suddenly deadly atmosphere. There was no question that this was the result of some incredibly dark magic.

Ever the skeptic, she was forced to confront the unlikely coincidence that such an event had unfolded with two very specific snakes to witness it.

That bastard.

Hermione stood in place for one more second. Two. By three seconds, she chose violence and did a complete one-eighty turn before stomping back towards the Slytherins that were just conveniently posted outside the pub. Her body immediately began to heat in spite of the cold, her unsteady thudding of her heart a familiar sign of the wrath to come.

“You,” she seethed, charging straight to the more devious-looking one of the pair. Nott’s grin was far too satisfied for her liking. “What did you do?”

“Come now, curls, you can’t be suggesting that us two poor, innocent souls had anything to do with that?” Nott exclaimed in visibly false outrage as he gestured at the horrid scene before them, shaking his head and his own brown curls in the process. Hermione wanted to burn them off his scalp.

“Heart-breaking, truly, especially since we have been standing here, twiddling our thumbs the whole time–”

“Cut the shit, Nott,” Hermione snarled. “You know exactly what I mean.”

“Afraid I don’t, curls. I’m just a blameless bystander. A dashingly handsome one at that, of course–”

“Allow me to be more specific in my accusations, then.” Hermione stepped up closer to the overly self-assured boy, drawing her wand as she did. She deftly aimed the weapon at his chin– lest he failed to understand her intentions should he give her another arrogant comment. “What did he do that you helped him with?”

Nott, who was staring at her wand as if it were nothing more than a Sugar Quill, only raised an eyebrow at her. “Now, Granger–”

“Don’t you dare. Where the fuck is he, Nott? I know he has to be nearby–”

“I think you’re imagining things, curls. Perhaps a visit to Madam Pomfrey is in order–”

She dug her wand into his neck, the spell on the tip of her tongue. One more chance ought to do before he would have no one to blame but himself. “Where is he–”

“Will you talk to him?” Zabini blurted, eyes wide and pleading. Nott whipped his head around to him, amusement vanishing instantly from his face at his friend’s question. The request threw Hermione so off guard that all she could do was lower her wand and nod, even knowing damn well there wouldn’t be much talking on her end.

Nott clenched his jaw while Zabini relaxed his. Neither said anything, but the latter looked over his shoulder to the right, straight down the main road. Hermione followed his gaze, fists clenching as she was awarded with the perfect view of a familiar old building.

Nott’s taunting voice stopped her before her warpath could even begin. “Whatever you’re hoping to find by going there, consider this: if you think he did that, what do you think he'll do to a mudblood that can't mind her own business?”

Hermione gave him a deeply contemptuous grin before pushing past him, ramming her shoulder quite purposefully into his own. Nott cackled at the action, not at all bothered by the assault or her audacity to touch him as a mudblood. It made her absolutely fume.

Good. She would need her anger for what would come next.

Her courageous friends were too busy saving a life to notice Hermione striding away to potentially end one. She walked away from the Three Broomsticks and did not stop her pursuit until she came to the entrance of a much different, much sketchier pub. Hermione didn’t even flinch as she pushed past the rotting wooden doors, entering into the disreputable Hog’s Head Inn.

Just as she expected, a ghost had come to haunt the crude joint. His pale head was already trained on the entrance, as if he knew she would be crossing the threshold.

Hermione all but bared her teeth at him, growling, “A word, Malfoy.”

Chapter Text

“Bit early in the day for one of our chats, isn’t it?” Malfoy quipped, leaning against the ricketty bartop. He was sipping from a crystal tumbler of what was presumably firewhiskey. With no bartender in sight and the expensive quality of the glassware, it could only be presumed that the posh prat brought his own liquor to the dodgy joint.

Hermione lifted up her vine wood wand, her clawed grasp around it looking sinister in a way she didn’t want to think about, and sent a concentrated Expulso at the expensive glass.

The tumbler was expelled from his hand with an immense attack of pure pressure, shattering on the wall of the bar behind him. Shards of the crystal rebounded and continued inflicting damage, with several pieces slashing across his cheekbones.

He stood alert at the impact, the bartop screeching its disapproval as he pushed off of it. A pale hand slowly lifted itself to his angular face – he hissed when the fingers made contact, returning smeared in red. Malfoy appraised the hand and the blood briefly before bringing his gaze back to her. His dark eyes looked utterly feral in combination with the blood that was dripping down past his jaw now.

“I thought you requested a word, not a brawl.” Her abdomen lurched when he lifted his blood-soaked middle finger to his lips, gently sucking the red liquid back into his body while simultaneously giving her the bird. “First you bleed out McLaggen, now me. Got a blood kink, do you, Granger?”

Scream she gave in response was something primal. Hermione was shooting random curses at him before her brain had a chance catch up to her actions. Malfoy was quicker this time, tossing up his shields before the spells could unleash themselves upon him.

“I’d consider myself familiar with being on the receiving ends of your assaults by now, but I’m a little in the dark for the reasoning behind this one. Usually I have to call you a brown-nosing slag first–”

Stupefy. Petrificus Totalus. Immobulus. Hermione wanted to stun him, bind him, freeze him in place so she could pummel that arrogant face–

Malfoy, perfectly content behind his shields, eventually sighed, “Putain, if you’re determined to throw this fit, by all means continue. I just worry that you're frightening poor Belinda over there.”

Hermione paused long enough to look over at the only other occupant of the bar: a very old woman, who was very likely a hag, sipping casually from a bowl of pumpkin soup. She hummed to herself as she ate, staring into the corner and acting like the commotion occurring less than a metre from her table was standard.

“Second thoughts about this public display? Unless you were looking to explore exhibitionism, too? I’m all for discovery.”

She tossed a ridiculing sneer back at Malfoy – like he would care about about frightening anyone – and stalked into one of the inn’s side rooms, a space that was familiar given that she had used it when organizing the meeting for the D.A. last year. She knew he would follow.

The room was small and smelled of strongly of mildew, looking as though it hadn’t been occupied in decades. Malfoy had barely shut the wooden door behind them for a bit of privacy before she whirled back around, her wand aimed directly at his bloodied face yet again.

“You know, I always knew you were a coward, but I figured even you would look a person in the eyes before cursing them. For your sadistic amusement, if nothing else.”

He scoffed, crossing his arms. “Why? I never did in years past. Only you Gryffindors give a niffler’s arse about honor. It’s why you tend to die like flies.”

“Yes, Malfoy. You never did – when you were a nasty, spoilt child who could claim to not know any better. But when you’re a nearly of-age wizard, poorly executed attempts at murdering another student land you in Azkaban rather than detention. I’m tempted to put you there myself.” Hermione barely got the last words out, shaking in her anger.

He looked oddly nonplussed by her statement– or made a good show of looking so. When he was difficult to read, she always assumed he was lying.

“Whose suffering are you laying at my doorstep this time, then?”

“You know damn well who.”

“Remind me, anyway.”

She glared at him, enraged he was going to make her say it. “Katie Bell, Malfoy. She’s practically catatonic not even twenty paces from here, all credit to you. I’m surprised your lackeys didn't want to report your feat to you immediately. Had them posted nearby to ensure all went according to plan, did you?”

The reaction was immediate, but unexpected. Malfoy’s mouth pressed into a hard line as he turned his body away from her and towards the only small window in the room, dismissing her as a threat entirely. Hermione and her wrath felt so blighted by the action she sent an Incarcerous his way, shrieking like a madwoman when he blocked it yet again with a simple flick of his wrist.

Through the haze of her fury, she could make out his own anger. And perhaps… disappointment? Not regret, though, or any other emotion that would have mattered. The awful git was incapable of feeling anything resembling empathy.

Malfoy’s private contemplation lasted far too long for her liking, and ended with Hermione feeling a creeping sense of uneasiness. There was clear tension and aggression radiating off of him. That wasn’t what worried her, strangely enough, likely because she was too dominated by her own emotions to have much fear of his.

What did worry her was the resolute look upon his face – like he was changing strategies, approaching the situation with a new perspective. He didn’t look away from the window before addressing her:

“And why are you so certain it was my intent to hurt her?”

“I don’t know a damn thing about your intentions, Malfoy. I only know the result – which, might I add, involves a student convulsing and likely fighting for her life at this very moment–”

“That doesn’t answer my question. Why have you come accusing me? What makes me your main suspect, sitting alone in fucking Hog’s Head of all places and completely removed from the crime?”

She nearly stuttered her words. “You’re hardly the portrait of innocence here–”

“Better yet, why is it just you here? If you’re so certain I’m responsible, surely the two nittwitts would be punishing me with their presence, too.” He squared back up with her, a vicious gleam in his eyes. He was baiting her, and they both knew it. “But you’re here. Alone. Why is that?”

For the first time since entering the pub, she had no word or reaction to give him. Silence hung between them in the tiny room. It spoke volumes, anyway.

“What courage,” he spat at her. “Fine, Granger, I’ll still play. Here’s an easier question for you: let’s say I was responsible for some no-name Gryffindor getting knocked around a bit. Why would I ever admit such a thing to a nosy, filthy little mudblood?”

A scoff escaped her lips, breaking Hermione out of her self-induced stunning spell. He was resulting to mudblood again? That could only mean one thing, as she very well had learned these past weeks.

“Valiant effort at trying to evade the issue at hand, truly. But just so we’re clear going forward, that word hasn’t bothered me for some time now. Not coming from you.”

“No? And why’s that, Granger?”

“Because I know what you sound like when you mean it. And you, Malfoy? You haven’t meant it in ages.”

She expected him to give her a classic sneer and deny the allegation immediately, doubling down on the use of the slur. Hermione did not expect his lips to twitch, biting the inside of his cheek to stop whatever expression threatened to grace his face. A small dimple appeared on his left cheek with the action.

The simple expression made him look more like a playful, mischievous boy than the hollow ghost she had been acquainted with these past weeks. She wasn't prepared for the subtle but profound change in his disposition. It made her body tingle and her dueling position falter for the briefest second, so quick a person would have missed it if they blinked.

Hermione didn’t like it at all. It scared her more than anything he had done thus far.

Perhaps she let her fear of his reaction show too much. Perhaps she should have said nothing at all and let the offensive term pass by without notice, just as she had done for years. But dreaming about the what-ifs was pointless, as a flash of recognition and something similar to triumph crossed his face.

Malfoy changed tactics once more.

“What shall I call you then, instead?” Malfoy questioned with feigned speculation, taking intentional steps towards her. It threw Hermione off, as he likely anticipated, causing her to stumble into the shabby wall behind her. He did not let up on his pursuit forward.

“Something fitting, of course,” he murmured, until his dragon-hide boots kissing the points of her shoes. Her wand went from being trained at his eye to hanging limp and useless at her side – she was unsure how it even fell in the first place. The fringe of his silvery blonde hair cascaded down his forehead as he dipped his head down, so that his face was angled at hers. Malfoy was suddenly far too close to her, and the room suddenly was far too small. “Something like you… doux poison.”

Hermione didn’t speak a lick of French. Even so, it didn’t take a genius to hear the word that had a shared Latin origin with a similar English term. Unfortunately, she didn’t have the brain power beyond knowing that to consider if she should be mad about it.

Malfoy was invading her every other thought.

Every deep inhale expanded her chest out just enough to lightly brush the front of his. She could smell the spiced firewhiskey on his breath, creating the most intriguing scent in combination with his natural cologne and the irony blood still covering the left side of his face. Her own breath caught as her lower stomach fluttered, hips trying to move away – or towards? – him of their own accord. His nose flared, and he resembled something far too close to a predator as he prepared for another determined step in her direction that neither of them had space for–

“Your continued attempts at distracting me are pathetic. Much like yourself.” Hermione blurted before he could do – well, whatever it was he was going to do. Her quiet voice and squirming body made the insult seem half-hearted though, which was the exact opposite of its intent.

He hummed noncommittally, undeterred and still sticking to this terrifyingly effective method of… proximity? “What am I distracting you from, doux poison?”

Her mouth opened but no words were spoken. Concentrate. Focus on your rage. She tried once more: “Justice. For Katie. I want you to confess.”

His lips – which from this close up she could see were the most deep and unique shade of pink – curled into a dangerous crooked grin. The blood drying on the corner of his mouth certainly did not help. “You first.”

Hermione jolted backwards at the suggestion, now fully flush against the wall. What the fuck was happening? “I’m not the one on trial here.”

“Allow me to put you up on the stand, then. Why did you do that to McLaggen?”

What the – she would certainly have whiplash by the end of this conversation. He was making her dizzy with all these words and accusations and blood and smells and standing too fucking close to even think. It was getting harder and harder to remember herself, to remember why she was here.

Hermione forgot that denial was even an option before softly responding, “Why do you care?”

“Many reasons,” he whispered, grey eyes slowing raking over her in a caress that was anything but gentle. They found hers again with a final challenge. He sounded like a lover as he asked, “Why?”

Hermione couldn’t do this, it was too much. She came here to fight with him and hold him accountable for the crime she knew he committed. She could handle yelling and insults and wicked sneers. She could handle feelings of hate and wrath and disgust. For once, she felt out of her depth.

She tore her eyes away from him, focusing on the cracked blood coloring his prominient cheek as she lied, “I don’t know.”

His jaw flexed as he stepped back from her, expression hardening as all the inexplicable playfulness from his face disappeared. Malfoy looked more upset about her lack of admission than he ever once did about the topic surrounding Katie Bell. It was sick and should have made her feel disgusted with him. She felt something more shameful, instead: pain.

“Honesty, Granger. Something you should invest in.” He spoke the words detachedly, like she wasn’t even there anymore.

“That’s rich, coming from you,” Hermione murmured. There was no heat behind the words. She felt odd – like they both lost some fight they didn’t know they were having.

His answering smirk was more disappointed than mocking as he pocketed his wand and strode out of the room. He left her and all of her rage, her pain, and her confusion behind.

She should’ve chased after him, or yelled at him again, or taken a page out of his book and casted a full bond-bind curse while his back was turned. She should have still wanted to bring him to justice, just as she claimed. Hermione continued to think as much as she watched her ghost take his haunt away from the Hog’s Head Inn.

When Hermione saw herself out shortly after, passing by the still-uncaring Belinda, she then wondered why she bothered to come here at all if she was just going to continue letting him get away.

***

Professor McGonagall was not amused.

Hermione had felt like a ghost herself when she returned to Harry and Ron who, now accompanied by Hagrid, were preparing to take Katie back up to the castle to treat whatever curse took over her. Her friends barely noticed her disappearance. Their tunnel vision when it came to dangerous situations was her saving grace. Especially in their inability to see the turmoil occurring within her stiff body.

They were intercepted by Professor McGonagall at the main entrance, who demanded to know the whole story once Katie was taken into Madam Pomfry’s care. Leanne, Harry, and Ron filled them in on their witness accounts, Hermione muttering her affirmations at the right times. She was too far removed from the events of the day already to pay much attention. That is, of course, until she heard his name spoken out loud, afraid at first that it was her who said it unconsciously.

How stupid she was to forget Harry’s fixation on Malfoy and his belief that the Slytherin was now a Death Eater. She flinched when Harry accused him of orchestrating the entire event, on the ground that they had witnessed him requesting an item from Borgin and Burkes this summer that looked similar to the package that cursed Katie.

Professor McGonagall, to say the least, was skepetical.

“You saw Malfoy leaving the shop with a similar package, Potter?”

“No, Professor, he told Borgin to keep it in the shop for him. Right, Mione?” Harry glanced towards her expectantly, waiting for her affirmation.

She didn’t know why, but the look he gave her was the final crack in her foundation before she was completely and utterly overwhelmed. It was all far, far too much.

Harry’s eyes –

His lovely green eyes, so full of trust –

The eyes of the Chosen One, the one she must protect –

The eyes of a friend she was knowingly betraying, Merlin, she was going to be sick –

The Chosen One–

Protect –

Green eyes –

Grey eyes –

The memory clawed its way out of the grave she had buried it alive in within her mind, demanding acknowledgement. Hermione gave in to it, too tired to try otherwise.

She was free falling through the past:

“Shh– look, he’s in there!” Hermione whispered into Harry’s ear as they approached the window to Borgin and Burkes, a shop in Knockturn Alley known for its purchase and sale of dark artefacts.

The trio peered into the building, Harry’s invisibility cloak protecting them from being found out– aside from the lower half of their bodies, that is. Hermione gritted her teeth. She told Harry the cloak wasn’t large enough to fit all three of them. Now they had to hope nobody happened to walk by and take interest in the disembodied feet standing just outside the sinister store.

Malfoy’s face was abrasive as he addressed the man that bore one of the names hanging above the store’s entrance. The oily-haired shopkeeper wore his terror plainly on his face– though why he would be frightened of a sixth year bully was very much uncertain.

“Extendable Ears, look!” Ron whispered, unraveling the strings of his brother’s invention, drawing both her and Harry’s attention away from the scene momentarily. The rather life-like ear wiggled beneath a crack in the door closest to their window, permitting words to join the silent show they had been receiving thus far. Though most of the traded jabs weren’t easily understandable without context, it was clear Malfoy needed something fixed– and Borgin wasn’t as willing as he was hoping to be.

“No? Perhaps this will make you more confident.” Malfoy spat the words at Borgin, before taking a daunting step closer to the man. The action immediately blocked any clear view the trio had of the Slytherin, owing to a large ornate cabinet in front of the window.

Harry and Ron both tried to shift closer to the right, trying to see the exchange beyond their obstructed view, but to no avail.

Hermione’s vantage point was ideal compared to her friends, able to have her sight extend slightly beyond the edge of the cabinet. She stretched her head and body as far right as she could manage, ignoring the feeling of the cloak slipping up her arm.

Hermione was expecting to witness a lot of different things: a menacing stare-off, a wand aimed at Borgin with clear intent, a hand on a priceless artefact with the threat of destroying it in retribution. There were a hundred possibilities her limitless mind considered.

She continued questioning that decision as she stood here in McGonagall’s office, flooded by terrible memories and emotions she had been avoiding thus far, witnessing her best friend accuse the same person they both couldn’t escape from this year: Harry due to obsession and a need for retribution, Hermione due to hate and … something she couldn’t quite place, yet. Or wasn’t willing to.

And when the time came for her to respond to Harry’s claim, Hermione did not tell him he was correct and admit to everything she had been a witness to since the summer. That would have been the honorable thing to do, or the thing guilt should have compelled her to do. Instead, when McGonagall trained her faithful eyes upon Hermione, she shuffled her feet and continued the lie.

“But Harry,” Hermione whispered, the weariness in her voice evident to all yet understood by none. “Borgin asked him if he wanted to take it with him, and Malfoy said no–”

Green eyes full of trust turned sour and angry at her denial, just as she knew they would. Harry dismissed her reasoning and continued to plead his case to the professor, who was unbelieving of his claims on the grounds that Malfoy had been with her in detention all day. Hermione wasn’t even able to process the impossibility of that statement. She was too lost in her own prison of a mind, in which she was forced to confront two horrible truths:

1. The anger that had been pent up inside of her all year was not because of Malfoy – not entirely, at least. It originated and was borne from her. And more importantly, her nonsensical decisions.

2. Hermione was protecting and choosing Draco Malfoy, a Death Eater, over Harry. Over everyone. And she had not a single fucking clue as to why.

Chapter Text

Everyone in Gryffindor House – hell, probably the whole of Hogwarts – believed that the library was Hermione’s place of solace.

This was true… to an extent. The library provided her with access to the knowledge she had long been born dying for, a debt that she would never be able to repay it. The dark corners between the bookshelves of the more unpopular subjects gave her the privacy she often needed in the past, particularly whenever her friends were acting like utter morons and she desired an escape. The gothic architecture that none of the other dullards in this school cared to notice was too hauntingly beautiful to not return to. She truly did feel grateful once she had finally gained enough sanity to return to her place of worship this year.

Hermione loved the library. But whenever she was in search of comfort, of a place that felt most similar to home, she found herself curled up on the overly-plushy armchairs in the Gryffindor common room.

They reminded Hermione of her late grandmother’s sofa, where she would snuggle up with her family’s matriarch and eat freshly baked biscuits, being shooed at whenever crumbs fell in between the crevices. She would never be able to return to that ancient living room or feel the arms of Nana around her again, but she was able to relive the memory anytime she wanted to while at Hogwarts courtesy of the furniture and the room’s cozy atmosphere.

For five years, the embrace of the soft cushions and the heat from the fire that was nearly always ablaze in the hearth would soothe her and any worry she might have. Hermione always retreated here in extreme moments of sadness or doubt, regardless of the time of day.

This year, as Hermione settled down in one of the armchairs and stared into the embers of the fireplace, she found no comfort. Just like every other night since the welcome feast. Instead, all she could focus on was the fact that the chair felt too much like a marshmallow. It had never bothered her before. Now, with one wrong move, she worried she might sink unexpectedly into its depths, never to be seen again.

Perhaps that wouldn’t be such a bad thing.

A soft meow came from beneath her feet, which were hanging over the chair’s arm from the sideways position she was in. Hermione stretched her head forward until she could peer over the edge and her dangling limbs. The squashed face of a familiar kneazle stared up at her– in judgement or adoration, she could never be sure.

Hermione nearly forgot she had a cat. She should probably feel guilty over that. Then again, Crookshanks often forgot he had an owner. So she supposed all was even between them now.

The orange creature jumped up onto her drooping legs, perching itself regally on her kneecaps. She automatically lifted a hand, absentmindedly brushing his fur while they stared at each other. Hermione couldn’t see her reflection, but if she could, she imagined it would be a quite pitiful sight: a kneazle holding more emotion (however disdainful it might be) in its eyes than she did.

Crookshanks and her remained unmoving from their positions for an undetermined amount of time before footsteps echoed down the boy’s staircase.

Hermione slowly turned her head to find the person whose presence she dreaded the most: Harry.

He looked exhausted from the events of the day. His black hair was wilder than ever after tossing around in bed for the past couple hours, she assumed. Green eyes full of sorrow, but also anger. Hermione relaxed somewhat at that realization, feeling more accustomed and prepared for the destructive emotion than the man displaying it.

She was hoping to not run into him alone. Especially today. But then again, she was not just sitting in her old place of refugee, but Harry’s as well. He knew she would come to the common room for consolation, just as Hermione knew he often retreated here whenever the nightmares became too much. Any form of sleep was most certainly evading her friend now, after witnessing Katie Bell nearly die.

Hermione’s actions could therefore be interpreted as slightly self-destructive. Oh well.

Crookshanks appraised the Chosen One briefly, standing in all his glory with a pair of extremely faded flannel pants and a black shirt that had a hole in the left armpit. He offered Harry a disinterested hiss and jumped down off her legs, disappearing into one of the crevices of the common room. She would probably see him again in a few days. A few weeks, at most.

Harry raised a brow at the grumpy cat but said nothing. He walked over to the other open armchair situated across from Hermione, falling into its endless void with a deep sigh. She wondered if he also thought it had become too fluffy to find comfort, that nothing should be this soft in an era of such hardness and darkness.

Harry said nothing for a while, maintaining the quiet ambience of the room with the two of them as its only occupants. He simply gazed into the fire, same as her.

After a few long moments, Hermione saw his body stiffen as his head twitched to the side – a reflex of his she was well familiar with. She imagined he saw too much of Sirius in the flames, and the memories of him from a different time. Hermione should probably comfort him. But she remained sitting where she was in silence, nails digging into her thighs.

Harry didn’t last much longer after his thoughts went to his godfather. He spoke first:

“So, where’d you run off to earlier?”

Hermione twisted her head away from the fireplace to face him. It was somewhat... unexpected. Hermione was sure that neither of the boys realized she was even missing, too occupied with the trashing cursed girl on the ground before them. Maybe Harry deserved more credit than that. He always was at his best during chaotic and dangerous situations – why would it not reason that he was better at observing, too?

Though, that logic did worry her on what else his keen eyes have picked up on.

“It seemed like you both had the immediate response and care covered. So I wanted to make myself useful. I went to find help, instead.” After hearing herself speak for the first time since their meeting with McGonagall, Hermione realized just how detached she sounded.

“Except you returned to us without help, looking like you had seen a ghost.”

She couldn’t help it – she laughed. It was short and bitter, but the humor in it was evident. Harry looked perplexed by her reaction. Hermione allowed a small, grim smile for his unknowing analogy before continuing. “Never said I was successful.”

Harry’s baffled expression vanished. It was replaced with irritation at her response, his jaw flexing. “You’re lying, Hermione. When did you start lying to me?”

Hermione maintained her countenance, only pressing her tongue to the inside of her cheek. She broke their eye contact, moving her focus back to the fire as she chose silence instead of answering his question. Afraid that if she did respond, it would either be with undeserving malice or tearful guilt.

She heard him exhale once in disbelief. The warm atmosphere around them was slowly molding into something more hostile – the fault of the rising agitation from them both.

Harry, ever the Gryffindor, pushed on with his direct line of questioning.

“I know things have been different lately, alright? I’m not a total idiot. You barely talk to us anymore–”

“I’m talking to you now.”

“You know what I mean. You don’t talk to us anymore. And you’re acting different, doing things–” Harry cut himself off, mouth pressed together in a thin line. He was trying to find the right words, likely. She very much doubted that he could – so she turned back to him and put the words in his mouth, instead.

“What, Harry? Are you just mad that I didn’t validate your obsession with Malfoy to McGonagall earlier? So, what – you’re upset and feeling sorry for yourself, taking out your frustrations with me through these accusations? I didn’t know you were that petty.” Hermione sneered unkindly, knowing full well she was projecting and doing it anyway.

“Fuck – no, I’m not fucking – Jesus, Hermione –” Harry growled out in exasperation, throwing his head back into the chair. She had made him resort to muggle expletives. Hermione only felt partly bad about that when he started rubbing his scar.

Harry dropped his hand from his forehead to his lap with a hard slap. He fixed his glare onto her, no longer undecided in what he wanted to say. Good – might as well get it all out in the open.

At least, on his end.

“There was a time when I was just going to let the McLaggen situation pass, because I knew you had obviously regretted it and probably only did it for Ron’s benefit anyway. So why push, you know? It’s not as if I never acted out impulsively. I blew up my own aunt, for Godric’s sake.”

So, he did know it was her. Hermione assumed as much, given all of the curious looks and leading questions she had been on the receiving end of. She really did underestimate his perceptiveness. There was no point in refuting it.

Still, she remained silent. Why incriminate herself, or give away her embarrassing lack of regret?

Harry continued, undeterred by her absence of a response. “But then you do this shit and – well, I can’t exactly ignore it anymore, Mione. You keep lying and hiding things from me. From both of us.” Harry looked genuinely sad for a moment at his words. “You can’t deny that, okay? Not to me.”

Her heart clenched as the distraught look that crept onto his face. Guilt began to break through her rough exterior as Hermione was reminded of her responsibility to this scarred boy before her – to the cause she dedicated herself to ever since Harry came out of that maze wrapped around Cedric Diggory’s body.

She should tell him. She should just open up her mouth and let the words rush out: You were right. Draco Malfoy is a Death Eater. I saw it, I saw it all months ago. I had him cornered earlier, and I did nothing. I’m still doing nothing. I failed you, I failed my duty. An innocent girl may die because of me. I’m sorry.

Hermione should have said all of that and more when McGonagall was questioning Malfoy’s involvement only a few hours ago. Harry was right, after all. His fixation on the Slytherin prince was not unfounded. But she allowed herself and McGonagall to continue dismissing his claims.

She didn’t know why. Hermione had wrestled with her initial lie to Harry over the summer for weeks before she ended up deciding to pretend like the memory didn’t exist. If she never saw the Dark Mark, just like her friends hadn’t, then she could hardly be blamed, right? She probably didn’t even really see it, anyway. It must have been a trick of the light – a shadow from the cabinet reflecting onto his arm in the most sinister way. Or it was a glamour Malfoy used to frighten Borgin and get the old man to do what he wanted, the bully’s most detestable prank yet.

It was easy to convince herself to do nothing. Far easier than it should have been.

Then the start of the school year came around, and Harry wouldn’t stop prattling on about how he thought Malfoy was a Death Eater. Hermione bit her tongue until it bled when he spoke about it, and only responded to his accusations to dissuade them. Because how could she continue doing nothing when her friend was so determined to do something?

When she saw Malfoy in the entrance hall during the welcome feast, some deep internal part of her felt compelled to speak with him. Just to prove to herself that she didn’t really witness what she thought she did, that he really was nothing more than the wealthy arsehole she had grown up with these years. It was sound enough reasoning at the time.

But then the bastard just had to be responsible for hurting Harry. Her reasoning faltered, as did her control on her emotions. She didn’t realize how closely the two were linked until that night.

Hermione never had true control of them again. Especially not when he was concerned. All the anger she didn’t know she had been bottling up since that day in Knockturn Alley began festering and spreading. No one was spared from it.

Of course, her real troubles began when she started to enjoy the feelings of rage and the hurt she could wreak upon those she felt deserved it. Now, not only was she an accomplice to Draco bleeding Malfoy, but she had also become some despiteful, cruel version of herself. A version that took pleasure in taking her wrath out on others, whether they were her friends or not. A vicious creature willing to sell out the well-being and safety of her friend, of everyone, for the sake of a Death Eater she had no previous loyalty to.

She didn’t know how to withstand who she felt herself turning into. Hermione was no better than Peter Pettrigrew and every other traitor at this rate. Except she had an additional layer of maliciousness to her, which made her feel worse than the whole lot.

It nearly broke Hermione. Until he found her, losing control of her emotions and herself, and presented her with an outlet. A chance for respite from the damned hole she dug herself into. She took it, because Malfoy was the one she really wanted to be hateful towards to begin with. If she couldn’t give him up, might as well take him down with her. And it felt so, so good to be terrible to him – with him. So much so that she nearly forgot her woes, able to become a convincing mirror image of the person she was before Borgin and Burkes.

Honesty no longer felt like an option at this rate, anyway. Not with how deep she was into it, feeling like if she ever admitted her sins to Harry it would always be too late. No matter that Malfoy still demanded honesty from her the way her best friend unconsciously did so with his trusting eyes – the only difference being the Slytherin's tendency towards verbalizing it. She was able to ignore Malfoy and his requests for the truth, whatever truth it was that he wanted, while continuing to use him for her own purposes up on the Astronomy Tower.

Until she wasn’t able to ignore him any longer. Something … changed at Hog’s Head Inn. Hermione was furious with him, per usual, because she knew he was responsible for cursing Katie. Who else would be behind an attack so dreadfully dark, other than a Death Eater that was freely traipsing around their school and its associated grounds?

So she confronted him. Hermione expected to fight with him like normal, satisfying her bloodlust and wickedness while bringing a minion of Voldemort to justice all in one go. Two birds, one stone. A small corner of her mind also wondered if this would be her opportunity for redemption, making every other bad decision from before irrelevant. Three birds.

Instead, she was left feeling more confused and enraged than ever.

Did fighting him feel wonderful? Of course, it always did. Did she relish in the sight of him bleeding, knowing she was the cause of it? Merlin’s beard, yes. She might’ve purred at the sight had she not been too focused on attacking him. Her desire for cruelty did not disappear. It was just overshadowed by whatever he had done to her: making every part of her body feel awake, flooded with a warmth she had never felt before. Spinning her head around its axis with each new word, until she was so dizzy she felt damn near drunk on him. Forcing her to focus on his mouth more and more the closer he got, looking savage with blood stained around its perimeter.

Because he had to have done something, surely? An imperious curse or a potion that made her feel erratic when he spoke to her so softly in French or when he was near enough for her to taste the firewhiskey on his breath.

Whatever he did to her, it was probably the same thing he did to make Hermione incapable of admitting to Harry, to Ron, to the Order, to everyone that Malfoy had pledged himself to Voldemort.

Hermione returned to the present. Harry was still looking at her expectantly, still in hope of her shedding some light onto her disconcerting actions of late.

She really should just tell him. It would make everything simpler, relieve her of the burden she thrusted upon herself.

But when she moved her lips to speak, this is what came out instead: “I don’t know what you want me to say, Harry. I went off in search of help, and I couldn’t find anyone of use. The only person I ran into was an old hag named Belinda.”

There. A half-truth. Well, more like a quarter.

Harry’s expression fell slightly, but he nodded nonetheless. Accepting her reply – for now. “Fine, whatever. I take it by your lack of an outright denial that you admit to cursing McLaggen, then? It looked like one hell of a Confundus.”

Hermione narrowed her eyes, but decided to give him a bone, anyway. “What would you do if I did?”

“Tell you that it was a bit of a disproportionate response, even with how much of a prick he is. Tell you that I understand anyway.”

“Why? Because you think it was in the name of Ronald?” It was a show of strength on her part that she didn’t snicker at his belief. Hermione didn’t feel like correcting him and explaining the assault she experienced at the hands of McLaggen, either. Not after today.

“I mean, I do. But even if it wasn’t, I would still understand. You’re my best friend, Hermione. You’re the closest thing I’ll get to a sister – blimey, we argue like siblings already.” Harry gave her his small crooked smile, the one that she used to love seeing on his face. “I know you would do anything for me, just as I would for you. And there’s very little you could do that I wouldn’t be able to forgive you for.”

Hermione’s heart hammered with the rush of anxiety that shot through her veins. “Don’t say that,” she blurted, a touch too threatening.

Harry gave her a quizzical look, but didn’t comment on her reaction further other than responding, “I mean it.”

“I know,” Hermione whispered. It took quite a deal of effort to hide the distress in her voice.

He bit the inside of his cheek, looking back at the common room’s hearth with a small sigh. “Well – I guess all of this to say, Mione, is I can understand that you have things you don’t feel ready to tell me. But I want you to know that I’m here for you, anyway. No matter how pissed off I am with you right now. You don’t have to go through… this alone, okay? I can be a guiding hand for you, if you need.”

Hermione already had a hand guiding her. She was pretty sure it resembled that of a deadly, corrupt phantom that was leading her straight to hell.

“Thanks, Harry.” Hermione replied, because it was the proper thing to do. Even though she had no right to give him her thanks.

“S’no problem,” he muttered before letting out a loud yawn. Now that he was somewhat satisfied with their conversation, his body was apparently ready to give sleep another go. Harry stood up with some effort, credit to the cushions that were sucking in his body moments before. He walked over to Hermione, leaning down to give her a parting kiss on her forehead. It felt like a familiar, loving action from a different time, when she was a different person. Much like the armchair.

“I’m still annoyed with you, you know.”

She scoffed in spite of herself. “When aren’t we all annoyed with each other?”

“Fair play.” Another yawn. “‘Night, Mione.”

The feelings of uneasiness and shame remained as she watched him retreat back to his dormitory. It was commonplace for her to feel such at this point, and would be until she learned how to confront the fact that she was protecting the identity of a known Death Eater. She should be working through that corruption within her, uncovering the root of whatever her issue was and thinking through a rational solution.

The main thing on Hermione’s mind at that moment, instead, was that she probably needed to confiscate his Marauder’s Map. She would not underestimate Harry’s attentiveness again.

Chapter Text

Time goes on. Even when you desperately want the world to stop, if only to give you a second to catch up.

“So, I told Dean about Cuffed up Amy, yeah –”

“It’s Alice in Chains, Gin.”

“Is it? That wanker, no wonder he was laughing all night,” Ginny muttered darkly, eyes already calculating how she could best get revenge on her boyfriend. “Anyway, I told him about the band and he let me listen to a couple of their songs on this muggle crashnet player –”

“Cassette player.”

“Cassette player, and I have to say that I think the Weird Sisters are ripping off their music. Or vice versa. Regardless, they are both eerily similar to each other, so I have no choice but to like them. I’m making him bring the crashne– cassette player to the quidditch match tomorrow for warmups. That Man in the Box song is sure to get me in the mood to throttle some Slytherins.”

“Sounds smashing,” Hermione replied dully, ignoring how Ginny’s eyes narrowed at her disinterested response. She opened her mouth but was beaten to the punch by their blonde friend standing with them in the courtyard.

“I much prefer the music moon frogs make during the summer solstice as they cry for their lunar home. But I’m sure Cuffed up Amy is marvelous, too.” Luna commented sagely, a hand over her heart as she sympathized with the imaginary frog’s plight.

“It’s Alice in – oh, sod it all.” Hermione fumed, roughly grabbing her bag and aiming to march away from them both.

A freckled hand stopped Hermione before she could begin her pursuit. Ginny’s eyes were even harder than before as she appraised her.

“What’s going on, Hermione?”

“At the moment? Nothing of importance.”

Ginny didn’t catch the sly insult. “I’m not the bloody boys Hermione. You can’t tell me you’re fine when you’re clearly not and expect me to move on. We don’t snap at Luna like that. So, tell me, what’s up?”

She loved her, she did. She knew Ginny was trying to show she cared, reaching out a hand for her to grab onto should she choose. But confiding in someone like Ginny was the exact opposite of what Hermione needed right now.

Her fiery redhead friend was warmth personified. She had always been this carefree and lively person, confident of her place in the world. The only times she ever faltered in her character was when she was around Harry growing up – something easily attributed to a girlhood crush, which made fools of anyone that age.

Ginny was a ray of sun manifested with cheap thrills and good times in mind. It was the antithesis to the darkness that had been slowly taking over Hermione’s life. Sometimes that was a good thing. Others time – like this week when she was at the end of her fucking tether – it was something Hermione truly despised. Like oil having to suffer through water that was constantly trying to contaminate and purify it.

So, no, she wouldn’t be telling her what’s up. It was laughable to ever consider Ginny being able to understand, anyhow.

Hermione withdrew her hand from Ginny’s hold with a definitive yank. “I said it’s nothing, Ginny. I just have to go, I have Herbology.”

“Not for another ten minutes, you don’t. We’ve barely been talking for three.”

“It takes at least five minutes to reach Greenhouse Three.”

“Then you can certainly spare a minute or two to talk to us, or at least fucking apologize to Luna –”

“Oh no, it’s quite alright, Hermione. I know it’s just a bad case of the Whackspurts. Their numbers have really gone up in your head this past week.”

“See? Luna says it’s fine.” Hermione adjusted the bag on her shoulder before giving the pair a small smile that she knew looked forced. “Still, I’m sorry, alright? I’ll see you two later.”

Hermione had barely turned away to make her escape before Ginny’s voice stopped her, more timid than she was used to hearing from her friend. “Is this because of what I said the other day?”

The force at which Hermione ground her teeth together would cause her mother to faint – her father would need to be admitted to the hospital, surely, for Hermione’s lack of consideration for her poor teeth.

No, it was not because of their discussion the other day. But now Hermione was annoyed as she recalled that interaction, too.

“So after Harry offered Dean a place on the team, he immediately came running to the common room to tell me, of course. What bloke wouldn’t be excited for a chance to play chaser with his witch? I mean, best wishes to Katie for a speedy recovery, but…”

Hermione didn’t want to be here. It was still too soon, too fresh of a wound. But she had to be here. The world refused to halt for her, not once providing Hermione with a break to just think and process. She was forced to power through. All she could hope for was for everything to eventually be fine– so long as she kept up appearances and continued to pretend.

So, she carried on her nightly chats with Ginny. Certainly her friend would suspect something grander was occurring if she neglected their social interactions for a second time this year. Hermione could pretend for a few more minutes, ignore the tightening in her chest as her blood raced – in anger or anxiety, she couldn't say. But she could pretend.

Pretend pretend pretend –

“– but then in walked none other than Harry himself, who got a first row seat to our snogging show. And let me tell you, he was livid. Oh, his jealousy was so bloody hot. I made sure to really go to town on Dean’s tongue when he walked in. Then Ron had to be a git and –”

Reflecting on that night, Hermione recognized that Ginny was only half-right. Hermione had confronted her on her flirtations of late for the sake of Harry’s wellbeing… to a certain degree. Once Hermione had returned to her own dormitory that night, it was easy to admit to herself and the shadows of the room that the other half of her said those things simply because she wanted to say them.

Now, her eye twitched as she barely withheld herself from saying more. That conversation was so not important to her right now.

“No, I had nearly forgotten about that. We both said our apologies already, didn’t we?”

“It’s just – you’ve been acting differently towards me since then –”

“I promise you, Ginny, it has nothing to do with you, okay? I –” Hermione paused, biting the inside of her cheek before deciding to continue. “I have some personal things going on that I’m not ready to talk about yet, and I’m trying to not take it out on you guys, either.”

She was kind of impressed with herself. It was the most communicative she had been in weeks.

Ginny looked like she wanted to press further, but Luna stopped her with a small touch on her shoulder. The Ravenclaw girl gave Hermione a kind smile she wasn’t entitled to as she spoke. “We understand, Hermione. No one should be expected to produce a coherent thought with that many Whackspurts, anyway.”

Hermione pursed her lips while Ginny allowed a small snort at Luna’s attempt at being reasonable. “Thanks, Luna.”

“Of course. Tell the boys we said hello when you see them in class.” Luna said cheerily, waving goodbye as she led a still somewhat confused Ginny away from the courtyard and to their own class. Luna deserved more appreciation than Hermione was capable of giving her.

Hermione tried to take in a deep breath, but to no avail. She hadn’t been able to breathe properly in days. This time, she was fully conscious of why – just as she was fully set on not partaking in the remedy to that issue.

Ignoring the uncomfortable sensation, she made good on her word and headed to Herbology. Time does go on, after all.

***

Time goes on. Regardless of a person’s state of preparedness.

Hermione was not spared from this fate. She had a title to live up to as the school’s premier swot, which meant any class she might miss to wallow in her despair would be viewed as a sign of the end of times.

“Oh, isn’t it marvelous to see how far the wee darlings have come!” Professor Sprout cooed at the start of Herbology as she appreciated Neville and Hannah’s Pale Paine, before shuffling over to do the same for Hermione and Ernie’s. “Their leaves are cascading instead of drooping, and their spores are covering markedly more surface area than before. Very difficult feat to achieve, I must say!”

The bumbling professor gently caressed the twisted trunk of their Nebula Daemonis before sighing resolutely. “Such a bitter sweet feeling for it to be coming to an end, isn’t it?”

“What?” Neville gasped, eyes going wide with despair. Being the herbology protege he was, Neville always became extremely attached to the specimens he worked with. The rarity of this one would surely cut him the deepest.

Professor Sprout had the same train of thought as she gave him a sad, sympathetic grin. “Apologies, Mr. Longbottom. But I’m afraid that your time with the Pale Paines is drawing to a close. They are as strong as they will ever be in this greenhouse. We must ensure they are planted in the Forbidden Forest as soon as possible before their roots are too overgrown.”

Neville looked to be on the verge of crying. He hung his head and nodded his understanding dutifully, Hannah rubbing his back while he mourned.

Hermione, despite every other fucked up thing occuring in her life right now, was similarly put out. The (pre) murderous plants were a welcome learning opportunity for an inquisitive mind like hers. It had been an almost calming respite for her these past weeks, putting her efforts towards their care – minus Ernie’s chirping in her ear. Hermione had formed a strange sort of kinship with them, genuinely fascinated by their deadly characteristics. She would lament the loss, too.

Somber feelings aside, the two pairs finished up their last minute tendings to the trees: cutting out any potential rotten spores, trimming back the new overgrowth, delicately placing fertilizer at the base of the trunk (which when Hannah inquired as to the ingredients of the fertilizer a couple weeks back, Professor Sprout was unable to give her a clear answer other than Hagrid’s special mix).

Finally, the bottom of the hour had arrived. Neville was all but embracing his Nebula Daemonis before dragging his feet out the door with Hermione and Hannah bringing up the rear.

Hermione began to wonder where Ernie was as he did not follow the group out. She wasn’t given much time to speculate on his whereabouts though, as she was quickly reunited with the boys in the main greenhouse space.

Harry was all easy smiles for Hermione as she walked over. They hadn’t brought up their conversation from last weekend, but he stayed true to his word. He was okay with her holding onto her secrets for now, believing she would find the strength one day to bring him in on them. Hermione didn’t have the heart to tell him that she very much doubted she could at this point.

Still, things were good between them at the moment. Ron, on the other hand, had become a bit of a thorn in her side the past couple of days.

Something must have happened. He barely glanced at her before walking ahead of Harry and Hermione towards the Great Hall for an early start to dinner. Ron was acting as though he was scorned, refusing to engage with her unless it was absolutely necessary. Whenever he did deign himself to speak to her, it was short and fairly rude.

He was making his frustrations with her clear as day. Hermione was sure he wanted her to witness them to such an extent that she would be forced to inquire about his grievances.

It didn’t matter if Ron wanted her to ask what was wrong with him, though. She wasn’t going to. Hermione had enough anger to deal with and confront herself over, let alone dealing with another person’s – which amounted to throwing a longterm temper tantrum.

They reached the Great Hall shortly after class, situating themselves around their table as other students slowly began to trickle in. Hermione made sure she was positioned towards the wall, with her back to all the other house tables – even with that meaning she had to be seated next to a grouchy Ron.

It was far easier than the alternative.

Dinner that night was particularly rowdy, given that everyone was rearing for the quidditch match the following morning. Jeers and insults were cast out from the Slytherin table, while Gryffindors such as Seamus and Dean busied themselves catapulting food over to the ridiculing snakes. Everyone in between was either collateral or joining right in with them.

For once, Hermione welcomed the chaos around her. It was providing her with the distraction her mind needed after days of berating and torturing herself for her continued silence. That, in combination with her new addiction not being tended to as of late, she was all but a sleeping beast lying in wait. She would feel most sorry for whatever poor soul ended up poking her awake from her slumber.

“Hermione!” A potential victim shouted at her from the entrance to the hall.

Her shoulders grew taut in preparation for the upcoming interaction. Hermione was faced away from the entrance, so she couldn’t see the person yelling for her. She flat out refused to look back towards the doors and, subsequently, the house table situated closest to it. Regardless, even without turning around, Hermione was quite familiar with the voice anyway.

Jogging footsteps eased down as they drew closer to her own respective table. She turned her head to the side to stare up at the Hufflepuff that was determined to be joined at her hip, irritation growing steadily in her stomach. “Hello, Ernie.”

“Shame about our Pale Paine, yeah?” He rushed out, eyes bright with something resembling excitement.

“Um, yes – but the project was bound to come to an end, I suppose. The saplings can’t stay in the greenhouse forever.”

“True, quite true. Still, it would be nice to keep tending to them, right?”

“Well, yes, of course but –”

“Brilliant, I knew you’d agree!” Ernie exclaimed, a wide smile taking root on his face. Hermione panicked at its presence, fighting the impulse to knock it off of him immediately.

“Agree to what?”

“I talked with Professor Sprout after class, because I knew how much you and Neville both loved working with the trees. She said that it might be possible for us to keep caring for our Pale Paines after they’ve been relocated to the forest – with approved entry times and protections set in place, of course.”

“Wait –”

“That way we can make sure they’re adjusting properly to the new environment, you can keep learning from it, and we… we can continue spending time with each other, of course.” Ernie gave her a cheeky grin for his closing remark.

It was impossible to stop: Hermione’s mouth literally dropped. Not in gratitude or happiness or even surprise. Her mouth fell open at the audacity of the man standing before her, assuming that she wanted to spend more time with him.

She should have been abundantly clear from the beginning, shutting down his advances no matter how much of a bitch it may have made her. This was what sparing feelings got her. She would not be doing that again.

Hermione was about to spare no feelings at all when Neville squeaked out from the other side of the table, “Are you serious? She’ll allow us to be with them as they’re acclimating?” Neville spoke as if he just found out he was to witness the four founder’s first meeting.

Ernie glanced over at him, proud smile still on display. “Yeah, mate! Professor Sprout seemed pretty stoked about the idea, so I’m sure it will be approved. She’s having a meeting with Dumbledore on Monday about it.”

Hermione’s nose twitched – a warning signal of the beast about to wake up. “Ernie –”

“It’s alright, Hermione, I can tell I’ve shocked you! It’s exciting for me, too.” Ernie blushed for a moment, looking down at his feet before glancing back at her through his brown eyelashes. “In the meantime, if you ever want to go to the greenhouse over the weekend to check in on our Pale Paine, just – just let me know.”

He gave her one last shy smile before darting away to the Hufflepuff table, before she had a chance to kill the idea of her and what they were to each other in his mind. Whoops were sounding off from his friend Justin Finch-Fletchley as he returned, who had been watching the entire interaction with rapt attention.

Hermione slowly twisted until she was facing forward in her seat once more, astonished at the conversation that just took place. Bully for Neville, and she would of course love to keep working with such a unique plant. But the sheer nerve of the man to do that just as a poorly veiled excuse to continue his pitiful attempts at courting her –

Some may view it as romantic or thoughtful. Hermione viewed it as incredibly presumptuous. She would be telling him exactly as much come Monday.

For now, she had to deal with her friends and half of the Hogwarts student population witnessing the exchange.

Ginny, who seemingly had forgotten their awkward conversation earlier, wagged her eyebrows at Hermione from her position further down the table. Sitting directly across from Hermione, Harry looked equally impish at the interaction, opening his mouth to make what would have likely been an inappropriate joke. But his eyes flickered over to the right of her beforehand, and whatever he saw caused Harry to halt what he was going to say in its tracks. She followed his gaze, already knowing what she would see.

Ron’s face had twisted into something bitter and ugly following Ernie’s departure. He threw his fork down on the table, causing the excess food on the silverware to ricochet off and hit Seamus in the face. He was spewing curses in Irish that Hermione had no hope of translating, and Ron had no hope of hearing as he stomped out of the dining hall.

She wasn’t going to acknowledge his episode at first, just as she hadn’t the last few days. That is, until Harry groaned across from her, dropping his head into his hands.

“What?” Hermione bit out.

He kept his face covered, his words muffled through his hands. “I know it’s probably the last thing you want to do right now, but I really recommend you go after him.”

“Why?” A harder bite this time.

Harry sighed heavily before dropping his hands, looking at her pleadingly and with some … fear in his eyes. As if something dangerous was plastered across her face.

“Other than the fact that you're his date to Slughorn’s upcoming Christmas party? Ron’s been pissed ever since that night he had a row with Ginny about snogging –” Harry’s jaw clenched as something of his own darkness crossed his expression. “Well, you know. Shit was brought up that you two need to talk about.”

“How does that relate at all to this?”

“It just does, Hermione,” Harry snapped at her, growing frustrated with her lack of action. “Just talk to him, please? Regardless of anything else going on, he’s your friend, too.”

She curled up her lip at him before standing abruptly from the table. “Fine. But just so we’re aware: if Ron is anyone’s date, he’s yours. Considering you’re the one that invited him in the first place.”

Hermione stormed away from the table, ignoring the hurt that flashed across his face as she did. She could apologize to him later.

She was only a handful of metres away from the entrance when suddenly –

A familiar torrential storm of hot and cold washed over her, her body humming as her heart worked harder to keep up with the sensations. Dark eyes were on her, she could feel, demanding her attention. Hermione hesitated briefly, stomach clenching as she was considering one small look –

No. She wasn’t indulging this anymore. She had decided. Hermione lifted her chin and continued her path out the door after the brief pause, keeping her eyesight as far away from the Slytherin table as possible as she made her exit.

Hermione didn’t have to chase Ron down far, fortunately. He was simply pacing a few steps away from the Great Hall, fists clenched and face as red as his hair. Ron looked up tersely as he saw her come through the threshold, before shaking his head and continuing with his furious marching.

She was more annoyed with him than anything. Nonetheless, Hermione had to acknowledge the small twisting of her heart as she watched him.

Ron wasn’t her responsibility and Hermione realistically owned him nothing. But Harry was right: he was still her friend, he was still her date, and he was still in pain. And, whether it was her fault or not, Hermione was the center of that pain.

Ron liked her. As more than just a friend. And Hermione did not feel the same for him.

Hermione wanted to. Gods, did she ever. Her mind craved for the simplicity of such a relationship in a time when her life was anything but simple. She knew it would be easy, especially once all of this fighting between them would be out of the way – it always seemed to stem from feelings of jealousy, anyway. With that gone and them officially together, it would be so easy to experience life with a simple and warm man like Ron.

And yet – her heart just couldn’t give him what he was asking for. They were both worse off for it.

“Ron –”

“Just give me a minute, Hermione,” he seethed, not slowing down his pacing. She worried he was seconds away from punching the stone wall.

Nevertheless, Hermione gave him that minute. Though the intention was surely for him to calm down enough to initiate conversation, Ron looked as frustrated as ever when he finally stopped and faced her.

Hermione willed her own aggravation to not be as noticeable as she attempted once more: “What’s going on?”

Ron ran his fingers through his hair, plucking out several strands with the aggressive action, before deciding to answer. “What’s going on is that I’m realizing I’ll never stop having to fight for you.”

“Excuse me?”

“It’s Ernie right now. But soon enough it will be McLaggen – he’s been moaning all week about you missing your date in Hogsmeade. So sorry Katie almost dying interrupted that.”

“What are you – do not get me started on McLaggen –”

“But before either of those geezers, it was Krum.” He snarled the name like it tasted bad in his mouth. “And who knows, maybe he’ll come back into the picture one day. After all, I heard that he stole your first kiss. He might want your last, too.”

Was Hermione feeling a little sorry for him before? She couldn’t remember, because she only felt livid now. “Is that what this is all about? You’re angry because I snogged someone two years ago?”

“I’m angry because there will always be someone else wanting you. Pursuing you. Wooing you. And I’ll have to sit there and watch. Either waiting and hoping for my turn, or just learning to live with it –”

“Are you having me on, Ronald?”

Ron had the good sense to look nonplussed by her interruption.“What?”

“You’re talking about me as if I’m a bloody fucking trophy – an item for you to win. That’s what you get when you fight for something, yeah? A pretty, submissive little prize?”

His cheeks heated once more, albeit for a completely different reason. “Mione, that’s not what I –”

“I think that’s exactly what you’re saying. I’m not a prize, Ronald Weasley. I’m your fucking friend before anything.” She used the words Harry had said to her, knowing he probably pulled them on Ron himself at some point. He was always more likely to listen to Harry. “Or have you forgotten that?”

Ron gulped, shuffling his feet. “No, of course not –”

“Then act like it. I don’t have a choice in who likes me or tries to flirt with me. But you bloody well have a choice in how you treat me because of it.”

Hermione wanted to say more – wanted to continue berating him and his actions until the worst insults she could conjure were thrown his way. Fortunately, he spoke before she had the opportunity to destroy their friendship.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, making him the second Weasley to apologize to her this week. Hermione stiffened as the atonement washed over her, still questioning whether she really deserved either one. “I’m sorry, okay? I don’t always know how to handle –”

Ron sighed, shaking his head again. He would not make any direct admittance to her tonight. And though Hermione really, really should, neither would she.

“I’m just sorry. Can you forgive me?” He pleaded, opening his arms for her as he did. An invitation. And a white flag – for now. A temporary ceasefire, until he saw the next person trying to pursue her.

Hermione pressed her lips together. One day, they would have to have an actual conversation about this. One day, she would make good on her earlier promise to spare no feelings. But today, she would make an exception for Ron. In the name of their history and friendship, before it all got so messed up.

Hearts can be broken whenever. Might as well give her friend’s heart its time in the sun. So, she accepted the invitation and stepped into him, allowing his arms to wrap around her frame.

Ron’s hug was the same it always had been: warm and encompassing. Despite her anger towards him, she couldn’t help but to sigh softly at the simple familiarity of it. She leaned in, letting her eyelids flutter close and turning her head to face out towards his shoulder. Wishing that this could be enough.

And who knows – maybe it could. Far away in the future, when she stopped making terrible decisions and stopped being ruled by her never ceasing temper. Maybe she could have this. Maybe she could have comfort and warmth as her constant companions instead of rage.

Hardly any time had passed before Hermione tensed unexpectedly, and not from Ron’s hand starting to rub her back. A sharp chill effectively killed the heat that was circling her body. Feeling obligated to locate the source of the sudden cold, she slowly opened her eyes.

Malfoy was leaning against the wall by the doors to the Great Hall, watching their embrace.

There was only one word Hermione could think to describe the look upon his face as he appraised them – dark. She may have been able to utilize a few other adjectives to accurately encapsulate his face in that moment: mocking, disgusted, rageful, sneering. However, the utter darkness within his expression outshone them all.

He looked like the devil being forced to witness a christening.

Hermione could feel her abdomen tighten in anticipation, adrenaline swiftly coursing through her veins as her body prepared for something her mind wasn’t privy to. Her mouth parted, trying to intake as much air as possible to offset her increasing respiratory rate. Hermione dug her cheek harder into Ron’s shoulder, shifting her body in his arms as she tried and failed to regain a sense of comfort.

The corner of Malfoy’s mouth curled up, just enough for him to bear his teeth at her in a manner that felt very much like a threat. The young Death Eater shoved his shoulder off the wall before stalking down and away from the corridor.

She could hear her heartbeat in her ears, the thudding noise in sync with each step he took away from her. Hermione didn’t know how Ron couldn’t hear it too.

It was a hateful look given by a hateful man. It made her want to examine her own soul as she realized that dark and hateful look made her feel more than Ron’s embrace ever could.

Time went on – but barely.

***

Time trudged on… somehow.

Seeing as the armchairs in the Gryffindor common room no longer provided her solace and the last thing she wanted to do right now was be around other people, Hermione sought for a moment of peace in the darkened library that night.

She sequestered herself in the Muggle Studies section, which was embarrassingly bare for an allegedly “progressive” school like Hogwarts. But she knew students other than her rarely frequented the library – and when they did, it was typically to try and sneak into the Dark Arts section rather than learn about aeroplanes. She would most certainly be left to her own devices in this nearly empty corner of the room.

Hermione leafed through the books that were on the shelves regardless, not seeing any new additions since the previous years. She recited all the titles on the spines anyway, to provide ample distraction for her mind: The Flora and Fauna of Sussex; American Serial Killers: Why Are There So Many?; Boogie on Down! A Step-by-Step Guide for Disco Beginners.

Only the essentials for learning about muggles, naturally.

The titles and poor compositions didn’t really matter, though. What mattered was their ability to drive every other thought from her mind, so long as she repeated the words over and over again. Which she most definitely needed to. Just like what felt like every day this year, too much had happened today – specifically within a thirty minute timespan at dinner.

It was almost funny, admittedly. Hermione having to deal with boy drama while undergoing an existential crisis for her morals, desires, and entire being. That she was expected to deal with Ernie’s arrogant forwardness and Ron’s jealousy, in addition to contemplating whether to alert the Auror Department on the whereabouts of Voldemort’s newest minion. The universe was taking the mick, surely.

Throw in her going a full week without her outlet and then finally seeing him again –

No. Going down that route defeated the purpose of this stupid, mindless exercise. She restarted and returned to the beginning of the shelf to go through the book titles again.

Hermione was finally experiencing blissful numbness in her brain as she reached Photocopies of the Schematics for Disneyland Paris 1992 when a ghostly hand reached across her shoulder for a book. Which one, she wasn’t sure. She was too preoccupied jolting from the unexpected movement and closeness of the haunted limb – and the person it belonged to.

Of course he would seek her out now, today of all days.

She whirled around in unison with Malfoy as he retracted his arm with the book back towards his person.

Her body resumed the symptoms it displayed only hours prior from his looming presence: rapid pulse, somersaulting stomach, sharp breathing. It came back to her in a rush, all at once, as consequence of how close he was to her vicinity yet again. Why did he have to be this bloody close to her?

“Did you get bored of watching me find myself?” Malfoy’s elegant voice was neutral as he cocked his head ever to slightly. But the darkness from early was still shining plain as day on his face and behind his thundering eyes – festering with a promise of brutality. For what, she wasn’t sure.

Hermione had not returned to the Astronomy Tower since the Hogsmeade trip, for what she thought were obvious reasons. Still, her arms started itching at his question as she recalled the days that had passed since then. Days without having a punching bag for this bullshite inside of her – bullshite she blamed him for anyway.

But it was an addiction, this thing between them. A truly atrocious one. And as much as the more questionable side of her loved it, Hermione recognized the dangerous road it could lead her towards. She needed to stop while it was still in the early stages – while she still could maintain some autonomy over it.

Not to mention, Hermione thought it would be doubly disgraceful for her to continue engaging in such an addiction with a Death Eater. Particularly one she was actively lying for. She had no choice but to acknowledge that conflict of interest now, especially after the events of Hogsmeade and all the memories that arose from it.

So, Hermione elected to return to her initial plan from the beginning of the term: ignore and avoid. It was proving significantly more difficult than before.

The look she shared with him outside the Great Hall earlier in the evening had been a severe moment of weakness. She should have been stronger, should have continued disregarding his presence and existence. Instead, she relapsed. Her body was still buzzing from the high, aching for more.

It would be that much harder to quit again. But damn it all, she had to try.

“Fuck off, Malfoy.”

“When you ask me so sweetly, it’s hard to say no, doux poison.”

“Good. Sincerely hope the door hits you on the way out.”

“Hard to say no being the key word there, Granger. Eager to be rid of me already?”

“You have no idea,” Hermione responded. She intended for the words to sound menacing, but she could hear the breathiness in her voice.

The corner of Malfoy’s lip twitched. She refused to recall how it looked painted in red. “I’m touched. But I’m afraid I’m still waiting for an answer.”

“To what?”

“Did you get bored of watching me find myself? Or are you suddenly no longer partial to the Astronomy Tower?”

Hermione twisted her mouth, but remained silent. Maybe if she just ignored him to his face as well –

“Asking too much honesty from you, little liar? How about this one: why haven’t Potter or Dumbledore come storming into my dormitory this week, apprehending me under suspicion for cursing that poor Gryffindor student?”

Was someone screaming, or was that just the sounds of her harsh inhalations? No matter, she just needed to stay quiet for a bit longer and –

“Because surely, with you convinced as you were of my guilt, I wouldn’t have even been able to reenter the castle grounds after Saturday’s trip. Let alone carry on these past days as if nothing happened. Unless, dear me, you didn’t tell anyone?”

“Just fuck off, Malfoy,” Hermione all but begged, but he plowed on.

“No? Still too hard? Another question, then. You starting a collection, Granger?”

This one… perplexed her. “Of books?”

“Of men,” he hissed. Malfoy tossed the book he didn’t need to grab from the shelf onto a nearby table, landing with a sharp thud. Hermione flinched at the sound and at the threatening ghost before her, who took another step forward, trapping her between his body and the shelves behind her.

“Was it a few hours? Or did you have the decency to wait an entire day?” Malfoy’s mouth curled up again, rearing to stick his teeth into something.

Hermione’s heart banged with a vengeance against her chest. What the – “Beg pardon?”

“I was just wondering how quickly you spread your legs for MacMillian after giving Weasley’s limp dick a ride–”

The crack that echoed in the air was probably the loudest sound this library ever had the misfortune of hearing. It was inherently sacrilegious, enough to make Madam Pince have a heart attack had she not been retired to her rooms for the night.

If Hermione didn’t enjoy the sight of her hand connecting so violently with Malfoy’s face, she might have had the mind to be upset about the noise, too.

Though the library was dark with only small candles and the moon shining through the windows to cast light on his face, Hermione could still see the red starting to pool on Malfoy’s cheek where her slap made contact. The beast inside of her hummed at the evidence of her revenge for his filthy words and accusations.

Two seconds passed where neither of them moved. By the third, Malfoy slowly righted his head so his gaze was trained down at her once again.

Hermione had seen Malfoy look angry, annoyed, murderous even. This – this was something else entirely. Something she felt the dual need to run away from screaming and crash directly into.

“There you are,” he purred sinisterly, stepping even further into her space until it was unclear where Hermione ended and Malfoy began.

Time stopped. It was a demented sort of bliss. A drag of smoke from an entire pack of muggle cigarettes as opposed to just a single one.

Malfoy brought his arms up to either side of her head, pressing them against the shelves and actually caging her in now. No part of their bodies were directly touching, aside from the brush of his robes against her sweater with their chests expanding every so often. Pale skin, silver hair, and a red-tinted cheek invaded her vision until the library faded away, and those were the only colors she could see. Her hips were starting to squirm and shift again, unable to stay in place the more her abdomen lurched.

She watched, hypnotized as his eyes began to scan over her hair, her nose, her chin. Searching to make sure whatever just came out of her remained in place.

“Come back to the tower,” he whispered. Hermione’s sinuses were attacked by a wave of mint toothpaste and the familiar crisp, smoky cypress pines entangled in his breath.

“No,” she responded, but even she could hear it: Hermione didn’t sound like she was giving him an answer. She sounded like she was looking to be convinced. Hermione bit her lip as she wrestled with that… and their new nearness.

How could he stand to be so close to her? Did the very thought not disgust him, cause his branded arm to convulse more and more as the proximity increased?

How could she stand to be this close to him, knowing that said mark was only centimetres away from the right side of her face?

From the confusion, distaste, and something unidentifiable swirling in the storm of his eyes, she wondered if he was thinking the exact same thing.

“Why? Too busy fucking MacMillian to spare your nights now?” His eyes were stone cold, but fixated on her mouth now as he spoke.

Her teeth released her bottom lip as Hermione allowed a ridiculing grin to take residence. He wanted to imply she’s a whore for a Puff? Fine, she’ll play ball. Her boldness did begin to return with that slap, after all.

“Why do you think he wants to keep working on our project? You did hear that earlier, I assume? Ernie knows how our plant gets me going. There’s nothing a girl desires more than to get all hot and bothered on a tree in a damp greenhouse.”

Hermione assumed her words were obviously sarcastic and mocking, given the absurd context. She assumed wrong.

Though covered by his school robs, Hermione could still see the muscles of his arms bracketing her head tense up immediately. A vein throbbed in the side of his neck, begging for its bloodflow to resume and be unblocked by the strength in which Malfoy clenched his jaw. The grey storm that naturally lived in his eyes morphed into a tsunami born with the promise of leaving no survivors.

If Hermione thought his face outside the Great Hall earlier was dark, this look was borderline demonic.

She didn’t know how to comment on his reaction even if she wanted to. She was paralyzed by him. His mouth opened, teeth making good on their promise to bite –

“Mr. Malfoy.”

It was so fast, Hermione wasn’t even sure it happened. Professor Snape’s cold voice sliced through and burst the bubble that was separating them from the real world. From the first syllable his monotone voice enunciated, Malfoy’s entire body stiffened while his grey eyes glazed over like a curtain being drawn. The only lively part of him dead to the world, taking all the viciousness within them to its grave.

His rigid body straightened up and away from her. Malfoy’s face was blank as he turned away, looking utterly disinterested in both Hermione and the professor addressing him. He actually resembled a corpse now, with his face void of any thought or personality. It was a complete one-eighty to the emotions rippling off of him seconds prior.

“Professor,” Malfoy stated, the word pronounced perfectly and completely indifferent.

Snape narrowed his eyes on his student, inspecting his character for something Hermione couldn’t begin to guess. She was still frozen in her position as his beetle-like eyes shifted onto her, continuing their assessment. He, like Malfoy, gave away nothing.

It was a full minute before the professor drawled, “You’re late for our meeting. I took the liberty of inquiring your location from Miss Greengrass.”

Malfoy gave no reasoning for his tardiness or confirmation that he even heard Snape speak. He just stood there like a soldier, waiting for an actual command to respond to.

The professor gave him a sneer – a requirement for anyone in Slytherin house. “Go. I will meet you in my office.”

Her ghost – now corpse – nodded once and strided out of the library, not once looking backwards or saying his farewells to either of them. Not that they ever engaged in such pleasantries normally. It was just not how Hermione foresaw their conversation ending at all.

With Malfoy gone, Hermione was forced to suffer being the center of Snape’s direct attention now. It felt uncomfortable and invasive, watching him search for something on her she was ignorant of. She wanted him and his calculative gaze far, far away. She briefly thought about telling him as much if he wasn’t a professor, and if her body and mind wasn’t utterly stuck in place.

Snape eventually relinquished her, his voice quiet yet curt as he spoke, “It’s nearly curfew, Miss Granger. Five points from Gryffindor, seeing as I doubt you will reach your common room before the end of the hour.” He turned and whisked out of the library without another word.

Roughly fifteen minutes later, once Snape and Malfoy were long gone, Hermione gained the ability to move her body again. Something inside her chest was fluttering in – fear? Excitement? Both?

Afterwards, during her zombie-like walk back to the common room, Hermione realized she could have pulled her wand out on Malfoy at any time. She didn’t know if she wished she had or not. What she did know was that she would not be strong enough to deny herself of this addiction again. Not with the palm of her hand still tingling, and the memory of his hateful face burning in her mind.

Time restarted. It carried on, different than before.

Chapter Text

When Hermione woke up the following day, she abandoned her lifeless state from the tail end of night before and elected to reenter the waking world with a sense of purpose.

To accomplish that, she remained laying in bed unmoving for what felt like hours, only permitting herself to think and think and think. Hermione only exited the bed and began preparing for the day once she had something she hadn’t had in a long time: plans.

Hermione had been, frankly, winging it most of the school year so far. Her academics were stellar as always, but that was because it would genuinely be more difficult for her to not excel in school. She could pretend to be humble for proprietary’s sake, but Hermione knew she earned her title many times over by now.

For everything outside of the realm of homework and exams, she had been unmoored from the logic and reason that had carried her through life thus far. She was nothing but a leaf mercilessly whipped through the strong highland winds, a piece of driftwood relentlessly abused by the unforgiving North Sea. She had been rolling with the punches as they came, and failing miserably at picking herself back up again.

Hence, well … everything that was and had been happening to her. Particularly the things that involved a blond Slytherin.

That crisp, November Saturday morning was different, though. There had been a change in the winds, a calming of the tides. Another punch was aimed her way, and for once, she could anticipate its landing.

Simply ignoring and avoiding Malfoy would no longer work. Like it or not, he would force another encounter. The reasoning was less than clear to her, but she knew it would happen. And this time, she would be prepared.

Hermione had miscalculated how well Malfoy knew her and, more specifically, how well he knew which buttons of hers to push. He had become too familiar with them and able to expertly coax the strongest of reactions out of her, to the point where it was beginning to feel – intimate.

Twisting abdomen, erratic pulse, labored breaths. He had always made her feel out of her mind and exasperated. But something had changed the past week, and now she couldn’t survive a single interaction without feeling overcome by those … symptoms. Symptoms that felt too intimate, that rendered her completely useless.

It was maddening and unfair and needed to stop. The only way she could combat that looming issue, she gathered, was by putting them on equal footing. Fire fighting fire, and all that.

The fact of the matter was that the bastard of a man was not only able to push her buttons with expertise, but weaponize them. Her deepest insecurities, her internal conflicts, those symptoms. It was why he had the upper hand in the vast majority of their conversations. Hermione was beginning to wonder if all the nights on the Astronomy Tower in which she walked away with the final word were nothing more than pity victories. That uncertainty alone enraged her.

Of course, the ammunition Hermione possessed against him was significant in itself – much more significant than anything he could ever have or use against her. But she was unable to take advantage of it for some annoying self-inflicted reason. Likewise, all other related points of attack, such as his father, would only circle back to that decidedly out-of-commission ammunition.

That was an unfortunate fact she also had to accept and move past, for the sake of her plans. She could torture herself over that knowledge later.

So, she was always back to square one when it was her turn to consider rebuttals and methods of ambush. But no longer. Hermione needed something on him. Not cutting insults, or clever taunts, or ruthless remarks. She had plenty of those to spare – and some change.

No, she needed what Malfoy had: leverage. The way he knew her lack of honesty, her unwillingness to accept her darker tendencies, her godsdamned symptoms spurred on by him – that was his leverage. Something he readily employed to either win or get out of any conversation.

She needed her own. Something that would leave him rendered speechless against a dusty bookshelf, unable to think or feel unless she commanded it so. Hermione wanted something to hold over him, and watch him suffer as he struggled and scrambled to get it back from her. She wanted to see him bleed – not as a reaction to her defensive fury, but from an unprompted attack.

To do that, Hermione needed to do some investigating. The type that, for once, could not be accomplished through books in the library. She was in no rush to return there, anyway.

The point was: she had plans.

Hermione was considering the best way to enact those plans, specifically how to corner her chosen target for the day, as she entered the Great Hall for breakfast that morning. The same morning that was, coincidently, also the morning of the quidditch match. Though it was easy to ignore the hissing and booing echoing from the Slytherin’s table with her mind sufficiently occupied.

Perhaps she could ascertain her target before the match, when everyone else would be busy either getting knackered or trying to save the best seats for their mates in the stands. The chaos and excitement in the anticipation before the match would likely give them a bit of privacy, if she were to wager…

Hermione sat down at the end of the long table where Harry and Ron were already situated, her thoughts carrying her attention far away. So much so that she almost didn’t notice Ron’s mood, which was an equal mixture of foul and frightened.

Foul, likely because of her. They were at an impasse, after all. The apology and shared moment from yesterday was to bring tensions down at a time when they were high, but nothing was resolved. Especially not when it concerned the topic of their, ahem, feelings. Ron carried a reminder of that as clear as day on his face.

Frightened, well, for obvious reasons. Based on Ginny’s frequent complaints about her brother whenever she wasn’t yapping about some other salacious topic, Ron had been mucking up practices recently. With the big rival match today, the Gryffindors couldn’t afford their Keeper to not be up to par. Ron had to block some goals, or something. Hermione didn’t know and really, really didn’t care.

She ignored him as she had taken to doing when he’d been in this mood recently, too busy calculating at what point would be ideal to intercept her target on the way to the match. The boys would already be on the pitch for team warmups, so she wouldn’t have to worry about shaking them off beforehand. Hermione had a theory of where they would be, but it was an extremely untested and unverified theory. Still, it was something that might be worth a try –

“Good luck today, Ron!” Lavender purred, shaking Hermione out of her thoughts as she passed by their group, before settling in with Pavarti a little further down the table. “I’ll be cheering for you the whole time.”

Lavender made sure to toss in a wink for good measure, too, before turning her attention towards her similarly smirking friend.

Tragically, her wish of good luck seemed to have had the opposite effect on Ron as he distractedly reached for a glass of pumpkin juice, before overshooting and spilling the drink all across the table.

“Bloody hell – that’s just fucking perfect, isn’t it?” Ron growled, picking up an innocent piece of toast from the stacked pile in front of him just to crush it in his aggravated grasp.

Hermione raised an eyebrow. Still content to disregard his meltdown, she turned to Harry sitting right next to her instead. “How are you both feeling?” Hermione asked, trying to start some semblance of a conversation, even if it meant potentially talking about quidditch. She also hoped it would be interpreted as an olive branch, given that the last words they exchanged yesterday were less than pleasant from her end.

Like usual.

“Fine,” Harry said breezily, accepting her offering of peace. He grinned at her as though he had not a care in the world. In fact, he seemed a little too content.

Harry had poured a fresh glass of pumpkin juice as he spoke. Before he handed the new drink to Ron, however, Hermione noticed a very familiar glittering object in his hand pass over the cup. Harry, taking after Lavender, gave her a sly wink himself before handing the pumpkin juice to their friend.

“There you go, Ron. Drink up,” Harry encouraged, nodding towards the pumpkin juice that was now laced with Felix Felicis.

Or so he thought.

That one saying, about being stuck between a rock and a hard place? Hermione didn’t feel stuck – she felt cemented in, with no clear escape available.

Last week, Hermione had snuck into the boy’s dormitory during the Gryffindor team’s quidditch practice the Sunday morning following her talk with Harry. Her intention was, initially, to confiscate the Marauder’s Map and claim ignorance when he eventually came around asking if either of his friends had seen it.

Though she did not plan on sneaking off to the tower or associating herself with Malfoy ever again at the time, a wretched little part of her knew she wouldn’t be able to keep that promise. Leaving Harry with the map was, subsequently, too great of a risk.

Once she acquired her map from the bottom of his trunk – Harry was shamefully awful at hiding things – Hermione was set to leave with her stolen plunder. But before she could close the trunk back up, a suspicious bulge in one of the many loose socks along the edge caught her eye.

Hermione was, as previously established, not an idiot. She knew based on Harry’s lack of uproar surrounding a missing vial of Felix Felicis, that he must have been under the impression it hadn’t been destroyed at all. Let alone destroyed in the name of a petty revenge orchestrated by Malfoy. Hermione had been curious as to why that was, but she was so thoroughly distracted these past months that she didn’t even think to investigate the issue further.

Now, upon seeing the familiar cylindrical outline in the sock, it was clear Harry wasn’t concerned because he thought the extremely valuable potion was perfectly safe this whole time. Malfoy must have either become exceptional at muggle pickpocketing in the summer before term, or he made criminal use of a summoning charm to steal the original vial and switch it with a fake during that first potions class.

Likely while Hermione provided the unknowing yet perfect distraction of spilling her jar of sorophorous beans.

She was here for the map. But it was impossible to neglect the opportunity that presented itself to her. Hermione knew this would likely be her only chance to learn exactly what Malfoy had done. She picked up the tube sock, quickly disposing of the clothing item to find an incredibly convincing replica of Felix Felicis inside – right down to its trademark golden liquid.

Hermione uncorked the potion to take a quick whiff of its scent. Her sinuses were attacked with smells of frog brains and … was that beetle eyes?

Malicious git. A clear indication of Essence of Insanity. A potion on the more dangerous side of the spectrum that they had only learned about that year, in which the consumer is rendered insane and is prone to incredibly poor decision making. Except instead of the potion displaying its typical eerie green color, a glamour or some advanced spell made it appear like an inviting little dose of Liquid Luck.

Did he just carry around an array of dangerous potions, hoping an opportunity would arise to trick another student into drinking them? It was kind of clever, she had to admit. An elegant type of long game, a double dose of revenge. Literally. Perhaps she too should be equally prepared in the future –

Stop complimenting Malfoy’s attempt at premeditated assault. Hermione had to shake her head to physically force the thoughts from her mind.

She went to work immediately: transfiguring a water glass on a nearby nightstand into an equally compelling duplicate of the already duplicated vial, keeping the water inside. She put a long-lasting glamour on the water until it resembled the description of Felix Felicis, before returning the still-fake-but-much-less-deadly vial into the loose sock and placing it back inside Harry’s trunk.

Hermione had left his dormitory that day with the Maradaur’s Map and a free vial of Essence of Insanity with her. She was sure she could find some alternative use for it that didn’t involve Harry going mad.

Now, she was incredibly grateful she had the foresight to make the switch. Otherwise, it would have been quite a difficult feat explaining why Ron had started acting like a madman mid-quidditch game when he was supposed to be unstoppable instead.

It was only water. No harm, no foul. But it was still impossible to avoid the mischievous slide glances an ignorant Harry was giving her.

Hermione was meant to be a grade-A swot and rule stickler. A believer that getting expelled was worse than dying at the hands of a beastly three-headed dog. She’s supposed to say something – in fact, Harry looked like he was counting on it. It would look extremely suspicious if she didn’t, and Hermione would have to explain why she didn’t care about Harry’s blatant display of cheating.

Which would open up a rabbit hole of secrets and information that she would have no hope of closing ever again.

There was nothing to do other than cause an uproar about something that was of absolutely no consequence. And be forced to act surprised when the effects of the potion didn’t go as planned. .

“Don’t drink that, Ron,” Hermione commanded sternly, in a voice she hoped mimicked a scandalized McGonagall. She peeked over towards Harry as she spoke, and the satisfied smile gracing his face confirmed this was the correct response.

The following interaction was similar to many of their previous ones, in which Hermione was (quite literally) forced to be a wet blanket due to the poor actions of her friends. Ron, already willing to take any opportunity to make her as upset as him, drank from the glass immediately after she announced that Harry had put something in it. The redhead sneered at her as he did, before swaggering out of the Great Hall without looking back.

Hermione, left alone with an all too happy Harry, considered her next move. She folded her arms on the table, staring at Ron’s empty seat across from her as she addressed him. “I’d never have believed it of you, Harry.”

It was true. Hermione was surprised he would try to win the match through such dishonorable means, being who he was. Nevermind that it wouldn’t work.

She heard him stand up from his seat next to her, but kept her gaze forward. “Hark who's talking. Confunded anyone lately?”

Hermione allowed a small grin to creep its way onto her face as Harry followed Ron out of the hall, leaving her on her own as he made way for warmups.

Yes, she had confunded someone recently – a bit of a dishonorable move herself. And now that the boys were gone, she could do something dishonorable again.

It was time to confront her target.

***

It was easier than she thought it would be to find Pansy. She just had to go to where Luna was.

From the start, it had been a hunch – and a very far-reaching one, at that. Borne from an unintentional discovery that fateful morning of the Hogsmeade trip. Despite her own personal concerns and drama going on, not even Hermione’s tunnel vision could miss how much Pansy spent her time watching a blissfully oblivious Luna.

It was a different type of staring than Hermione was used to being on the receiving end of from a certain Death Eater. Other than the fact that Pansy’s didn’t hold the same wicked undertones as his did, hers was also more… painful to look at.

Hermione never thought of Pansy Parkinson as a person who wore their heart on their sleeve, but the discomfort she felt herself in seeing the tortured yearning of Pansy’s expressions made her think otherwise.

That was how she found her, after breakfast. Sitting off the side of the steps on the east entrance, which lead directly towards the quidditch pitch. She was watching Luna from a distance, who was posted near the entrance to the stadium, proudly wearing her ostentatious lion hat. Hermione’s friend was preoccupied passing out similar, miniature versions of the hat to incomers. No one had yet to take her up on the offer, including the Gryffindor students. But she didn’t look deterred.

Pansy wasn’t making fun of her with her group of snakes, or even twisting her face in disgust at the ghastly accessory. She just sat there. Watching. It was hard for Hermione to look at her directly with every emotion plastered across her countenance, but she forced herself to. She had to stick to the plan.

“Alright there, Parkinson?” Hermione hoped her voice sounded casual as she saddled up on the opposite side of the stairs. She made sure to continue standing, electing to lean against the handrail. Primarily to give her a sense of higher ground for what was to come next.

The revulsion and judgment Hermione had been looking for earlier? It finally made its appearance, as clear as day as Pansy looked at her with a curled upper lip. She glanced over Hermione’s figure twice before she responded, the distaste on her face only deepening as she did.

“Granger. Shouldn’t you be preparing to watch your morons trip over themselves through the air, instead of torturing me with the sight of those horrid shoes?”

“I could ask the same of you.”

“My shoes are tailor-made by elderly veelas in the south of France, who use pure acromantula silk to bind the leather together. They are, by definition, incapable of being described as horrid.” She flicked her perfectly sculpted bob off of her shoulder before staring forward again. Towards Luna. “And no one I care about is playing today, anyway.”

So – she had a soft spot for Nott and Zabini, but not for Malfoy. Interesting. And a major change from previous years. This knowledge could have the potential of derailing her plans, but Hermione believed she could still work with it.

“No one you care about? My oh my, I wonder how poor Malfoy took the news of your callous indifference towards him.”

Pansy didn’t look back at Hermione, but she could still see her sneer growing even more prominent. “I’m not Draco or one of your bumbling morons. You can’t out-bitch a bitch, Granger. Just get on with it – what do you want?”

Hermione shrugged nonchalantly, preparing to cast out the bait. “Nothing, really. Seeing you sitting alone isn’t a normal occurrence for me, and I thought I should check in.”

She said nothing, content to ignore Hermione until she had something actually of substance to say. Hermione had no choice but to plow on.

“Well, now that you mention, I suppose –” she drawled out, as if the thought just occurred to her. “I suppose I have been curious to learn at what point Nott and Zabini took over as the new Crabbe and Goyle for Malfoy. They don’t look like a pair of thick-in-the-head henchmen at first glance.”

“They’re not.” Pansy’s reply was spoken dully, but Hermione could see her jaw grinding as she did.

“What, henchmen? Or thick-in-the-head?”

“Neither.”

“Afraid I have to disagree with you there, Parkinson. My encounter with them in Hogsmeade painted them in quite a henchmen-y light.”

“You know fuck all about that, Granger.” Pansy snapped her head back towards Hermione, snarling as she did.

Perfect. Hermione allowed a knowing grin to display proudly on her face. “Bet I know enough.”

“I sincerely doubt it.”

“Sore spot, is it, Parkinson? What bothers you more: my criticisms of your friends, or the fact they were paying attention to someone other than yourself?”

Hermione was hoping for some grand reaction, something to prompt unchecked words and eventually lead to the inadvertent surrender of information.

Pansy, unexpectedly, only rolled her eyes and scoffed in response. She assessed Hermione again, this time with her lips pursed. “Salazar, you even sound like him. I suppose I can understand the appeal, then.”

A counterattack. One she wasn’t sufficiently prepared for. Hermione’s smirk remained in place, but her body stiffened as she demanded curtly, “Appeal of what?”

Pansy didn’t reply for a long time. When she did, it was completely unrelated to their previous topic – to Hermione’s ears, at least. The Slytherin girl relaxed her pursed mouth to give a pitiful grin as she said, “He’s a disease, Granger. You should cut and burn him out of you before it’s too late.”

There was no point in pretending like she didn’t know who Pansy was referring to. Especially with her pulse skyrocketing as it was now.

“Is that what you did?” Hermione asked hotly, mad that this conversation was somehow starting to get away from her. Or mad for some other reason? No, that wouldn’t make sense. It was the same thing Hermione had been telling herself for months.

So why would it bother her so much to hear that sentiment come from the mouth of another person?

“No, I couldn’t. Me and the boys – we’ll never be able to.”

“Why?”

“Because we love him. I take it you’ve witnessed some of the consequences of that.”

Zabini’s distraught face, pleading with Hermione to speak to Malfoy. Nott’s wicked grin, gladly trading his soul for whatever wretched schemes his friend was employing. Pansy’s concerned eyes, demonstrating sympathy and worry for perhaps the first time in her otherwise perfect life.

Though, didn’t she just claim to not care about Malfoy? None of this was making sense.

“Seems a bit of a hypocritical suggestion, doesn’t it?”

“It’s not a suggestion, it’s a warning. A warning from someone who’s reached the end of the road you’re on. Heed it, or don’t. I don’t really give a fuck, Granger.”

“Why give a warning in the first place, then?”

“Because I wouldn’t want to drag anyone else into this.” Pansy’s face became very stern all of the sudden as she looked back to the entrance of the quidditch stands. Hermione had the feeling her thoughts were far away as she spoke the next sentence. “I won’t drag anyone else into this.”

“Maybe they wouldn’t want to follow you into it anyway.”

It was a low blow, spoken full of contempt. Hermione was still trying to provoke a reaction out of Pansy. Both for the purpose of her plans, and to make the girl as uncomfortable as she was right now. But Pansy simply gave her a disdainful smirk. “I would never give them the chance to.”

“... But Malfoy would?”

Pansy barked a laugh. “Oh, please. Draco is the most selfish man I’ve ever met. He’d drag anyone into anything to get what he wants, and be perfectly content if he had to damn their souls to get it.”

Sounded like a Death Eater alright. Something was happening in Hermione’s chest at Pansy’s words, but she couldn’t exactly pinpoint what it was. “What does he want?”

A shrug. “I know what he doesn’t want. You.”

Well, that was … expected? Unexpected? Hermione didn’t know. She just suddenly felt like a hundred kilograms of lead had been injected into her veins, weighing her down.

“I gathered that, from the years of harassment.” Her response sounded somewhat robotic.

Pansy merely rolled her eyes again, dismissing the bullying and blood prejudice Hermione was succumbed to as a child as if it were nothing. “You're not getting it. He doesn’t want you. He abhors the very idea of you. But it doesn’t matter, because his obsessions will win out over his brain every time. And so, here we are.”

She finally stood up from her place on the stairs with trained elegance, primly smoothing over her school skirt once fully upright. Pansy gave her one last look, tucking a short lock of dark hair behind her ear as she raised a brow.

“Somebody will have to pay the price of that, Granger. More likely than not, it won’t be him. So I would get out unless you’re prepared to pay it. I certainly won’t be footing the bill for a mudblood like yourself." Another sneer. "I suppose I'll be fucking off now, since I gather you won't be.”

Pansy turned gracefully on her heel like the pureblood girl she was. She headed back into the castle, away from the pitch and without bothering to wait for Hermione to respond. She wasn’t exactly sure how she would have responded, anyway.

There was one thing she was sure of: the conversation wasn’t a total loss. Hermione’s plan, though sidetracked, still worked. She was able to ascertain information about Malfoy from someone he was close to. Or had been in the past, at least.

Pansy had implied that Malfoy was … obsessed with Hermione. Unable to leave her alone, despite them both very much desperately wanting that.

She supposed it made sense. His regular haunts, the constant staring, following her multiple occasions – as recent as yesterday, in fact. The pattern was there. She just didn’t think to recognize it. Didn’t even consider any form of untoward interest he may have with her, unwilling or not.

Hermione wondered what the root of this obsession was. And, more significantly, how deep it went. That would determine the type of leverage she would hold over him in turn. Something for her to weaponize, at last.

Hermione owed thanks to Pansy for the information. Then again, she also wanted to curse the girl for everything else she said and the confusion she left her with. Another time for that, perhaps.

For now, it was time for quidditch. Oh, joy.

***

“Oppugno.”

It was a beautiful sight, watching Ron run away screaming. The conjured yellow birds did their job perfectly, pecking and scratching any bit of open skin he presented them with. Hermione almost let out a soft sigh seeing the small splatters of his blood on the floor that remained after his retreat.

It was hardly her fault. She had tried to escape into this empty classroom, to do the kind thing and spare him from her well-deserved wrath. Ron had no one to blame but himself for sauntering in here in an overly confident drunken stupor.

Hermione knew how this must look to Harry, standing off to the side as a witness to the violent scene. It probably looked like a fit of extreme jealousy from a girl desperately in love with his best mate. Reflecting back on the events that lead up to this moment, however, it was anything but that.

The common room had been as rowdy as it ever was following a victory against the Slytherins. Hermione watched the ruckus from the corner, deep in thought just as she was throughout the sporting event.

The quidditch match was a smashing success for the Gryffindors – and Ron specifically, thanks to his stellar performance. For Hermione, it had been a point of confusion.

Not because of her being thoroughly preoccupied, working through what Malfoy’s obsession entailed or how she would use that knowledge against him. No, it was confusing because Malfoy wasn’t even at the match to begin with.

It felt off. He had looked perfectly fine the day before. Well, aside from the general deathly, gaunt features he had taken on this year. But looking like a painfully handsome Inferi had been his baseline for most of this year. He had certainly been healthy enough to track her down and corner her in the library without breaking a sweat. Even if he had been ill, Malfoy wasn't likely to miss an opportunity to potentially beat Harry.

So, why wasn’t he on the pitch today?

Pansy must have known Malfoy wouldn’t be playing. She had claimed she didn’t care about anyone at the match. That newfound realization concerned Hermione, wondering what else she might have missed or misinterpreted during their conversation.

It made her also think about what he could possibly be doing instead. The endless possibilities of that question made her stomach drop. As a Death Eater, there were countless immoral things he could be doing right now while nearly everyone else was busy watching a quidditch match. She bet her last sickle that Pansy knew what that was, too.

Hermione was thoroughly distracted by all of those potential implications, not paying much mind to the celebrations happening around her back in Gryffindor Tower. She was so deep in her brain that she jumped when Harry wandered over to the corner she was tucked in, nudging her shoulder with his own.

Harry looked quite pleased with himself and Ron’s truly lucky performance. Hermione might have laughed at his proud smile had she not been so removed from the moment.

“You really shouldn’t have done that,” she scolded as she was supposed to. It was honestly such a perfect display of the placebo effect, knowing Ron performed so well on his own today. If he knew, he would surely –

“Whadya gonna do, turn us in? F–fuckin grown up, H’mione.”

Speak of the devil. Or think, in this case.

Ron suddenly appeared on the other side of Harry, his maroon and gold school tie wrapped around his head like a crown. His eyes were heavy lidded and his words were slurred, owed to the half empty bottle of firewhiskey in his loose grasp.

Hot anger, her familiar companion, began bubbling in her gut. She didn’t care how pissed he was. If he wasn’t to curse her out, she would match his energy gladly.

“What are you guys talking about?”

“Cut the innocent act Harry,” Hermione snapped. “You know perfectly well what we’re talking about. You tried to spike Ron’s drink with Felix Felicis, and – ”

“No I didn’t,” Harry commented smugly, retrieving the still sealed – and still fake – vial of Liquid Luck from his pocket. “Ron did all that by himself today.”

Oh, Hermione wanted to strangle him. But she fucking couldn’t. Not without giving literally everything away, or being asked a string of questions she couldn't answer. That fact didn’t stop her blood from boiling right along with her churning stomach, urging her to lash out on both of them.

So, not only was the whole thing intentionally fake – that Harry always intended to lie and conduct his own placebo effect experiment on Ron – but he threw Hermione under the bus to achieve that. There was no doubt that Harry purposefully used her historical priggishness to make Ron believe he consumed a dose of Felix Felicis.

He couldn’t have figured out a different method of tricking Ron? Or, at the very least, he couldn’t have told Hermione and prepared her for his plan ahead of time?

Of course not. Instead, Harry happily sacrificed Hermione’s peace. All to win a stupid fucking quidditch match.

“Well, would ya look at that!” Ron exclaimed. He was gesturing wildly with his hands, spilling firewhiskey everywhere as he did. He turned to Hermione, pointing an unsteady finger much too close to her face. “Bet ya thought I’d only d’good with a potion. But nope, w–was all me, ya hear? I do good stuff on me own so, y’know, just bloody fuck off, ya borin cunt. Fuckin 'ell.”

Ron turned around, stumbling into a perfectly positioned Lavender behind him.

The tipsy blonde girl made a show of looking surprised at their impromptu run-in. She batted her eyelashes up at Ron, squealing in delight as Ron immediately grabbed her face and smashed their mouths together. Several of the Gryffindor students hollered and whistled as the rest of them were forced to witness their drunken snog session.

Hermione, who had already been prepared to show Ron just how much of a cunt she could be, now felt a fury like nothing she had felt before at the insulting display in front of her.

She didn’t care that he was snogging Lavender. Ron could shag the whole of Hogwarts for all she cared. No, the problem she had with his actions were the result of two grievous offenses: his utter hypocrisy and his blatant show of disrespect towards Hermione.

Hypocrisy, due to his recent and embarrassingly obvious anger any time Hermione so much as looked at another man. His ego was the most fragile thing on the planet, and she was constantly expected to accommodate him whenever he started feeling a little too jealous.

God forbid Hermione converse with Ernie MacMillian, but Ron could dry hump girls in the middle of a party with no consequences.

And disrespect, for the same reason Hermione was guilted into going after Ron for their conversation yesterday. He was her friend, and he was her date to the upcoming Christmas party. Regardless of any feelings between the two of them, that commitment meant something. No matter how manipulated into it she might have been.

Ron could fuck Lavender all he liked and Hermione wouldn’t have bat an eye – after the Christmas party. But his current and complete lack of respect towards Hermione, who was widely known as being his date to the party he essentially begged to go to, was too far.

It was a blow to her pride. That was something she couldn’t accept, and wouldn’t stand idly by for.

Hermione still had some level of restraint from somewhere deep within her. She quickly retreated from the common room before she could do something worthy of an expulsion and a potential prison sentence. She rushed down the corridors before barricading herself into the nearest empty classroom. Her skin felt like it was on fire, begging her for the only thing that could relieve it of this burning feeling.

It was times like this that she really missed her outlet.

The door slowly opened before she had the chance to be alone for a full minute. In walked Harry through the small opening, looking awfully guilty. Good.

“Hermione–”

“Oh, hello Harry,” she seethed, twirling her now-drawn wand in her hand. She spun with flare, in a way she knew only from hours of watching her ghost do the same up on the Astronomy Tower. “What are you doing here without your best mate, the one you really care about? Is he still at the party? Ron did seem to be enjoying himself, didn't he?”

“Erm – Hermione, look –”

“Don’t pretend you didn’t see,” she interrupted without remorse. “You notice everything when it comes to Ron. Always looking out for him, aren’t you? Screw anyone else that –”

Bang. The door flew open this time, and the previously empty classroom was now almost half full. Ron and Lavender practically fell inside, giggling as their hands petted each other’s clothes with clear inexpertise.

Harry cleared his throat loudly, successfully drawing their attention away from each other and their lust-riddled moment.

Ron looked dumbly at his best mate before his eyes found Hermione’s furious gaze across the room. He smiled broadly, misinterpreting her disgust for jealousy as only a complete buffoon like him could.

“Oh, so sorry guys. M’and Lav was just lookin for a bit of privacy. Y’know, for shaggin –”

It was the pride in his eyes, pride he stole from her, that dissolved any last remnant of her restraint.

Now, Hermione was busy bathing in the glorious aftermath of watching Ron and Lavender scrambled out of the room, the vicious birds attacking him the whole way out.

If anything, she thought further justice still needed to be dispensed. Perhaps she could curse him with permanent erectile dysfunction in the morning. After she had the chance to sleep the day off, of course.

While Hermione stood in the center of the room, looking much more agreeable than before, Harry stood timidly off to the side. He was looking at her as if he had never seen her before.

Perhaps he hadn’t.

Uncaring for his concern, she wore her vindictive fury proudly on her face. She owed no apologies to him nor Ron. Hermione walked out of the classroom without an explanation to her friend still frozen inside. After all, Harry was all too happy to not explain anything to her earlier, either. Fair’s fair.

The castle was dark and a few of the portraits on the stone well let out affronted grunts as she stomped loudly past them, storming off into the night. Only hoping to get away from the inconsiderate, ignorant, insipid boys she stupidly referred to as her friends. That fact may need to be remedied.

Hermione didn’t fully realize where she was walking until she wandered upon the north side of the castle, near the doors leading out into the castle grounds. Perhaps getting some fresh air would be good for her. She was in no hurry to return to Gryffindor Tower.

Hermione walked out the double doors, the fear of being outside past curfew absent from her mind. She expected to be greeted with the smell of a cool autumn breeze, full of pine needles and rotting pumpkins with Halloween now past.

Instead, Hermione smelled smoke.

It wasn’t the faint smoke that lingers with one of Hagrid’s bonfires or from the candles in the castle that are lit at dusk. The smell was strong and severe, carrying a distinct scent of burning leaves and branches. Hermione almost worried that the Forbidden Forest had caught a massive wildfire somewhere.

Come and see, little liar.

Hermione gasped, struggling for air as his voice floated through her mind like the ghost he was. Whether it was a mere figment of her imagination or her gut pushing her towards acknowledging the more sinister conclusion, Hermione didn’t know. But she now associated the dangerous smell with Malfoy.

Which, if true, would bode well for no one.

There was only one thing to do.

When humans smell smoke, they tend to instinctively run away to safety. Hermione, instead, sprinted out to the open grounds and around the bend of the castle walls to find the source. She ran a little faster than usual with the sounds of his dark chuckling still fresh in her mind, trying to escape it with each step.

Or perhaps, unknowingly run directly towards it. When Hermione approached the far corner of the north grounds, she had the harsh and abrupt realization that his voice had not been a figment of her imagination.

It had been an omen.

The greenhouses were on fire – specifically, Greenhouse Three was on fire. And at the center of the destruction, admiring his work, was Draco Malfoy.

Even from a good distance away, shrouded in the darkness of the night sky and seeing nothing but his back, she knew it was him. There was no else it could be, standing menacingly in front of the flames with his hands resting comfortably in the pockets of his robes. The fact that he was flanked by a cackling Theo Nott and a somber Blaise Zabini only further confirmed that.

Hermione stood immobilized, having no choice but to ingrain the mental image in front of her into her brain.

The fire had clearly been ongoing for a while, as the height of the flames far surpassed the broken roof of the greenhouse. A terrible array of red, orange, yellow, and blue colors reflected off of said flames. The colors became deeper and more pronounced with each new plant they overcame and latched themselves onto. Hermione could see the falling ash and soot floating through the air, carrying remnants of the life that was once nourished and cared for so deeply in that greenhouse. It created a black, demonic rain around the destroyed glass structure and its perimeter, including the Slytherin boys in front of it.

It was an image of Lucifer, standing with his group of fallen angels, gladly watching the pearly gates burn. Malfoy turned to look over his shoulder at her in the distance, giving her a smirk worthy of a fiend. As he did, Hermione became as outraged as she was upset – upset in that she had no camera to capture the lifelike renaissance painting before her. All that was missing was their horns.

Even from this far away, she could feel just how satisfied he was in causing such destruction, killing all of those priceless plants –

Oh. Oh.

Hermione was going to kill him.

Any plans she had that day, the carefully laid ideas rooted in reason and sense, Disapparted without a trace. Even her frustrating interaction with Harry and Ron left her waking consciousness, bearing no significance.

Only an encompassing hate remained. Hate for Draco Malfoy. It alone was what moved her legs forward towards the fallen trio.

Malfoy fully turned away from the fire to watch her pursuit in earnest, making no move to draw his wand or even warn his friends. Zabini had the good sense to notice Malfoy’s new center of attention, reaching across to notify Nott by hitting him on the back of his head. The brown-haired Slytherin had been too busy reciting some type of old quidditch chant to the fire before him.

Hermione didn’t care. Didn’t even pay mind to the other boys who had the foresight to ready their weapons after one look at her face. She only had eyes for the blonde devil before her.

Hermione could have been a feral hellcat with the way she launched herself at Malfoy once she was within spitting distance of him, wasting no time on pleasantries.

It all… blurred together, in a sense. She knew her limbs were flying, attempting to find purchase against his body by any means necessary: scratching, slapping, clawing, punching. She could hear the strangled sounds in her throat that were deepened by the smoke she was forcibly ingesting with how close she was to the greenhouse now. She could feel the falling soot covering her body, making her skin burn and eyes water painfully.

None of that mattered, though. It was all secondary to this immediate need to quench her bloodthirst and sate this rage.

Hermione was relying solely on her own body to inflict pain upon Mafloy’s. Unlike the day before, it wasn’t that she forgot to use her wand. Hermione was fully aware she could cast a few curses and hexes his way. She simply wanted to feel the damage she wrought upon him with her own two hands, instead.

And good Godric, did it feel righteous.

Arms circled around her midsection at some point, strong and true – but unfamiliar. Hermione hardly paid them any mind, only fighting against their hold due to her continuous attempts to hurt Malfoy. She did unleash a savage shriek as they began to pull her away from him, from the evil man who did absolutely nothing to prevent her attacks. In the fogginess of her brain, she recalled seeing a smile as her nails scraped terribly across his face.

“You fucking arsehole – do you have any idea – sadistic piece of shit – I will fucking ruin you –”

Had she been yelling at him that whole time? Huh. Hermione didn’t hear the words until now if she was. But now, there was no mistaking the strain her vocal cords underwent with each screeching threat.

After a great period of effort on Zabini’s part (and it was him, since Nott was decidedly still posted next to Malfoy), she had been successfully dragged a metre or two away from her victim.

Zabini was doing his job as a friend– and an accomplice – by holding her back, preventing any further damage from befalling his mate’s internal organs. But Malfoy didn’t thank him, or try to land a taunting remark as he normally would. Instead, any smile he gave Hermione during her rampage was gone. His face was blank, with all of his attention honed directly onto where Zabini’s hands were grasping Hermione’s stomach and upper arm. His gaze did not waver until she had stopped struggling enough for them to be removed.

Hermione, to her surprise, did not immediately try to jump Malfoy again once Zabini freed her. She just stood there, eyes wild and covered in the ashes raining down around them. She was busy taking in the carnage before her from her new front row seat.

It looked the same as it did from a distance. But worse. The heat was nearly unbearable this close up, but she refused to retreat from it. She wanted to feel it seep into her bones, until they began to crack like the glass panes before her.

A large puff of smoke was expelled towards the back end of the greenhouse. Was that her Nebula Daemonis, her little Mist Demon, unleashing its first and only spray of toxic mist?

The Slytherin boys were silent. Apparently, they were waiting for her… what, her assessment? Her perspective on the fucked up image before her?

Well, alright then.

“How did it feel?” Hermione asked, her voice quiet and worn from screaming.

None of them answered her. She tore her eyes away from the burning structure that was long past any hope of restoration. Hermione let her attention fall first on Zabini, who was looking anywhere but at her, shame etched clearly across his face. She moved over to Nott, who had his arms crossed and a brow raised, looking like a poorly behaved child who was waiting for his lecture to be over already.

Finally, she looked at her ghost. This Lucifer figure before her. A blank face awaited her, covered in thin red markings from the points of her nails, with eyes as dark grey as the soot falling from the sky.

Hermione bared her teeth at him as went on, feeling her heart pounding at every inch of her body. “How did it feel? Did you feel good? Did you feel like a group of big men, destroying countless innocent and priceless plants? Doing some light property damage? Did you make your daddies proud?”

The last bit was unplanned and the result of a potent desire to hurt. Surprisingly, Malfoy still gave her no response or reaction. He hadn’t since she stopped attacking him.

“Well? Tell me, you fucking psychopath,” she was back to yelling, marching straight up to the disheveled arsehole before her. Hermione didn’t stop until they were left with less than a centimetre of space between them, picking right back up from where they left off in the library yesterday.

Only this time, his cheek bore bleeding scratches instead of a red slap mark.

“Did you enjoy feeling like a powerful man for once in your worthless life? Did you get some kind of sick pleasure from it, nearly come in your pants from the sight of hundreds of plants dying? What did you fucking get from this Malfoy?”

Silence. Maddening, tortuous silence. Hermione pushed his chest, putting all her weight into forcing him backwards – to no avail.

“Fucking answer me, Malfoy. What did this accomplish for you? What twisted rationale could you possibly have, you fucking bastard –”

Hermione pushed against his rigid form with each sentence, voice getting steadily louder throughout. She was sure Zabini would have to ensnare her once more for the safety of all, when something completely unexpected occurred.

Malfoy lifted his left hand to her face, and gently rested it against her cheek.

She was already breathing hard, trying to catch her breath from the pure physical exertion fighting him for a prolonged period of time. The feel of his bare skin against hers, without any violent intentions behind it, made her forget how to inhale altogether.

A brush of a thumb against her cheekbone made her sway into him, pressing her chest against his. Hermione’s lips parted slightly as his caress moved across her cheek and to the point of her nose. She felt his thumb skim across it, before continuing its unclear path to the other side of her face.

The hollow of her left cheek. Another brush. The long slant of her nose. Another brush. The space between her two eyebrows. Another brush.

It took her far too long to realize Malfoy was not attempting to be decent in this terrible moment and clean her soot-covered face. No, he was spreading the ash that was already there – pressing it deep into her pores. He was attempting to cover her cheeks and nose with it, almost as she would with blush. Except instead of a rosy red hue, there was likely an ominous grey tinge wiped across the high points of her face.

She had the sudden terrifying thought of a predator marking their territory.

Hermione recoiled her head backwards at that realization, roughly hitting his hand away as she did. Malfoy gave her no fight in this action, evidently done with his work anyway.

His eyes greedily tracked the markings on her face, while he swiftly brought his left thumb up to his mouth. He placed the pad of the finger between his pink lips, gently sucking the ash off of it.

It was the most sensual thing she had ever witnessed. That fact, and the knowledge that her knickers were now noticeably more damp than they were at the start of this confrontation, made her want to hit him all over again. For making her feel this way in this fucked up moment. For not giving her a chance to use her newfound leverage against him.

She didn’t get the chance to do any of it.

For a man who often had so many words to give her through either insult or critique, Malfoy only had eight to give her today in parting.

“Have fun fucking on a pile of ashes.”

He left her there, in front of the burning greenhouse with the now dead Pale Paine saplings inside of it. Hermione let out an awful scream, turning away from the fire to continue yelling at his retreating form, with an excited Nott and guilty Zabini in tow.

She was still unable to catch her breath, because Malfoy took it with him. Hermione did not stop screaming at him, not even after he’d long walked away from the scene of the crime. She thought she may never stop screaming his name.

And the worst part? The horrible half of her heart didn’t want to stop.

Chapter Text

“Hey, Harry has been looking for you since the party ended– Merlin’s tits, what the hell happened to you, Hermione?”

“I … I hardly know, Ginny. But I’m going to find out.”

***

“Hermione – look, I’m so sorry – I feel horrible after the way Ron acted – he was being a right prick last night – I’m sorry –”

“I know, Harry.”

“So … so you forgive me?”

“If I could forgive anyone, it would be you.”

***

“Wait, why is he approaching the podium – does Dumbledore have an announcement to make this morning?”

“I suppose we’re about to find out.”

“A happy Sunday to you all. I wanted to come before everyone, students and staff alike, as I bring heavy news today. There was an accident on Hogwarts grounds last night.”

“An accident? Be more vague, why don’t you –”

“Shut it, Seamus –”

“Thankfully, no one was harmed to our knowledge. But due to the damage caused to some of the greenhouses, Herbology classes for sixth and seventh years will be postponed until further notice. All Herbology classes today will be cancelled as well, to allow Professor Sprout time for grievance. Please do keep her in your thoughts. That is all – enjoy the rest of your breakfasts.”

“What do you think happened –”

“Did he say the greenhouses? Oh no, I hope it wasn’t Greenhouse Four, I left my favorite jumper in there –”

“Who cares about a bleeding jumper, Patil? You’re forgetting the most important part: no classes until further notice for our lot! Can you believe our luck –”

“That jumper was a gift from my pen pal at Beauxbatons, Seamus –”

“So what were you doing leaving it with litter of Venomous Tentacula, then –”

“Mione? Are you alright?”

“Fine. Just upset about missing class.”

***

“Not to push you on this, Mione, but … are you planning on ignoring Ron for the rest of your life, or just today?”

“I said if I could forgive anyone, it would be you, Harry. My decision to exclude Ron from that statement was not an accident.”

“So, you’re still mad at him? Because of Lavender –”

“Oh, please. Ron’s at perfect liberty to kiss whomever he likes, just as Lavender is. And I’m at liberty to prefer the company of a hundred Blast-Ended Skrewts than the mere thought of his presence.”

“But –”

“Let’s move on, shall we? We haven’t even reached the chapter on Everlasting Elixirs yet.”

***

“... Hermione? You alright? Where has your brain taken you now?”

“What?”

“I’ve been trying to get your attention for the last five minutes now to ask for more muggle bands you think I should give a listen to. But you’ve been busy staring at that window like it personally Cruico’d you. Got something on your mind?”

“Always… How about we do a trade: I’ll give you a couple more bands to obsess over, if you tell me what the most popular wine is among wizards.”

“Sounds like a fair, if not confusing, trade. Why do you need wine recommendations from me?”

“You know wizarding culture far better than I do, Gin. What would be a brand of wine that a wizard would absolutely die for?”

***

“Where’s Neville, Harry? I haven’t seen him around since Sunday.”

“He’s been holed up in our dormitory, with the curtains to his bed drawn. None of us can get him to come out or even eat. He’s taking the whole greenhouse fiasco pretty hard.”

***

“Hermione … are you sure you don’t want to –”

“Harry, if you bring up Ron one more time, I cannot promise you my reaction will be anything resembling kind or reasonable.”

“Fine. How about I talk about the new spell I learned from the Prince then? Or maybe you’d like to hear how I think Malfoy brought that cursed necklace into school grounds –”

“Not a chance, Harry.”

***

“I have my meeting with Dumbledore tonight. Meet you in the common room for a debrief after?”

“Of course. Let us hope that we don’t have to suffer through the image of Ron and Lavender groping each other on the couch by then.”

“Well, we could invite Ron instead of me having to talk with him separately tomorrow –”

“Harry.”

***

Hermione pet Crookshanks four times before she could muster an answer for Harry.

“Why do I get the feeling Dumbledore is setting you up for a quest?”

“What do you mean?”

Another pet, followed by a disgruntled meow. She had been neglecting his ears for too long now. “It’s his emphasis on the trinkets and trophies Voldemort collected as a child. Dumbledore mentioned that he carried his solitude into adulthood. Why not that nasty habit as well?”

Harry pinched his brows together in contemplation, the action causing the lightning bolt scar to stretch and lengthen even further across his forehead. “So, what – you think Dumbledore wants to embark on a scavenger hunt for Voldemort's favorite knickknacks? Like the Gaunt ring? Why?”

“I don’t know,” Hermione glowered, her discontented expression surely a mirror image of her kneazle’s. “I think I would prefer some more direct information before being able to answer that. But we all know how Dumbledore enjoys a good story.”

“He’s doing his best with what he’s got, Hermione,” Harry snapped, taking offense as he typically did anytime someone dared to besmirch the headmaster’s good name. “Dumbledore’s always got his reasons, and they always end up being right in the end. We’ve got to trust him in that.”

She shrugged, picking off one of the many orange cat hairs off of her sweater. Crookshanks readjusted herself on her lap as she did, rubbing his body against her top and leaving at least ten more loose hairs in his wake. She felt a bit like Sisyphus as she began removing the newest batch of fur.

“That may be,” Hermione mused, not really in the mood to argue with him about the morality of the professor. “But regardless, we’re left with more questions than answers. When is your next meeting with him?”

“He didn’t say. I usually get a note from him a week out, letting me know the date and time. There hasn’t really been a clear schedule.”

“Well, we are at his liberty then.” Per usual, thought Hermione.

“Seems like it,” he mumbled.

Harry yawned suddenly, standing up from his armchair before stretching his arms above his head. His eyes looked far too tired and worn for a boy of just sixteen.

“I’m going to head up to bed early tonight. Having quidditch practice and a lesson with Dumbledore back to back was more draining than it ought to be.” He walked over to her, giving the curls on the top of her head a shake in parting. Harry didn’t try to pet Crookshanks, not after being on the receiving end of his bite too many times to count. “I’ll see you at breakfast in the morning. ‘Night, Mione.”

“‘Night,” she parroted back. Hermione watched his retreating form, waiting just until the last remnants of his torso disappeared up the staircase to the boy’s dormitory before she reached in the pocket of her jeans for a familiar piece of parchment. Crookshanks was not pleased by the unexpected movement.

Hermione successfully retrieved and pulled out the Marauder’s Map, hastily whispering I solemnly swear I am up to no good on the yellowed pages. She flipped through the map, looking for a specific pair of names, ones she had seen just moments before Harry returned to the common room from his meeting. If only they were still there –

They were. They had hardly moved, in fact. Perfect. She didn’t want to wait any longer, not when such an opportunity presented itself to her like this.

Later, she could do her duty and scour through the texts in the library, trying to find any information pertaining to the importance of trophy-like items in dark magic. Or perhaps even the history of that cave he took those poor children to. Hermione knew she wouldn’t find anything specific or concrete when she did, though. Otherwise, what would be the point of these lessons?

That was an issue for another time. For now, she set Crookshanks down, ignoring his disagreeable hiss from being moved from his comfortable position on her lap. She promptly stood up to make way for the exit through The Fat Lady’s portrait.

Hermione had a score to settle.

***

It was not quite curfew yet, but it was far too late to be paying a visit to any professor that wasn’t Hagrid. Still, Hermione carried on towards the north towers of the castle in the direction of Professor Sprout’s office.

The Herbology Professor had finally made her reappearance for the younger year’s classes the other day, but was not as social as she usually was apart from that. Students of all ages had been leaving cards and small gifts for her outside of her office, which she uncharacteristically kept shut full time now since the “accident.”

Hermione figured it was time for her to do the same, being one of her students who worked so closely with the deceased Pale Paines. Which is why she was now marching on through the ever-turning night, with her own gift in tow for the grieving professor.

However, as Hermione rounded one of the corridors, she came to a sudden halt at the sight of two familiar fallen angels blocking the route of her destination.

Malfoy and Nott were standing by the open air windows near the north entrance, smoking what looked to be a spliff – though its contents were certainly gillyweed opposed to the typical muggle marijuana. Both of the boys looked towards her immediately upon hearing the fall of her shoes against the sandstone floor.

Hermione grimaced at them both, about to turn around to take the longer and more inconvenient path to the Professor’s office before an amused voice stopped her.

“Curls!” Nott shouted blithely, snatching the half-smoked spliff from Malfoy’s hands before beginning his determined pursuit to her on the other end of the corridor. “I almost didn't recognize you without all the screaming and slapping. What a fortuitous surprise. We were just talking about you.”

“Were you?” Hermione put as much distaste into those two words as was possible.

“Well, I talked about you while Draco pouted and pretended not to listen. But, you know – semantics.” He shrugged, stopping a couple metres from Hermione, raising an amused brow at her already defensive position.

Hermione had not come in such close contact with either of them since the night of the fire. It wasn’t because she was avoiding them or that she was scared of what they would do to her for being a witness to their crime. No, Hermione had simply been waiting for the opportune moment for a confrontation.

Perhaps this would be just that.

“What brings you out at this late hour, Granger?”

“Why do you care about things that are none of your business, Nott?”

“Color me curious. Are you up to no good right now, curls? If you’re looking for feedback, it’s not really the ideal time to be sneaking around or committing a crime.”

“Well, not all of us can afford to wait for a quidditch match as a good distraction,” Hermione replied sarcastically.

“Ah, you caught on to that, did you?”

“You insult me. It wasn’t that difficult of a leap.” Hermione glanced quickly to the blond figure behind Nott, who remained unmoving in the distance. Frustration swirled in her gut before she focused back on the brown-haired trickster in front of her. “Unless you were using Fiendfyre, someone had to spend a decent bit of time rigging the greenhouse with explosives. Something of the Weasley Wizard Wheezes brand, I presume?”

“Too right, Granger. Had to miss the match to pull it off.” Nott sighed, shaking his head ruefully. “Shame, as I sincerely regretted not seeing Potter in his quidditch gear again. That’s been an image firmly planted in my mind since the bloody Gryffindor trials. Pun intended.”

“You… fancy Harry?” Hermione sputtered the words, effectively thrown off by the turn in the conversation.

“I fancy a tight arse and thighs that look like they could choke the living daylights out of me. Potter is the proud owner of both of those traits.” Nott bit his lip as his eyes went a bit glassy, likely reliving some inappropriate memory of Harry. That was something Hermione did not want to be witness to. “You haven’t noticed?”

"Harry is like a brother to me. So, no.”

“Your loss, Granger. Perhaps I need to start wandering by the pitch more often during his practices. Or put myself into some tragically dangerous situation, so that the Chosen One has no choice but to be a hero and wrap his arms around –”

“I hate to interrupt your wet dream, but I’m afraid Harry is out of bounds for you. He wants someone else.”

Nott’s answering smile was full of debased and nefarious promises. “For now.”

Hermione’s eyes narrowed, and she was about to slew all manner of threats against the Slytherin should he ever consider doing anything to hurt Harry or his tender heart. She never got a chance to, though, as Nott called out over his shoulder to the ghost who remained haunting the other end of the corridor.

“Draco, be a dear and join us, why don’t you?”

“I’d rather not,” Malfoy droned out.

“I’d rather he not,” Hermione said darkly at the same time, narrowing her eyes at the silver demon just lying in wait. The discontented jolt in her stomach seemed to have a different opinion from her, unfortunately.

“Come now, Draco, don’t be a spoilsport. Not when Granger’s been so kind and has gotten us –” Nott made an impressive display of a nonverbal Accio, in which Hermione could do nothing but watch as her gift flew straight into his waiting hands. He wasted no time unwrapping the package before continuing, “– a bottle of vintage Elderflower wine? Curls, you shouldn’t have.”

Nott tore off the purple wax and uncorked the bottle immediately, taking a long pull from the expensive drink. Hermione’s anger flared at his sheer audacity, but she forced herself to remain unmoving with only a sneer etched across her face as he smacked his lips.

“Now, that’s smashing. I haven't had a vint that good since the summer. Can the muggles really afford this, Granger?”

“It was a witch that bought it, not a muggle.”

“Certainly, certainly.” Nott waved his hand noncommittedly, before taking another sip of the wine. “And what is a witch doing walking around the castle with such a fine drink?”

“I was bringing it as a sympathy gift to Professor Sprout. You know, since her greenhouse and all the plants within it were mysteriously destroyed. But it looks like both of you can’t help yourself when it comes to ruining her things.” She gestured to the half drunk bottle of wine as she spoke.

Finally, whatever tendril of control Malfoy seemed to be holding onto snapped. He abandoned his stoic post by the windows, stalking towards her with such purpose that Hermione unconsciously felt herself flatten against the wall behind her as if to brace for impact.

A wave of silver and grey overcame her quickly, as it always did. Malfoy did not maintain a safe distance from her the way his friend did – not anymore. He crowded her space, her thoughts, her very being. And it was painfully familiar to him to do so. Malfoy was less than a step away from her once he came to a stop, but Hermione made no move to create more space between them. Not when she could see his eyes flashing so bright and so full of life from this distance.

“It wasn’t her we were looking to ruin, Granger,” Malfoy purred sinisterly, extending his hand out to the side without breaking eye contact with her. Nott dutifully placed the wine in his grasp, a satisfied smirk on his own face.

Hermione watched as Malfoy took a swig of the expensive wine, making no comment on the quality. The posh prick probably bathed in liquor of equal or greater expense every night.

She focused on the banded muscles of his neck, contracting and relaxing with each swallow before she responded hotly. “Was that the goal, then? To ruin me?”

He shrugged, cocking his head to the side. Malfoy’s eyes were fixed on her collarbones as he responded. “Did there need to be a specific goal?”

“It’s true that you don’t usually need a reason to be cruel. It’s just who you are. But that night seemed very goal-oriented to me.”

There was a glint in the dark pupils of his eyes as they lifted to begin scanning her clean (and thoroughly scrubbed) cheekbones. He seemed to be biting the inside of his cheek before he mused, “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I wanted to ruin you the way you deserve. Or maybe I just wanted to hear you scream and feel you lose control – however violent it might’ve been.”

“If I’m not mistaken, Malfoy, you almost sound as if you’re fond of that idea.”

“Maybe I am. Maybe I don’t mind being on the receiving end of a bit of … destruction. I find that … that it makes things more interesting when they’re …tainted.”

Hermione smirked. That worked faster than she expected. She glanced behind Malfoy at an exceptionally drowsy Nott, who had just fallen to his knees before slumping face-first into the ground. Ouch.

“I see. And it took setting the greenhouses on fire to achieve that?" Hermione dropped her voice down an octave as she whispered, "Do you find me interesting enough for you now?”

“I find …you … captivating.”

“Interesting. Do you know what I think, Malfoy? I think you’re full of shit. I think there’s another reason you did that.”

“... Hmm?”

“I think that you rather showed your hand going after that specific greenhouse, and after saying those specific words to me. I’d wager you’re not fond of the idea of me shagging someone else, aren’t you?”

“I didn’t … that sniveling fucker … and you … what is … what did you –”

His words were becoming rapidly more slurred, eyelids drooping over his grey storms. He stumbled fully into her, nearly crushing his body against hers before stopping himself with an unsteady hand on the wall behind her. Malfoy’s torso was still flush against her own, hard and encompassing. She felt a chill rake over her body at the natural coldness emanating from within him. The scent of parchment, leather, and cypress was ever stronger than it had been in that first potions class, making her start to feel a bit dizzy herself.

Though the action technically left her caged around him, she never felt more in control. She didn’t even flinch as he began to sway even closer to her, his lips practically ghosting against the slant of her jaw.

“Doux poison,” he whispered, almost incoherently. Hermione turned and tilted her face closer to his, until their noses were only a hair’s width apart.

“Yes, exactly,” she whispered back. Boldly, she roughly grabbed his chin, ignoring the shocks that radiated up her arm with the direct skin contact. Hot meeting cold. Malfoy allowed her to, already too far gone to stop her even if he wanted to.

“Next time, don’t burn my fucking plant down.”

His eyelids fluttered completely before he slumped towards the left, falling down to the ground with a harsh thud. There was a wicked small smile on his sleeping face that had no right to be there, and that she had no right to feel sated in seeing. Nott was on the floor in a similar position to him a few feet away, snoring as if he had been out for hours instead of seconds.

Hermione straightened herself out on the wall, making sure to calm her thudding heart before taking a shrunken bottle of firewhiskey from her robes. With an easy flick of her wand, she returned it to its normal size. She vanished the majority of the liquid from the bottle before tossing it in between their sleeping bodies, grabbing the poisoned bottle of Elderflower wine swiftly after. No evidence was good evidence, after all.

Walking away, she sent off a couple shots of sparks with a Periculum charm that was sure to get the mischievous Peeves the Poltergeist’s attention – or a professor preparing to do rounds at minimum.

Regardless, the Slytherin boys would be found and justice would be dealt accordingly. It already tasted so sweet.

Hermione had stayed silent about their involvement in the greenhouse fire, much to their surprise. Well, to Zabini and Pany’s surprise, at least. She could feel the weight of their questioning and mistrustful looks at every meal and in every class, unsure why she hadn’t turned them in. Nott couldn’t seem to care less. And Malfoy, well –

Malfoy had looked as if he expected her silence. As if he knew what it meant, and was eagerly awaiting her response.

Had she not been so busy planning and carrying out said response, she would have remembered to despise just how well he knew her nowadays.

Hermione had not been keeping quiet for their benefit, or because she was frightened of the repercussions, or because she felt uncertain of her actions as she so often had this year.

She kept quiet because she wanted to be the one to dispense their punishment. Hermione didn’t want it to just be some random professor that chastised the boys and made them do lines in detention for a month. She wanted to be his ruin, and more importantly, have him know it was her who wrought it.

Had she ran to a professor and turned them in, that would have been taken from her. Their game would have been over before she even had a chance to think of a counterattack. And it was a game, wasn’t it? One that she was not willing to lose or forfeit so early on.

Hermione tsked as she took in the two unconscious forms on the floor – courtesy of her own special brew of Sleeping Draught mixed with a couple drops of a paralysis poison to ensure they would be hurting and hard pressed to move in the morning. She stepped over the pair of sleeping snakes and headed back towards her common room. She felt lighter than she had in days. Especially since she still refused to return to the Astronomy Tower.

She wondered if that’s why it was so easy to trick Malfoy tonight. If he too felt the itching and aching she often was overcome by when she missed those nights on the tower – when she didn’t give in to this addictive feeling.

It would certainly track, given his obsession with her and all.

Though she was beginning to believe there was something even more there – something else that motivated him, that made him blind to her intentions just now.

Maybe, just maybe, this obsession of his ran deeper. Maybe it was more than just a lingering interest for him or a matter of stalking his prey.

Maybe … Malfoy felt something more for her. Something that disgusted him, but not enough to not let it rule him over the feelings of something more – giving her unexpected compliments, calling her twisted pet names, succumbing to an extreme fit of jealousy.

Well, there was one way to test that theory. Hermione felt her body warm and buzz with excitement already. Not even five minutes had passed before she was already planning what was sure to be another malicious encounter with him.

There was something wrong with that, but she couldn’t recall why. Perhaps she would remember at another time, when her stomach wasn’t tied up in so many delicious knots.

Hermione arrived back at The Fat Lady’s portrait, rushing out the password in a single breath. She entered the common room, which was now a bit more full as many students had come back from their places of study before the end of curfew.

Hermione began scanning the space immediately until she found her ideal victim for testing this new and thrilling theory. One she would not lament losing under the more extreme circumstances that could occur from the plan. She marched right up to him, clasping her hands behind her back and batting her eyelashes when he looked down at her with an arrogant smirk.

“Hello, Cormac.”

Chapter Text

Hermione had a lot of opinions about the great William Shakespeare. Most of which were full of the typical adoration muggles held for the author. Others were a touch more critical (looking at you, Romeo and Juliet). But regardless of the play or theme or character in question, Hermione agreed with the old playwright on at least one thing:

Everything in life was either a comedy or a tragedy.

And if one was lucky, they would have the opportunity to endure a bit of both.

“Shame you didn’t go with the blue dress robes,” Cormac mused, strutting pretentiously down the darkened corridor. “Don’t get me wrong, your arse looks smashing in that muggle get-up. But I don’t know if it’s in complete accordance with the dress code for the evening. Definitely not if a previous Slug Club member like Joseph Chamberlain intends to make an appearance…”

A perfect example of one enduring a bit of comedy and tragedy all at once.

He had not stopped talking once since Hermione descended from her dormitory and into the common room, where she had requested he meet her before the party. As her heels clicked and echoed off the ancient castle walls – which was the only sound coming from her person as Cormac rambled on – she regretted not having them rendezvous at Slughorn’s Christmas Party, instead.

On the other hand, witnessing Ron’s reaction both to her outfit and to Cormac being the one to allegedly enjoy it for the evening made this escort… somewhat bearable.

“I’d much rather toast drinks with a chap like Chamberlain than the alleged vampire that will be there. Oh, aha, don’t worry, babe – I don’t have anything against magical creatures. You already know my uncle is on the progressive side of politics. But I think it’s a choice to invite a bloody vampire to a soiree like this…”

Or not.

Hermione couldn’t get a word in to degrade him for his disgusting and blatant bigotry even if she tried. And she wasn’t – trying, that is. She had enough occupying her mind right now as it was, without adding whatever bullshit Cormac McLaggen was spewing off next to her.

November had come and left with barely a whisper, only holding any relevance due to the sudden and distinct change of temperature that it brought. Even that was quickly overshadowed by the cold and unforgiving highland wind of December – which, more often than not, carried countless frozen flurries within it. A freezing force that also carried the quickly approaching holidays.

The swift changing of the seasons and the Christmas festivities promised with it didn’t really catch Hermione’s attention, though. Only one thing – one very distinct, dark thing – held her focus throughout the majority of the month.

Everything else was on the backburner from her perspective. She was practically living in a hyperfunctional state of dissociation from all but one area of focus. Moments, interactions, lectures, conversation – all reduced to simple categories in which she could process information without really having to attend to it.

The main two categories in question: comedy and tragedy. Naturally.

“And of course, I wouldn’t exactly be remiss if old Sluggie invited Gwenog Jones as well. I’d love to give her a few tips on how to pull off a clean Finbourgh Flick. My uncle took me to a Holyhead Harpies match back in March, and I dare say Captain Jones nearly fell off her broom attempting that trick…”

Bits and portions stuck out as she flipped through her most recent memories. They played rapidly in her busy mind, overlapping one another, each demanding her attention in the same flashy way television channels did when her mother would lazily click through them after supper time.

Choosing to focus on the memories and ignore the pompous prick that was her date, Hermione organized those memories the same manner she did as she experienced them. (Although, to say she had experienced them was a bit too kind).

It’s all a comedy or tragedy, after all.

“Now that I remember it, he did mention Emmeline Vance a few times at the last dinner. You think she will be coming too, babe? I won’t exactly be tripping over my feet to shake hands with a minor potioneer, though. You’re familiar with her work at that hair potion business, Sleekeazy’s, right? I hear her updated formulas do wonders for unruly hair such as yours…”

***

Hermione entered Greenhouse Two, which had been declared the temporary sixth year location for recently resumed Herbology lessons while Hagrid busied himself rebuilding the old one out of the rubble. She settled in between two rows of potted Belladonna, lifting her tired eyes to find her across from a slouched Ernie at the opposite end of the poisonous batch of plants.

The whites around his eyes grew wide as their gazes met. Ernie snapped his head away so quickly Hermione was worried he fractured his spine–

Comedy.

***

She exited McGonagall’s office, practically forced out by the woman in the name of detention.

Not for Hermione, of course. But for a student who recently returned from over a week's worth of suspension. The professor looked miffed by the thought, as if that time frame was far too short for her liking.

Hermione huffed, frustrated that the minute she started putting some true effort into school again was the same minute none of her professors could make themselves available for assignment questions.

Tragedy. Alternatively, from Nott’s perspective, this interaction would certainly be classified as a comedy.

***

“Christmas can’t come soon enough, babe,” Cormac winked at Hermione as he passed by her place at the Gryffindor table, with a spoonful of soup paused midway to her mouth. Ginny wasn’t as fortunate, spluttering up her own mouthful of mushrooms and parsnips with the chortle that overtook her. Ron’s mouth twisted into the most awful of shapes, his face glowing red as he savagely stabbed an innocent piece of sausage with his fork.

Hermione gave no response to either of them. It wasn’t their reaction she was after, anyway–

Tragedy. On account of having to suffer through Cormac’s presence so frequently of late.

***

Lavender’s pink tongue was carefully circling the perimeter of Ron’s lower lip, finalizing its lap with a bite whose purpose was more for play than to puncture. Ron shuddered, his shoulders going taut – though it was impossible to be certain whether it was from desire or discomfort. Hermione rolled her eyes, which were nearly clouded over from sheer sleep deprivation, before bringing them back to the Arithmancy pages splayed out on the common room’s coffee table.

A disheartened sigh sounded off from near the lover’s corner. Although she didn’t witness it, the debauched noises from that space came to a halt soon after–

Comedy.

***

Ginny’s eyes flickered twice towards Dean on her left hand side, to make certain he was more focused on his Divination textbook than he was her. Hermione’s eyebrows scrunched together in the middle of her forehead, unable to understand why as she mindlessly twirled her quill between her fingers.

Soft brows eyes glanced at Dean once more before Ginny – almost comically – flinged her own quill over the back of her shoulder. She sighed theatrically, turning partly in her chair to prepare to grab it. As she twisted her torso away from the table and leaned down, she reached an arm out to her right to hold onto her study neighbor’s shoulder for support.

A neighbor that just happened to be Harry Potter.

Tragedy. Though none of them really knew it, yet.

***

Blaise charged determinedly towards her down the empty corridor – granted, as determined as Hermione had seen him thus far – before coming to an unexpected halt. Hermione allowed herself to feel a bit smug for all of one second, believing he stopped in fear of her magical prowess when she had instinctually drawn her wand.

But a cluster of third years chittering happily about the upcoming holidays wandered in from the entrance behind her and into the corridor, ignorant to whatever they just interrupted.

Hermione would remain ignorant too as Blaise lost his nerve, turning around and practically sprinting in the direction from which he came–

Well – tragedy, surely. Probably.

***

Hermione stumbled on the uneven – and now icy – ground, walking back from Hagrid’s cabin after a long overdue visit. Harry was far too preoccupied with late assignments to join her. Ron was well aware how unwelcome he would be if he tried.

She reached the rocky shores of the lake, which she walked some distance away from (accounting for the aforementioned ice). Though it seemed she was the only one present that made that choice.

Luna and Pansy were standing a metre apart. A shocking visual contrast to each other, which was only enhanced with the snow and frozen lake as their backdrop. They looked like a portrait Hermione might have seen at the National Gallery. She felt so removed from them at this moment that they might as well have been, too.

Tragedy.

***

Snape was never one for words of praise, or even the basic acknowledgement of success when it came to Gryffindor students. Hermione expected to be on the tail end of the classic sneer-and-turn combo from the professor upon finishing the required end of term demonstration for nonverbal offensive spells. A demonstration she had completed flawlessly, of course.

Hermione relaxed her dueling position and turned to find Snape’s face to be – well, violent. The hostility in his face had no equal. She had never, not once, witnessed him direct this level of derision and disgust towards even Harry. And now he looked at her–

No, not at her. At someone behind her, in the crowd of the other Defense Against the Dark Arts sixth years frantically waiting their turn to take the stage.

Tragedy tragedy tragedy–

***

Slughorn was thoroughly explaining the rather important ingredient composition for Dreamless Sleep. But all Hermione heard was the soft, deep breaths coming from the seat behind her, pounding into her eardrums in spite of their quiet delivery.

He was going to say something to her today. About the rumors going around the school, about her choice of partner for the party. Rumors she may have fed into a bit.

He was going to say something to her today. She could sense it. It didn’t matter that she was wrong about that sense all the other days prior. Today it would be true. Her body was borderline vibrating at the promise of it.

Tragedy tragedy tragedy tragedy tragedy tragedy tragedy–

***

They were barely flashes of the moments that stood out to her most, with no real rhyme or reason as it related to their overall importance in her life. A series of comedies outweighed by many, many tragedies. But they were all she carried with her from the past weeks.

Well, almost all she carried with her.

“Oh, are we at Sluggie’s office already? I hardly noticed. I suppose time passes quickly when you’ve got a bloke like me to converse with. Aha. Right, babe?” Cormac leered at her (or was that meant to be a smirk?) before taking his entrance into the room first.

Hermione did not follow him immediately. Not that the daft prat would notice, anyway.

After dealing with Cormac for over two weeks now, she needed a moment to… center herself. To remember why she was doing this. To not explode into an array of violent emotions at the next utterly unaware remark that came out of his mouth. To not cast an unforgivable curse at him while his back was turned. To simply breathe–

Soon. Soon, her theory will finally be put to the test after weeks of preparation. Soon, she can discard the bloody bastard for good. Hopefully, in a rather eventful and amusing manner.

Hermione squared her shoulders, allowing her hand to run through the blood red fabric of her dress until she felt the familiar shape of her wand. The elegant vinewood weapon faintly outlined the delicate ruffles that hung just past her right hip. It was good fortune she elected to purchase a wand holster this past summer, on that fateful day in Diagon Alley.

With fire boiling in her stomach and her muscles tensed in preparation for battle, she entered through the doorway with a casual sway of her hips and a practiced sly grin on her darkened lips.

Slughorn’s office had surely been magically expanded to accommodate the number of guests in attendance for the Christmas Party – so much so it was teetering off the edge from barely legal Extension Charms. The larger space still felt dark and rich and intimate, owing to the only sources of light coming from various golden and red ornate lamps floating in the air, much like the candles in the Great Hall. Garland of pine hung above their heads, framed by what felt like hundreds of draping fabrics, each with a unique texture and color. The hint of smoke coming from the pipes of the older, more esteemed guests on top of the eclectic holiday decor made Slughorn’s office feel a bit like a vintage speakeasy. One where countless stories and scenes could unfold simultaneously around each other. One that anyone could get lost within.

Anyone except for Cormac McLaggen, apparently. And quite unfortunately.

“Oi, Granger!” He shouted, flexing his fingers in the universal symbol of come here, summoning her as one might a dog. “Let’s go to the refreshment table, babe. I’m pretty sure the Ogden Rutter is over there. I need to make an introduction, especially since I’m planning to take my quidditch talents to the professional level after school.”

Confringo was resting on her tongue, begging to inch its way out of her mouth and blast the disgusting entitlement right off his face–

Instead, she gave him a mock smile. She raised her wand arm not up in attack, but to give Cormac a thumbs up in response. Said thumb was so stiff and hyperextended, Hermione felt one wrong muscle contraction away from snapping it in half.

Convinced she was moved by his demand and had intentions to follow him, Cormac turned his back to her and began swaggering over to the table at the center of the room. Hermione started her path towards the left of the entrance instead, hugging the perimeter of the room so she could take in the stage set before her.

And more importantly, the characters that would potentially have a role her little play tonight.

Harry and Luna were set up at the dessert table at the right, somewhat close to the main doorway. Harry, looking dashing in his new formal dress robes, nodded along placatingly as Luna was talking. The blonde girl was likely busy making some innocuous connection between fig pudding and Crumple Horned Snorkacks.

Pansy Parkinson stood with Daphne Greengrass at one of the many cocktail tables towards the back of the office, presumably waiting for Zabini to return with their refreshments. Covered in a sinister red aura from one of the lanterns dancing over her head, Pansy ignored everyone else around her. Including a chattering Daphne, whose face was twisted into some sour expression as she examined the vampire at the table across from theirs. But Pansy was simply examining her nails instead of acknowledging her fellow Slytherin, and making a pointed effort to not spare a single glance towards the dessert table.

Ginny looked effortlessly gorgeous in a satin green dress – of the muggle variety, thanks to Hermione. Her hand was lazily wrapped around Dean’s arm as they stood in the far, opposite corner of the room. Her cheeks were rosy and her eyes were glossy, likely thanks to the nearly empty goblet resting precariously in her other hand. Dean’s face was blank, practically void of emotion – except for the occasional glances towards the dessert table. That was when a spark of something Hermione couldn’t interpret appeared in his eye, and he would tighten his grip around Ginny’s arm.

Theodore Nott stood completely lax with his own arm draped along Blaise Zabini's shoulders. The latter of the two was busy selecting drinks from an array of wine and gillywater cocktails to bring back to their table – though that did nothing to explain the hard expression his face was set into. Nott, on the other hand, was the picture of drunken bliss. He was moving his spare hand in the air erratically, and it took Hermione a second to realize he was pretending to act as the conductor for the group of musicians playing across from the refreshment table.

All anticipated characters were here. Except for one. One that was the entire point of this damned evening.

What if he didn’t actually know – or believe – that Hermione was attending the party with Cormac McLaggen? What if he forgot that the event was tonight and sleeps right through it? What if he simply doesn’t care the way Hermione theorizes he does, and these past weeks worth of torture and distance and fake indifference was for nothing? What if he doesn’t show for some completely unprecedented reason, one she had no hopes of being able to plan for?

No. He would come. Hermione didn’t know why or how, but she could feel it within the very composition of her soul that Malfoy would make an appearance. One way or another, she would have an answer before the night's end.

The scene was set – though perhaps too extravagant for the debauched events she had in mind.

The characters were all in place – minus the leading man that she was holding onto faith for making an eventual entrance.

The motivation for the evening was clear – on her end, at least.

All that was left was to let the twisted play she had meticulously orchestrated unfold. Only Merlin knew whether it would end up as a comedy or tragedy.

Or perhaps, as some secret, terrible third thing.

Steeling her nerves, Hermione finally abandoned her post from the wall to join her date at the refreshment table, where he appeared to have already cornered some poor guest with his overinflated sense of self-importance. And also where two familiar snakes were still conveniently situated at.

Places! Places, people! Break a leg, everyone. Especially you, Cormac.

Chapter Text

All’s Well That Ends (Not So) Well

A Play by Hermione Granger

Act One: Scene 1

“Watch out, Blaise – a lioness approaches. She appears to be on the hunt. But what might she be searching for to fill her stomach?”

“Certainly not something as sour and meek as you.”

“You know how much I loathe you talking about my meekness, Blaise–”

“On the contrary, Zabini, I think Nott would suit my appetites quite nicely.” Hermione lifted a brow as she assessed the Slytherin fiend before her. “The flesh of a spoiled, rich ponce would be delectable. Soft, fatty tissue that has never known a day without three square meals – the very thought of it could make this lioness salivate.”

“Ha! Take that, Blaise. Not exactly how a predator would describe a meek prey–”

“Congratulations, Theo. You’ve won. You get to be hunted and killed first by Granger.” Zabini’s voice was so effortlessly chastising, Hermione was sure this was how the majority of their conversations went together. Except for whenever they were busy hatching some evil plot, of course.

“Many thanks, lover.” Nott kissed his friend’s cheek, who looked completely unfazed and a bit bored by the gesture.

Hermione snorted. She was preparing to make a snarky remark about Nott’s natural affinity to being prey, when a too-hot hand landed presumptuously on her waist–

“Uh, babe, why are you talking with them?”

Perfect.

“I don’t want to frighten you, curls, but Cormac McLackin’ is behind you and is calling you babe.” Nott leaned towards her and whispered his words loudly, quite obviously pointing to the oaf at her back. “Please don’t be gentle with him.”

Hermione placed a mock hand over her heart, tilting her head to its side. “Are you attempting to do me a kindness and warn me, Nott? That’s a bit out of character for you.”

Nott shrugged. “I like to keep things interesting. Can’t let ‘em know your next move.”

“How right you are.”

“Babe.”

“Ugh, curls– end him already.” He didn’t attempt to keep his voice down this time. Annoyance was overtaking his features with every syllable Cormac enunciated. “The sound of his voice is making me nauseous. Don’t you at least have another bottle of your special ‘elderflower wine’ lying around somewhere? If you don’t force it down his throat, I happily will.”

“Theo–” Zabini started, trying to reign in his friend after quickly putting the pieces she laid before them together. But she would not let him steal her moment.

“Now, why would I do such a thing to my date for the evening, Nott?”

The bustling conversations around them did not stop, and the merry music did not falter. But in their small circle at the refreshment table, it felt as though the world paused around them for a full four seconds.

Theodore Nott was, naturally, the one to end that pause at the fifth second – with his denial of the circumstances still firmly in place.

“Aha. Nice one, curls. You’re lucky I’m a fan of sick jokes.”

“Theo–”

“I don’t see what the joke is.” Hermione interrupted Zabini again, pursing her lips in feigned irritation.

“You. With him as your date. It’s a bit of a hard bezoar to swallow, even for my rather adventurous tastes.”

“Oi, who do you think you are, Nott?” Cormac sputtered on his glass of firewhiskey. It took him less time than Hermione had thought to realize he was being insulted. “You better watch who you’re talking about. Do you have any idea what I could do to you with my sort of connections?”

“Yeah, Nott. He’s got loads of connections.”

Nott glanced between her and Cormac twice. Zabini, still wrapped under his friend’s arm, attempted to leverage his position to pull Nott away from the conversation.

Hermione was grateful Nott put the pieces together himself before Zabini could.

“Oh. Oh.” Nott cackled in astonishment as he resisted his friend’s tugging, shaking his head as one might to a misguided child. “My oh my, Granger. Either you have a death wish, or you have a severe vendetta against this dolt. Maybe both, for all I know.”

“Huh?” Cormac dumbly asked. He was likely unsure why his threat of connections passed by without acknowledgement or fear.

“I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, please–”

“I’m just attending a party.”

“This isn’t a road you can go back from, Granger–”

“And I was quite enjoying it until you interjected, making nasty little comments.”

“It’ll be out of my perfectly sane hands and right into his–”

“I came to this party with Cormac. There was nothing stopping me from doing so. And I don’t appreciate your tone indicating otherwise.”

Nott stared at Hermione. Hermione stared at Nott. An unspoken challenge passed between them, aware to all – minus the overconfident idiot behind her.

“Ha! Yeah, you wanker!”

“Theo, c’mon– Granger, please–” Zabini now had his own arm around Nott’s neck, not even trying to mask his intent to physically drag his housemate away from her clutches. And this time, Nott didn’t fight against him. He maintained his eye contact with Hermione as the pair backed away, disappearing into the boisterous crowd.

“Fine, curls. If this is the game you want to play, good fucking luck.”

“You’re supposed to say ‘break a leg.’” Hermione called after him, before finally losing sight of them both as a group of Ministry employees drunkenly stumbled towards the refreshment table for their fourth or fifth round of drinks.

Hermione only hoped Nott and Zabini were headed towards the exit.

“I had no idea you’d taken such a liking to me, Granger.” Cormac teased. Hermione turned to face him fully, not shocked by what she saw in his disposition. After all, his overinflated ego was thoroughly tended to with her performance. “Though I can’t really blame you, after all. My uncle always said my natural charm would take me far in life.”

Hermione’s eye twitched. She couldn’t handle one-on-one interactions with him anymore, especially not ones where she didn’t actively benefit from it. Now that the snakes were gone, she longed to tell him exactly where he could shove all of his natural charm–

“I need to use the loo. Pardon me.” Hermione struggled through the words, nearly exhausted from the effort she put into not saying something worse.

“But, babe, I still haven’t introduced you to Rutter–”

She slinked away from the refreshment table before he could finish the end of his sentence, using the guests around her as a cover.

“Granger! Wait–”

Wait she would not, ducking through and around the various flying elbows and heads thrown back in laughter. Hermione eventually survived the horde and made it to the back of the room. She hoped she could bunker down here for a bit until Nott was (hopefully) able to locate her ghost and update him on her recent schemes–

“Hermione? What on earth are you doing, babe?”

Hermione sighed, spinning around to find a familiar redhead surveying her with a perfectly arched brow.

“I’m not exactly partial to that endearment right now, Gin.”

“Poor thing,” Ginny grinned playfully, accentuating the alcohol-induced rosiness of her cheeks. She leaned her head against Dean’s shoulder, who was only partially listening to either of them. His gaze was still busy flickering towards the dessert table. “Has he ruined my pet name for you forever?”

“Extremely so.”

“Serves you right for coming here with Cormac McLaggen as your date.”

“Hold on,” Dean sputtered, drawn back by his girlfriend’s statement. “You, Hermione Granger, invited McLaggen as your date? Why in the world would you do that?”

“She’s hoping to make Ron jealous,” Ginny drawled, boredly swishing what was left of her wine around her goblet. “Which, as I pointed out to her earlier, was mostly pointless considering my brother won’t even be in attendance tonight. If you really want to make a person jealous, you have to do it where they can see you. Where they’re forced to witness you with someone else… forced to feel everything all at once.”

Hermione felt a bit irked by the way Ginny’s voice trailed off at the end, her eyes a bit too wistful as she stared into the distance.

Apparently, Dean was as well.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Her boyfriend barked, snapping his head down towards hers and drilling his hardened eyes into her head.

“What’s what supposed to mean, Dean?”

“Is that the purpose of this evening, Gin? Is that what you’re doing right now?”

Hermione’s eyes widened as Ginny’s narrowed, immediately removing her head from his shoulder.

“Doing what? I have no bloody idea what you’re talking about.”

“I told you I didn’t want to come tonight. Hell, my family doesn’t even celebrate Christmas! But you were all, ‘Dean, please, it would mean so much to me if you come, I don’t want to be alone all night.’” Dean ripped his arm off her waist, blocking Hermione’s line of sight by stepping in front of her to face Ginny head on. “But you seemed just fine attending every other blasted Slug Club event alone.”

“Are you seriously mad that I wanted my boyfriend to come to a party with me–”

“I’m mad that you just want me here so that he can see me here. I’m mad that my girlfriend is apparently using me to make some other bloke jealous–”

“What– I’m not– I was talking about Hermione’s situation! A situation that has nothing to do with us at all! He has nothing to do with us–”

“He has everything to do with us, Gin–”

Hermione slowly backed away from the erupting couple, both of which were too busy fighting to notice her leaving. She should probably feel bad about unintentionally causing another argument between them. But then again, it’s not like she made the first crack on the thin ice of their relationship. She’s just happened to be the one to accidentally throw a boulder on top of it tonight.

Once Hermione was a safe distance away from their shouting and dual accusations, she attempted another scan of the crowd from the back of the room–

Only to spot a blond head getting nearer to her. One that was familiar, but the absolute wrong shade of blond.

For fucks sake. Hermione dove headfirst back into the swarm of attendees to avoid Cormac again, ignoring the gasps of displeasure as she pushed her way through the sea of decorated and sweaty bodies.

When she came up for air again, Hermione was back towards the front of the office. Good Godric, she hoped something happened sooner rather than later. He just needed to come already. He needed to see. Then one way or the other, she could be done with this infernal evening and maybe even get to murder her date–

“Hermione?”

She closed her eyes. Couldn’t have one fucking minute, could she–

But wait– she knew that voice. Hermione looked over her shoulder, finding the green eyes of the boy who lived still standing with a sparkling Luna at the dessert table.

Well, this can’t possibly go wrong, either.

Act One: Scene 2

“Hello, Hermione. You look quite lovely in your dress.” Luna's voice sounded like she was serenading Hermione, with how soft and light it was. “Did you know that red is the favorite color of Blibbering Humdingers? That’s why you can almost always find them on a battlefield, as grim as it sounds.”

“... Thank you, Luna. I think.”

“You’re quite welcome. Butterscotch custard?”

“No, thank you–”

“What are you doing?” Harry interrupted, analyzing Hermione’s appearance with clear calculation in his eyes. “You look like you’ve just run a marathon. Through a really windy tunnel.”

A notably less flattering compliment than Luna’s, at least.

“Oh, I’ve just escaped– I mean, I’ve just left… Cormac… under the mistletoe.” Hermione added as an afterthought, hoping it would justify her circumstances better. Harry didn’t need to hear about Ginny and Dean fighting. He didn’t need that kind of hope, not when Hermione would wager they’d still be together by the night's end.

“Serves you right for coming with him,” Harry scoffed.

“That’s what people keep telling me,” Hermione mumbled, annoyed by the consequences of her own actions and her friends that kept pointing it out to her. “But I just thought he’d annoy M– um, Ron the most.”

Harry’s face became severe all of the sudden, as if… as if he was angry with her.

“While we’re on the topic, let’s set something straight. Do you plan to tell Ron about quidditch tryouts, too?”

Hermione jerked backwards. “What?”

“You heard me, Mione. Is your next move to tell Ron that you interfered with Keeper tryouts?”

Hermione glared at him, already foreseeing where this was heading. “Why? Do you have such a poor opinion of me now that you’d think I’d stoop that low?”

“No,” Harry responded. “But if you’d ask McLaggen out on a date just to get back at Ron, I worry about what else you’d be willing to do given the right circumstances.”

“Are you– are you quite serious right now, Harry James P–”

“He’s not completely innocent either, Hermione! Believe me, I know that– and I tell him so whenever I get the chance. But if that idea has even crossed your mind in your little plan for revenge, I want to put a stop to it now. We can’t afford for Ron to get back into his head again with quidditch. It took long enough to get him out of it with the Felix Felicis scheme–”

“Fucking quidditch,” Hermione hissed, “That’s all you can bloody well care about, right? Outside of Ronald and your own ego, of course.”

“Don’t pull this shit with me, Hermione. Don’t blow up at me for being concerned about both of my friends playing these petty games with each other.”

“You have no idea what kind of game I’m playing, Harry,” Hermione seethed.

“Maybe I could have an idea, if you just fucking talked to me–”

“Um, Hermione–”

“This again? Why would I want to talk to someone who cares more about his quidditch prospects than being a friend?”

“Don’t try to change the subject, Hermione, I’d tired of going in circles about this with you–”

“Hermione!”

“What, Luna?” Hermione practically shouted, the daggers in her eyes moving their target from Harry to an innocent Luna as she spoke. Not that she looked fazed at all.

“You said you had escaped from Cormac, correct?”

“I– well, yes.”

Luna pointed beyond Hermione’s shoulder. “I think you’re about to be caught again, then.”

“Bloody hell–” Hermione unleashed a slew of mumbled curses, preparing to dive into the cover of the crowd once more–

Until Harry grabbed her arm before she could. Hermione's indignation was clear in her gasp, meeting her furious gaze with his own yet again.

“We’re not done talking about this, Hermione.” Harry’s voice was resolute.

“We’re never done talking about this, Harry.” Hermione’s voice was… less frustrated than it was tired, as she yanked her arm back into her possession.

“I know. But we will be done the next time.” An equal promise and a threat in his words. Hermione wanted to roll her eyes, but elected to leave him with nothing instead. Dismissing his statement completely as she turned away from him.

She knew Harry was watching her as she melted back into the throng of guests. Just as she knew he was still very upset with her. Even when she could overhear Cormac ask her best friend if he’d seen Hermione, and Harry answered back No, sorry, she knew he was upset.

He still didn’t betray her, though. Not in the way Hermione has betrayed him. Over, and over, and over again–

Hermione couldn’t think about that now. She only had enough energy for this – for her play. She could worry about Harry and the deteriorating foundation of their relationship and her utter lack of priorities later. She just had to get through the evening.

If only she could stop leaving a wake of destruction everywhere she went.

Hermione emerged a third time from the herd of intoxicated professors and Slug Club alumni, this time near the array of cocktail tables. She breathed a sigh of relief upon seeing one empty, claiming it as her place of refuge until Cormac or somebody else surely found her.

Why wasn’t he here yet? The night was nearly halfway over. She had done everything right. And still, she was beginning to worry that her intuition was wrong and he just wouldn’t take the bait–

“You’re being painfully obvious, Granger.”

Here we go again.

Hermione, lost in (and out of) her mind, didn’t notice her table of refuge was situated exactly next to Pansy Parkinson and Daphne Greengrass of all people. Absolutely brilliant.

Pansy and Daphne both were both fitted in black dress robes, made with some expensive material unbeknownst to Hermione’s working class eyes. Black was always Pansy’s signature color, a fact that was even more accentuated standing next to Daphne, whose sneering face was made to look a bit washed out by the darkened shade.

Pansy, lifting her black eyebrows in scrutiny, was clearly waiting for Hermione to respond. Daphne looked like she’d rather Hermione be Bombarda’d on the spot rather than listen to her speak.

“What exactly is obvious to you, Parkinson?”

“I think you know what.” Parkinson looked over and into the gathering of people at the center of the room. Hermione followed her gaze, her previously-tight shoulders sagging in defeat as she saw Cormac closing rank yet again. She didn’t bother to try to escape this time.

Pansy smirked as she turned back to Hermione’s face, busing herself by pulling a spliff of unknown contents out of her handbag. “Like I said, obvious. You wear your intentions on your sleeve, probably just as you do your heart.”

Hermione scowled, frustrated and feeling hopeless and wanting to take it out on the girl before her. “As opposed to you? You’re not exactly a portrait of feigned indifference, Parkinson. Unless you have a good reason for not enjoying a bit of dessert?”

Pansy didn’t look perturbed at all as she used her wand to light her joint, not a care in the world for the handful of authority figures around her. “I’m not trying to be indifferent. I’m jaded. There’s a difference.”

“Pansy, why are you even speaking to the mudblood?” Daphne interjected, her nose scrunched at the slur. She didn’t even bother to ask what they were actually talking about. “I’m worried I might catch a disease just by being in the same vicinity as her.”

“Yes, you best watch out, Greengrass. You might endure a sudden onset of intelligence from talking to the likes of me.” Hermione appraised Daphne as a physician might, tutting with what she saw. “It would likely be terminal– what with your famous lack of a brain and all.”

Pansy snorted while Daphne squawked at her gall.

“Ugh! Say whatever clever words you like about my brain, mudblood. But at least I have something you’ll never have!”

“What? A penchant for idiocy?"

“Desirability. From people other than a measly Hufflepuff or a new-money Gryffindor.” Daphne grinned, satisfied with her attempt at ridiculing Hermione. “Don’t worry, mudblood, I bet you’ll be popular with the bottom of the barrel for quite some time.”

Hermione scoffed. “You sure do speak highly of yourself. But I don’t exactly see anyone falling over at your feet, Greengrass.”

“Obviously because they already know I’m spoken for, mudblood!”

Hermione barked out a sound that wasn’t quite a laugh– it was a bit too demeaning to be considered one by her standards. She had a retort ready on her lips, prepared to comment on the type of person she pictured “speaking” on behalf of Daphne Greengrass–

Until Pansy Parkinson unintentionally rendered her speechless, instead.

For what was surely the first time in her life, Hermione witnessed a Slytherin look at a fellow housemate with nothing but open disgust and hatred on their face. Daphne was ignorant of it, still preoccupied looking pleased with herself. But Hermione could taste just how much apathy Pansy held for her alleged friend, from the roiling fire in her black eyes to the nasty grimace on her ruby red lips.

Hermione felt a strange kinship to Pansy in this moment, though she could not place why.

“Babe, there you are!” Cormac broke whatever spells were placed on them both, as Hermione regained her voice and Pansy quickly schooled her expression back to its jaded state. “I keep losing you in this absolutely mad crowd.”

“Pity,” Hermione spat, annoyed that he interrupted– well, whatever was happening. Her curiosity had been stimulated, and there was a strong desire to learn more about whatever drama was unfolding between the snakes. But just as a man does, Cormac ruined it for her before she had a chance to explore deeper.

“Sure is. I better keep you glued to my side for the rest of the night.” Cormac settled in bedside her at the table, sliding his hand around her waist yet again. This time, in a far too low and far too familiar position.

Hermione bared her teeth. She was just about resolved, ready to admit defeat and end this utter shitshow of a night. And she would start by ending Cormac, first.

Except, the previously loud and rambunctious flock of party guests became significantly less loud and rambunctious. A sudden and swift wave of quietness washed over everyone, originating from the front of the room and moving back to where Hermione was situated.

Her heart hammered in a rather pathetic anticipation. There was a scuffling noise from the front, as though a person was struggling against another. Hermione held her breath as the noises became louder, accompanied by faint grunting, until–

“Professor Slughorn!” Filch wheezed, dragging a strikingly blond head by the scruff of his dress robes into the middle of the room. Nott and Zabini trailed closely behind– the former of which looked upon Filch with violent intentions. “I discovered this boy lurking in the upstairs corridor. He claims to have an invitation to your party. Did you invite this boy, or do I need to throw him out with the dogs?”

Nott audibly hissed at the caretaker, and likely would have done a lot worse had Zabini not physically restrained him with an arm across his chest.

“Simmer down, old man,” Malfoy drawled, a casual boredom laced into every syllable– as if he wasn’t presently being held against his will. “I was trying to gatecrash, alright? Happy now?”

“No, I’m not!” Filch fumed, rage and victory equally prevalent in his voice. “You’re in big trouble! Just wait until the headmaster hears of this after the year you’ve had, eh, boyo? I’ve got you now, you rotten…”

Filch rambled on for a bit longer, before Slughorn (a bit drunkenly) assured him that no harm was done and Malfoy was welcome to stay, with the spirit of Christmas and all other types of hogwash to thank. Zabini was hastily whispering to a still-furious Nott, while Pansy continued to inhale her rapidly shrinking spliff– looking noticeably more weary than before.

But Hermione didn’t pay mind to any of that extra nonsense occurring around her. All she could do was stare at Malfoy’s face.

And he did not once meet her gaze since being thrusted into the room. Just as he hadn’t for weeks now.

“Babe…” Cormac whined, tugging at her hip to get her attention again. He spoke the word loudly, in the way only someone who was utterly unaware of their own absurdity could do. Several bystanders side-eyed them, annoyed they were interrupting the current show. Not even realizing this was a main event for the show Hermione had in mind.

Her ghost was not one of them. Damn it all, please look–

“I’d like a word with you, Draco.” Professor Snape emerged from the circle of guests around Malfoy, Filch, and Slughorn. His own expression was blank, save for a whisper of something Hermione had no hopes of recognizing from her vantage point.

“Oh, Severus, leave the boy in peace–”

“I am the Head of House for Slytherin, and Draco is a Slytherin student. I will have a word with him when I please, Horace.”

Slughorn, too intoxicated and too spineless to argue otherwise, nodded his head and stepped out of the way.

“Draco, come.” Snape’s voice left no confusion to the fact that he would not be asking him a third time.

But– but, no. No. He couldn’t leave! Not yet, not when– he didn’t even see her, let alone Cormac– it wasn’t fair, it was– just– just– fucking look at me, Draco–

And as if he had heard her rapidly spiraling thoughts, he did.

Halfway out of the door, Malfoy looked over his shoulder and directly at Hermione. Partially covered in the shadows of the exit, grey eyes she couldn’t really see from this distance eyed her. They glanced once between her position and Cormac’s beside her. But that was all they offered before turning and leaving without… anything. As if she wasn’t even there.

Hermione had seen Malfoy look at flobberworms with more interest than he did at her.

“Well, come on, everybody! There’s still plenty of celebration to be had! Worple, get the band started again, would you…”

Conversations resumed. The music took precedence in the background yet again. Somewhere in the room, Zabini still tried to console a furious Nott, Ginny still argued with an envious Dean, Harry likely remained upset next to an oblivious Luna, and Pansy still smoked her joint with an overly conceited Daphne. All was well.

Save for Hermione, who watched her tediously planned play crash and burn around her.

Act Two: Scene 1

It was stupid to cry. Hermione didn’t want a fucking Death Eater to pine for her, anyway. The sheer inconvenience of that was merely the cherry on top of how utterly fucked up that would be. A logistical nightmare to deal with. Good fucking riddance.

The tears welled up in the corner of her eyes anyway as she rushed down the hall, uncaring for whatever logic she could muster in that moment. Forcing her into this moment of stupidity.

It was just – it was just this dress. And the makeup. And the hours she spent carefully planting seeds of rumors about herself and fucking Cormac McLaggen, whenever he wasn’t boasting about the “smokin’ bird” he was taking to the Christmas Party. And the entire fucking performance she had put on for weeks now, only for absolutely nothing of importance to come from it–

This fucking dress. Hermione wanted to rip it clean off her skin so she no longer suffocated from the sheer presence of it.

Hermione stopped walking halfway through the empty corridor, in front of the open-air windows. She wished they weren’t magically charmed to keep the freezing temperatures outside, longing to feel the cold air against her skin until it burned. Hermione brought a palm to her chest, clutching it, digging her nails into the flesh above her lungs in hopes that the pain and blood would remind her to breathe.

Stupid, she mentally berated herself, wiping her damp cheeks with the hand that wasn’t actively making her bleed. So fucking stupid–

“Granger– hey, Granger! Wait up!”

Good Godric, you have got to be kidding me.

“Give a man a chance to catch up, babe.” Cormac pursed his lips in what she assumed was contemplation, though Hermione was unsure whether his brain had the capacity for that much thinking. Glutinous eyes trailed her frozen figure. “You were practically sprinting back to Gryffindor tower. I didn’t know you were gagging for it that bad.”

“Pardon?” Hermione’s voice was… tranquil. Dangerously so.

“You said you ‘wanted to get out of here,’ right?” Cormac made air quotes around the phrase. As he bent his fingers to do so, Hermione thought they would look much better arched back and broken in the opposite direction. “Doesn’t take a genius like me to pick up a lady’s intentions.”

Hermione opened her mouth once. Closed it. And then–

She laughed. The stomach-aching, deafening kind of laughter. Hermione had to grab her sides as she hunched over, struggling to keep her body upright with the force of the cackles coming out of her. She felt half-mad– probably was half-mad.

Cormac, unsure what to do with himself, chuckled once in clear confusion. “Um, what’s going on, babe? Did I say something funny?”

“Yes,” Hermione cried louder, nearly hyperventilating from this absolutely absurd situation she placed herself in. Her theory might have been a bust and her play may have ended in tragedy– but this moment sure felt like a damn comedy.

“Right… and… what exactly is funny?”

“That you– you think that I– me, Hermione Granger, would ever– with you– oh, Godric, I can’t–”

Cormac’s expression gradually dropped, realizing what she was trying to communicate around fits of unhinged laughter.

“Wow. You think you’re really something, don’t you? A real catch?”

“I know my worth, Cormac,” Hermione reigned in her giggling and regained her composure somewhat, more on alert with his shift in tone. “And as circumstances would have it, it’s leagues beyond yours. Even with your plethora of connections.”

“Are you– are you serious right now, Granger?”

“Completely,” she seethed, stepping towards him as she slipped her hand into the slit of her dress, retrieving her holstered wand. “The only world in which I am interested in you is one where I’m pretending. Which is what I just had to suffer through the past two hours– hell, the past fucking month. I do not want you, and I suggest you get that through your thick skull right about now.”

Cormac shook his head in disbelief as something… menacing overtook his features. He didn't ask why he was pretending or accept her rejection. He just openly glared at her, taking in her appearance once more before he spoke. This time, with a voice very different to the one she had grown accustomed to.

“To think, I was trying to do the decent thing and give you a chance with me. I mean, you’re not even a halfblood, but I thought–”

“Go on, Cormac.” Hermione felt the telltale fire burning in her gut, preparing to scorch the buffoon at a moment’s notice.

“You have to realize that I was dallying below my station with you, don’t you? Brightest witch of her age or not, you’re still just a muggleborn of no rank. Nice to look at, sure, but that doesn’t change the facts.” He sighed in exasperation. “I thought for a time it could still be something more, but now…”

“Now what?”

“Now I’m starting to suspect my uncle was right, and that girls like you are only good for one thing.”

Hermione expected him to go for his wand. She expected a magical attack, perhaps because it was more… familiar to her? Felt more in the context of their situation, in this place?

She didn’t know and it didn’t matter, because he didn’t go for his wand. Her lightning-quick Expelliarmus disarmed him alright, forcing the wand in his robes to go flying across the room. But it did nothing to stop his body from charging towards hers.

Hermione is a strong, capable witch. That truth did nothing to change the fact that it would be hard for anyone of her stature to avoid being pushed against the wall by an aggressively large man.

She didn’t have time to feel the pain from her head cracking against the stone or focus on the stars that began to cloud her vision, because those sensations were overruled by a far more dangerous one. Her wand was suddenly knocked out of her grasp as unwanted hands clutched her shoulders, pinning her in place as she tried to clear her fuzzy and ringing mind–

“What are you– let go of me–”

“Say what you want, Granger, but I bet you’ve been craving this all night long.”

One of the hands moved down from her shoulder, grabbing her waist in a much harsher and bruising manner than he had done at the party. Hermione struggled against the touch, trying to jerk her torso away before Cormac pressed his hips into hers, locking her in place.

Her heart was racing impossibly fast as warning signals flared through her body, already knowing where this was rapidly heading towards.

“Stop– get off–” Hermione rasped as his other hand circled her throat. She felt as though she might throw up at any moment. Whether that was due to her head injury or his hands squeezing her, she didn’t know and couldn’t think hard enough to discern–

“You want me. I know you do, and I’ll prove it,” Cormac hissed. He lowered his twisted face, trying to mash his thin lips against hers, but landing against the corner of her mouth instead as her head turned at the last second.

Her mind was too hazy and there was too much adrenaline coursing through her bloodstream. She could only rely on instinct to get him off of her– she needed to get him off–

Get him off get him off get him off–

From somewhere deep in Hermione’s brain, where logic and reason had been locked away in favor of survival, she remembered that she had legs. Legs that were not caged against the wall the way her upper body was, that were perfectly positioned for the only defensive maneuver she could recall.

With a primal shriek escaping her smothered mouth, Hermione thrusted her knee upwards into the space between Cormac’s legs as hard as she physically could.

“AGH– fucking hell–” Cormac ripped his lips away from her face as he stumbled backwards, taking his hands with him as they moved to protect his damaged private parts. He hunched over, moaning, looking like he was about to fall over, but not quite yet–

Not without her assistance, at least.

Hermione, intentionally leaving her wand discarded on the ground, stepped towards the pathetically crouched man. She felt overcome by something sick and horrible– something she had only felt once before – felt because of him and his hands –

“Wait–”

She reared her fist back before launching it straight into his stupid fucking jaw.

Her punch shut him up. But it’s not what sent him tumbling down towards the ground.

The instant her hand connected with Cormac’s face, was the same instant flash of magic raced across the hall and struck him along his ribcage. Hermione didn’t know what spell it was initially, until Cormac threw his head backwards in a muted scream, thrashing wildly as he slumped against the floor.

As his body contorted and bent in angles Hermione didn’t think was humanly possible, she was sure she was witnessing the Cruciatus curse in full effect.

Her head swivelled to the right, to the direction from which the curse came from, down towards where a lean figure stood alone. Their body was cloaked in the darkness flooding in from the night-drenched windows, save for the left side of their face illuminated by the candles along the corridor’s inner wall.

“I didn’t need an excuse to do that.” Malfoy’s voice… he sounded more like a Death Eater than ever before. “But I’ll damn well use that as an excuse for what comes next.”

Act Two: Scene 2

Logically, Hermione knew she was alone in a corridor with two dangerous men, both of whom were capable of separate forms of evil. She knew she should remain on guard– especially after what one of them just put her through.

But against her will, she felt her muscles relaxing and her heartbeat steadying with Draco Malfoy’s appearance. When he stepped forward to pick up Cormac’s twitching, grunting body and threw him against the wall she had been pinned up against before, a smile almost broke onto her face.

“M-Malfoy– w-what are you–”

“Don’t be a moron and ask me what I’m doing, McLaggen,” Malfoy drawled, an eerie mix of calm with deadly undertones present in his words. “I think the answer to that should be obvious.”

“But– ah– but I’m j-just hanging out with my d-date–”

Hermione unleashed an animalistic snarl at his implication. Malfoy looked at her as she did, considering the state of her hair and attire after Cormac’s attempted assault.

He tsked, returning his gaze back to Cormac with his hawthorn wand raised. “Based on the lady’s response, I don’t think hanging out is how she would describe what you were doing. Would you concur, Granger?”

“Undoubtedly.”

“Well, that settles it,” Malfoy chirped– a bit too enthusiastically. “I mean, I was going to destroy you anyway. But at least I won’t have to stop Granger from stopping me while I do. Makes the whole thing a lot less tedious, y’know?”

“C’mon man, cut me some slack here. Can you blame me, really? I mean, look at her.” Cormac moaned, expecting the Slytherin to find reason in his explanation.

“I do,” Malfoy said, tilting his head to the side in a manner that was supposed to look thoughtful, she assumed. Instead, it just looked predatory. “The problem, as I’m understanding, is that you do, too.”

He twirled his wand in his hand once. Twice. On the third, he mused, “I should remedy that.”

Cormac’s eyes widened. Hermione’s breath hitched. That was all either of them had time for before Malfoy raised his wand arm above his head before immediately slashing it across the right side of Cormac’s face with a hissed Diffindo.

Hermione heard the scream before she saw the damage. The wail that escaped Cormac’s mouth was jarring in its blatant agony. It was the cry of a man who had never truly known pain, but was forced to experience it tenfold and all at once.

The scream is what made her pulse skyrocket, but the damage is what made her lungs malfunction.

Cormac fell back against the stone wall again, this time due to the sheer force of Malfoy’s Severing Charm. The violent spell seemed to have cut him from the start of his hairline to just below the high point of his cheeks, slashing straight through the center of his right eye.

The blood pouring from the terrible slice made it difficult for Hermione to really see, but she could make out a couple things that let her know the extent of his injury. There was the faint shininess from Cormac’s skull peeking through the muscles and tendons of the deep forehead cut. There were two separate halves of his eyeball, of which both parts were still resting in the socket but threatening to fall out with any unsuspecting movement.

Cormac tried to bring his hand up to the damaged side of his face – as an instinctual reaction or to curtail the blood loss he was experiencing, Hermione didn’t know. All she did know was that Malfoy stopped the movement in its track with another wand flick, cemented his hand to the wall above his head with a simple sticking charm.

Cormac let out a strangled cry, keeping his mouth closed to prevent being drowned in his gushing blood, as he struggled against his pinned position.

Malfoy glanced down at the stone flooring beneath their feet. The floor was already decorated with little puddles of blood– a collection which was quickly growing with the open wound leaking from Cormac’s head that was still without a spell or wrapping to stop it.

He shrugged before looking back up at Cormac, musing, “Well, it would be a shame to stain the floor more.”

He grabbed Cormac’s bruised jaw with a harsh grasp, forcing it to arch upwards towards the ceiling. A separate hand began to pry it open wide enough, until the majority of the blood seeping from the gash in his head was waterfalling down and into his hyperextended mouth.

Cormac’s screams became wet and muffled as his mouth started to fill with the thick, red liquid. Malfoy hushed him, maintaining his tight grip as he murmured, “Calm down. I’m just helping you clean up your own mess, McLaggen. You want this, I know that you do.”

It was unduly cruel. And Hermione did absolutely nothing to stop it.

With the first hesitant action Hermione may have ever witnessed from him, Malfoy turned his head slightly to the right to gauge her reaction to the scene. To anticipate her disapproval and disgust. To prepare for the stunning spell that was sure to come from her wand at this moment.

A light glinted off the pupil of his eye, as if reflecting a glowing light within her own eyes.

Whatever Malfoy saw in her face, it didn’t dissuade him from continuing to make Cormac gurgle his own blood. He may have actually looked a little more motivated than before, as the hand holding his jaw open flexed.

Malfoy kept staring at Hermione, and Hermione kept staring at Malfoy as Cormac thrashed and flailed. She heard the coughing and spluttering quiet after a period of time, the undistinguishable pleas became less frequent. Still, Hermione didn’t break eye contact with her ghost until the noises and movements coming from the bleeding bastard’s body stopped altogether.

What was left of the whites of Cormac’s eyes rolled backwards into his skull, as his body went slack against the wall. Whether he passed out from sheer blood loss or from choking on the blood he was losing, Hermione didn’t know. And Malfoy didn’t care, as he undid the sticking charm that was previously holding her assaulter captive, loosening his grip and letting him flop onto the floor like a dead fish.

The only difference being that unlike a dead fish, Cormac wasn’t dead himself. Probably.

Although the open windows along the corridor were charmed to keep out of the freezing temperatures, they did nothing to stop the breeze that filtered through, softly rustling the skirt of Hermione’s dress. It was a gentle little action – far too gentle for the scene it wandered into.

“I’ve been wanting him to shut his mouth all night long,” Hermione mumbled shortly after, considering Cormac McLaggen’s limp and bloodied body on the floor. “I suppose that was one way of accomplishing that.”

She didn’t have a chance to lift her eyes from Cormac’s body before Malfoy’s blocked her view. Hermione didn’t flinch as she looked up to find a pair of strained eyes and a hardened full mouth. With his far-too long hair looking extra tousled tonight, Malfoy gave off the impression that he had only just begun his hunt as opposed to finishing it.

“Huh. I just wanted to wash the taste of you out of his mouth.”

“How considerate of you.” Hermione had to bite her lip to stop the completely inappropriate grin from stretching across her face.

But of course, he could see through her feeble attempt immediately.

Hands, so pale they were nearly transparent, gripped onto the ruffles below her waistline. He tugged on them, hard, willing her stubborn hips forward until they connected with his.

Malfoy walked them backwards from there, together, until her bottom was pressed against the far ledge of one of the many windows in the hallway, positioning them directly across from Cormac’s fallen body.

A strikingly similar situation to the one she was in moments before. Except this time, it wasn't against her will. Her pulse throbbed erratically and the frequency of her inhalations increased at a rapid rate. But it wasn't from fear or distress or a deep-sated hatred. Those emotions laid with the aggressor at her feet– discarded the way he had been, allowing her to feel these new and exciting ones without their burden.

“You liked that.”

“No.”

“You enjoyed that.”

“No.”

“You relished that.”

“No.”

“I always knew you were fucking mental, Granger. Thank Salazer.”

“Says the maniac that just mutilated his classmate?”

“Go report me to a professor, then. We both know there’s a handful of them only a stone’s throw away.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Well, for one, I’m presently pinned against this window by a horrid, disgusting prick. Perhaps you know of him?”

“Fondly. I’ll make him release you, then.”

“You won’t.”

“No, I won’t. Not yet. Not with you like…”

The irises of Malfoy’s eyes morphed from silver to charcoal as he examined her. All of her. Hermione thought he would be most interested in the dress that unintentionally matched the bloodied theme of the evening. The lower cut of the neckline and slit along the side was more risque than anything she had worn to school events in years prior. It, too, was a calculated move on her part for the evening.

But instead, he lingered on the droplets of blood from where her fingers had dug into her chest earlier, before moving his focus to the stray curl she could feel caught and tangled in her darkened eyelashes. He gnawed at his bottom lip, shaking his head.

“Like what? Spit it out, already.”

“You’ll have to make that horrid, disgusting prick release you, Granger. Do it. Now.”

“And if I don’t?” Hermione’s skin ignited, itching for something–

“Now.”

“I don’t much like being told what to do, Malfoy–”

“Merlin, you’re such a fucking nightmare–”

His words were rushed and the end of his sentence was muffled on account of Malfoy falling into her– without a drop of poison in his system this time.

He plastered them both against the arch of the window with a groan. Hermione’s own breath hitched from the onset of pressure as her body became quickly smothered by his, in addition to the sudden feeling of nearly free-falling through the open space behind her back. His head bent forward, buried somewhere in the forest of her loose hair. Even though he still wore his school uniform and she her dress, it felt as though there wasn’t an inch of her that wasn’t in contact with him.

It was completely overstimulating– overwhelming. She pressed herself in further, chasing more of whatever feeling he was giving to her. Not caring what it meant.

“You got me suspended.” Malfoy almost whimpered the words into her ear, his slender fingers searching and curling around her loose hair at her nape until he grasped the back of her neck.

“After I poisoned you.” Hermione was subconsciously mirroring him, her hands latching themselves to the rigid muscles along the back of his head. She was not even fully processing that this was the first time she had touched him of her own accord– in a manner that wasn’t inherently violent, at least.

“I rather enjoyed that bit. Wasn’t as pleased about the weeks of lines and lavatory cleaning that followed.” His lips circled her earlobe, words tickling the sensitive skin there as he spoke into it.

“You deserved every bit of it. Maybe more.” Hermione felt upwards for the fine locks of nearly white hair resting at the base of his neck, harshly yanking at the ends when she made contact.

“How do you figure?” One of his hands inched down along her shoulder, ghosting against her ribcage, until it found its home along the divot of her hip.

“You murdered my tree.”

“It needed to be done. Means to a just end.”

“Oh, please–”

“Why did you have to go with that blasted idiot of all people?”

“Well, you kind of ruined my chances with Ernie if you recall–”

A punishing bite against the shell of her ear silenced her sarcasm, as she quickly became fixated on a furious wave of goosebumps spreading across her skin, originating from where his perfect teeth sunk in.

Malfoy dropped his head from her ear into the space where her neck met her shoulder, completely bare save for the daintiest strap of her dress. He captured the blood red scrap of fabric with his teeth. Hermione could feel his smile as her hips jerked from the tingling sensation. But she barely had time to process the sensation or his smile that she couldn’t see before he tugged the strap – hard – until it snapped clean.

“You’re paying for that,” Hermione breathed.

“Gladly,” Malfoy whispered, tenderly lapping his tongue in slow circles on her now-exposed shoulder blade. He bit down again, unexpectedly, forcing a rush of air out of Hermione’s throat that sounded dangerous close to a moan. Malfoy shuddered, exhaling heavily against her before his mouth resumed its ministrations.

Hermione could feel her back starting to slip off the stone arch as he continued this pattern along her shoulder and up towards her neck, until it was dangerously close to where there was nothing but air behind her. She knew it was happening, but not caring, because it would mean that he would stop. She just held on tighter.

His lips and tongue, after thoroughly wrecking the left side of her neck, moved down and across her collarbone. A abstract design of open mouth kisses were left behind in his path, his torturous lips preparing to stake a claim on her other side–

There was an unfamiliar ache growing within her, near where that raging fire would build and burn inside of the pit her stomach. She needed– Merlin, she didn’t know what. She arched her back against the quickly disappearing foundation of the window, squirming, trying to find an escape from her own skin–

But he wouldn’t let her. Instead, he forced her legs apart with one of his own, anchoring her in place.

She wiggled her hips, trying to readjust from the position Malfoy placed her in. Or she was, until his knee broke through the opening slit of her dress, and faintly brushed against her lace-covered cunt. An inferno erupted up from her core – from where she now knew that ache originated – as what seemed like every atom she was composed of began to melt.

“Oh,” Hermione softly gasped. Her shoulder finally slid too far to the left, off of the stone arch into nothing. She felt her torso tilting backwards into the night–

His hands at her neck and hip became firm as he felt her slipping, tugging her body back towards his. The motion made her core rock against his leg, creating a tantalizing and blissful friction. The gentle noise escaped her lips again as he held her there, trembling with need nearly a hundred metres off the ground.

Only a small portion of her arse against the window’s ledge balanced her in place. Malfoy knew this, she was sure. But he made no move to pull her away and rest her against the safety of the castle walls.

The precariousness of their position made her stomach tighten further, and she leaned back as far as she could in his arms. She opened her neck up wider for him, her head crossing the barrier of the window and its magical warding, feeling the subzero temperature against her cheeks as her nipples hardened beneath her broken dress.

This wasn’t a randy hookup in the fifth corridor broom closet, or a drunken kiss shared after a common room post-quidditch party. This wasn’t even an encounter with lust or passion at its center.

No – this was a devouring of two souls. A damned attempt of each other trying to consume and merge the very essence of the person in front of them.

There was nothing romantic at the heart of her nails breaking the skin at his neck, the tips of which were still caked with the dried blood from her chest, forcibly mixing purity and filth together. Though it was up to interpretation as to which person’s was which.

There was nothing sweet about him purposely holding her body hostage against an open window, where one wrong move on either’s part would have a deadly ending. No pair of lovers in their right mind would engage in something so dangerous.

There was nothing beautiful about sharing this moment of deep physicality with a bloodied and maimed student laying at their feet. One who Hermione couldn’t even say for sure whether he was dead or alive.

It was painful. It was raw. It was terrible. It was everything Hermione had been waiting for all night long.

“Tu n'es pas censé être comme ça, doux poison. Vous êtes en train de tout gâcher.” He struggled through the words as his breathing became deeper and quicker– though she had no idea what they meant.

She mirrored him once more by moving one of her hands to rest against his hips, feeling how lean and thin he’d become. Although that fact worried some distant part of her, she was quickly distracted by Malfoy unexpectedly moving her hips against his leg another time. And another. The same feelings that overtook her before returned as he built an agonizingly slow pace; only this time, the front of her stomach connected with something hard and long beneath his trousers.

“Malfoy–” Hermione gasped. In doing so, she felt that hardness twitch against her belly, and witnessed him immediately forget to maintain any semblance of restraint.

One of his hands – his left hand – slipped from its position against her neck. She felt her body fall further backwards without the upper support. His hand haphazardly pressed against the side of her mouth, his fingers frenziedly caressing the outline of the lips that he somehow seemed to know that she would not give him–

His left hand– Malfoy rocked her hips against him once more, and a crude gasp escaped her partially covered lips–

“Putain, putain–”

His lips – when had they moved to her cheek? – laboriously opened, his teeth scraping against her flesh as if he was preparing to bite down yet again as lightening threatened to strike her from within–

But– but, his left hand– the left– the one attached to his left arm– the one leaving her mouth to travel down to the neckline of her dress, gripping it tightly as if to yank it off– the left arm– where it was–

“Please, Granger, need you to com–”

“How can you stand it?” Hermione rasped, nearly choking on the words.

Malfoy’s hands, his knee, his mouth – every part of him paused, frozen on account of her question.

Hermione didn’t dare move, either. Neither of them were prepared for what came out of her mouth. But come out it did. And they both knew exactly what she meant.

The cold wind swished her hanging hair around, harshly, reminding them both to return to reality. That reminder is probably why, after a few moments, Malfoy finally responded:

“I can’t.”

Damn it all, Hermione didn’t want to admit it, but that fucking hurt.

Malfoy broke apart from her at the same time that she roughly pushed him away, righting her position inside so she was no longer dangling carelessly above the ground. She tried not to focus on it, she truly did– but when he released his hold on her body, it was his left arm that let go of her first. He stood there, a handful of steps away, angling it partially behind his back.

She can’t believe she ever let him touch her with that hand–

“How can you keep silent about it?” Malfoy demanded, glaring at her in return – likely guessing where her mind was already heading. He was on the attack again, it seemed. So much for aftercare.

Hermione almost couldn't stand to look at him. There was too much of her within him still. His swollen mouth that had been all over her a mere minute ago, remolding back into its natural sneer. His hair that had been messy before now looking terribly wrecked by her hands, teasing her with just how soft she now knew it felt. His body, that was stiffening by the second, still holding the evidence of how seamlessly he had molded against her in the wrinkles on his clothes. He was too beautiful like this, drenched in her – devastatingly so. It made her angry all over again.

Hermione, too repulsed by her thoughts and actions to return his honesty, responded, “About what?”

Malfoy bit the inside of his cheek while his jaw flexed, trying and failing to hide his displeasure that she would still not reveal herself to him.

Good. Now it was his turn to hurt.

“The bitterness your voice can embody with just a couple of words is astounding.” He laughed cruelly, tilting his head to the side in mock consideration. “If were to lick your neck again, I bet I could taste just how sour you’ve become–”

“You’ll never get to find out. Ever again.”

“I don’t know, Granger, you seemed pretty desperate for my mouth a minute ago. Might still have some evidence of that desperation on my trousers–”

“I meant what I said before. You’re a horrid, disgusting prick.” Her tone was decidedly less playful than before, too. “But you’re also something far worse.”

“Yeah? And what’s that?”

“You’re a hypocrite.” Hermione would not allow Malfoy of all people to witness her cry, so she masked her quickly watering eyes with a contemptuous smile. “You call me desperate, you can’t stand to touch me. And yet you just did so, quite desperately indeed.”

“A poor lapse of judgement on my part.”

“You want me.” Hermione accused him, her voice breaking at the cursed word. “I don’t know why, but you do.”

“Don’t flatter yourself, Granger. You’ve piqued my interest recently, sure, and you’ve been a convenient form of entertainment. But that’s where the uniqueness of your circumstance ends. If I wanted to shag a raging bitch, I’d go for Daphne first.”

“But you didn’t. You went for the raging, dirty Gryffindor bitch, didn’t you? And you can’t – you can’t stand it.” It was painful to get the words out, to feel the truth behind them. But she wanted to punish him for it all the same, too. If she had to suffer through this, so did he.

“You can’t either, Granger.” Malfoy whispered wearily. “Or else you wouldn’t have stopped to ask me that in the first place.”

He flexed his left hand, drawing her eyes back to it. She glared at the hand, at the robe-covered forearm – glaring at what she knew laid beneath it. Hating that knowledge.

Just as she hated how right he was.

“So that’s it, then.” Hermione’s voice had become incredibly monotone. It appeared that her vocal cords had nothing left to give her today.

“It seems so.”

Hermione lifted the corner of her lip in a mirthless grin. She shoved off the window ledge, turning away from him and his disheveled state and the mess they had made together.

She walked all of a handful of metres down the corridor before his voice broke through previously deafening silence, as soft and unsure as she’d ever heard from him.

“Join me on the tower tomorrow morning, Granger. One last time, before the end of term.”

An unexpected plea. One with the whisper of a goodbye wrapped around its edges. As if he knew this couldn’t continue, either – not that they both were aware of what this was now.

Hermione neither accepted nor refused his request before striding away, leaving Malfoy and the hell he wrought with him behind in that hallway.

Truly, what did she really expect to come from this night? From her theory, from this little play she had produced? There was only one ending to the story, after all. It was written as a tragedy from the beginning. She just… hadn’t wanted to admit it. Needed to see the ending for herself.

Which is why she already knew that she would go straight from the Gryffindor common room to the train station at Hogsmeade tomorrow morning, not daring to set a foot in the direction of the Astronomy Tower.

Fin.

Chapter Text

To the Liar,

I have a theory that you did not join me at our tower that last night because you have developed a sudden and irrational fear of heights. You should probably prove me wrong once we are back at Hogwarts.

Yours truly,

The Hypocrite

***

Dear Poisoner,

Are my bite marks still decorating your neck?

If yes, come to the tower on the first night we return to berate me for daring to mar your skin.

If no, come all the same. 

Sincerely, 

 The Poisoned 

***

 For the Plant Enthusiast, 

 Don’t tell me you’ve become fond of all things good and sweet and utterly boring since the Christmas party. 

 Is that what you’re wanting now? Are you simply waiting for me to be a good boy for you? 

It probably will never happen. You should join me on the tower the first Sunday after Christmas hols to punish me for that. 

 Cheers, 

 The Plant Murderer 

***

 To Whichever Raging, Dirty Gryffindor Bitch It May Concern, 

 Please accept the attached galleons as reparations for your destroyed lingerie (or whatever you refer to that sinful muggle attire as). 

 I had to guess the amount naturally. But how much could muggle clothing cost, after all? A thousand galleons? 

 Feel free to bill me for another thousand if my estimations were incorrect. I only handle such invoices in person, however – the Astronomy Tower would be an ideal place to conduct such business. 

 Shall we say ten o’clock on Sunday night? 

 Deepest Regards, 

 A Horrid, Disgusting Slytherin Prick 

***

 The previous messages you received were a mistake. Nothing more than another lapse of poor judgement, brought on by weeks of stifling boredom. I have since found new, more exciting entertainment. 

 I am done with you. 

 Do not come. 

 DLM  

***

Hermione should have burned the letters. Or maybe she should have thrown them into the sea when she visited her family in Newquay for the holidays. It wasn’t wise to keep evidence like this.

It especially wasn’t wise to hastily pack them into her trunk and bring every damned piece of parchment with her back to school.

The obscenely large sack of galleons was thrown into there, too. She hadn’t decided what she would do with the small fortune he gifted her (that of which was significantly beyond what she had paid for the dress, by about a small family’s annual income after the galleon-to-british-pound conversion rate was settled).

Maybe she’ll dump the coins and the letters both into the Black Lake, to make up for the missed opportunity in Newquay.

Hermione huffed out a frustrated breath, turning her head towards the window in her compartment to admire the Scottish highlands in a feeble attempt at distracting herself. Or, at least, she would have turned her head – had she not been stopped by a quick and painful tugging sensation against her scalp.

“Ow–”

“Well, don’t bloody move!” Ginny chastised her. It was her friend’s turn to sigh dramatically, albeit in exasperation rather than vexation. “Merlin’s tits, Hermione– and I was almost done too!”

“Sorry,” she mumbled, more to be cordial rather than in any real feelings of remorse.

“Yeah, yeah. You can show me how sorry you are by keeping your head still for five more bleeding minutes.” Ginny’s hands began to undo whatever section of the plait Hermione had compromised.

“I thought you were almost done?”

“I have to restart from nearly the beginning now, Hermione. And you’re severely underestimating just how much hair you have on this gorgeous head.”

Hermione could have broken down and cried right then. She liked having her hair plaited as much as the next girl, but she much preferred the after rather than the process. Especially considering this was about to be Ginny’s third attempt. Her beaten and raw scalp was moments away from pleading for mercy itself.

“You don’t look very happy, Hermione.” Luna commented from the seat across from the pair, giving a thoughtful tilt of her blonde head.

“It’s probably because I have clumps of hair being pulled out of my head that I’ll never see again–”

“Give me a break, Hermione, you know the end result will be worth it. Besides, I could rip out half of your hair and you would have more left over than I could ever dream of having–”

“I wasn’t talking about Hermione not looking happy about having her hair plaited, Ginny.” Luna corrected her kindly. “I meant that she doesn’t look happy at all. Which is odd, because I don’t see a single Whackspurt dancing around her head right now.”

“Wait, what?” Ginny stopped her hand movements immediately, nearly falling from her perched position on the headrest of Hermione’s bench to move in front of her with a worried expression. “Is that true? Is something going on, Hermione?”

Hermione had a myriad of opinions regarding Luna’s mysterious creatures and lofty conspiracies. But no matter what skeptical (and frankly rude) perspective she held for her Ravenclaw friend’s beliefs, Luna’s observations were almost always extraordinarily keen.

Frustratingly so.

She had thought the distance and time away from Hogwarts would be good. A few weeks allowance to gather her thoughts and process… well, everything. Everything pertaining to one person, in particular.

Hermione now knew for certain that Draco Malfoy was not only obsessed with her, but that he fancied her– or, at the very minimum, felt an attraction to her deep enough to act on.

Hermione also knew for certain that he hated those feelings– that he was disgusted by them. And by her.

He doesn’t want you. He abhors the very idea of you. But it doesn’t matter, because his obsessions will win out over his brain every time.

That is what Pansy had said, wasn’t it? Hermione just didn’t fully understand what she was trying to communicate to her at the time. She didn’t realize how deep that abhorrence went, or what it was specifically directed towards.

And the fact that Malfoy was sickened by whatever emotions had overrun him in relation to her was… fair. Hermione felt that way too, didn’t she? After all, she only spent the better portion of last term trying to deny and avoid those very emotions herself. Refusing to give into the way her body reacted around his presence, or the way her heart yearned to just be hateful with him for a few moments. Until she did give in, that is.

But so what? Many people are repulsed by their own respective addictions, their vices. She and Malfoy both were not unique on that front.

So then why– why did she feel so empty?

Hermione spent the beginning of the Christmas holiday ruminating over it all: the events at the Christmas party, the aftermath of Cormac’s mangled face, the embrace of a ghost through an open window, the resolute sound in Malfoy’s voice as he breathed I can’t into her flaming skin.

This is what I need, Hermione had decided, settling into the sofa at her Aunt Mildred’s house in between two of her distant cousins, each screaming at each other over some football player named David Beckham. Time away from everything. From him. Time to process what I need to and forget what I don’t. Time to heal whatever has happened to my soul these last months.

But she hadn’t healed, or gotten over anything, or reached some kind of bloody enlightenment. She simply felt… cold. Sick, almost. Disconnected from something that she couldn’t put a name to, but could feel the effects of tenfold. Those feelings were starting to bleed into the external world the longer she was away, as her mother had grown very used to asking her ‘are you sure you haven’t come down with a flu or something, dearest?’ every morning.

And then the first letter came, attached to the leg of an unfamiliar, but striking albino long-eared owl.

When Hermione hastily read through his elegant scrawl, she was overcome with a type of lividness she hadn’t felt since the night of the fire. How dare he write to her as if nothing had happened? As if he hadn’t been absolutely horrid to her in the end, exposing how he truly felt? As if they hadn’t both mutually agreed that this couldn’t continue as a result of those feelings and every other fucked up obstacle standing between them? Every coy greeting and flirtatious sentence was a direct insult.

But that fury the letter wrought within Hermione woke her up after days of being no more than a walking zombie. It made her feel at home, as terrible as it sounded.

Not even her mother had missed the way she perked up when another letter arrived the following day, only to be seething after she finished reading it.

Still, Hermione found herself holding her breath everyday until the next letter arrived. The minute or two she spent reading them was a confusing mix of euphoria and malevolence, torn between wanting to carefully preserve every page or send him a violent howler back in response (though she never did respond to him).

But she was able to breathe with the letters in her hands. And when she was finished with each letter, her lungs refused to let air in until the next one was delivered.

Which was likely why Luna questioned her about whatever painful expression graced Hermione’s face today. It had been days without a proper inhale.

The last letter had arrived three days before she was to return to Hogwarts. Though its contents were vastly different than its predecessors, it still sounded Malfoy. Painfully so. If the other letters were the version of her ghost that claimed sections of her skin with his teeth, this was the version of him that laughed at Hermione while calling her bitter.

Every moment since reading those five sentences up until boarding the Hogwarts Express to make her return to school was spent contemplating two things:

1. What the fuck had happened to Malfoy over the Christmas holiday to initiate those damned letters, and eventually, abruptly stop them?

2.What in the ever loving fuck was Hermione to do once she returned to Hogwarts and was once again trapped in the castle with that horrible, maddening Death Eater?

It was safe to say she did not have much of a relaxing holiday break or respite from all that had happened last term. Malfoy had instead found a way to continue giving her emotional whiplash from hundreds of kilometres away.

Not that she was completely innocent. Hermione did light the match that erupted the flames of all that had happened between them. She was probably responsible for building the kindling for the damn fire, too.

Merlin and Morgana, blast it all. If Hermione could go back in time and stop that scheming, manic version of herself, she would in a heartbeat. Learning how Malfoy felt about her was not worth whatever all of this was. Especially considering she had learned far more than she had wanted to. Ignorance truly was bliss.

What she would give to have never known how utterly guttural and masculine Malfoy’s moans sounded, or how perfectly rigid and hard the muscles of his thigh felt against her pathetically dripping cu–

Hermione jerked back, her physical body somehow unprepared to handle her internal thoughts. Just as well.

Hermione clawed her way out from the depths of her brain and continued to stare into Luna’s eyes, feeling stuck and unable to respond. She became worried that Luna was a legilimens, as Luna smiled softly at her before turning her attention to the concerned Ginny before them both.

“My mistake, Ginny,” Luna chirped, casually opening the newest addition of The Quibbler as she settled further into her cushioned seat. “I thought Hermione didn’t look quite herself what with the frown she was sporting, but it turns out it was just from your plaiting afterall. You should try being a touch more gentle.”

The redhead’s face relaxed almost immediately, as she was always prepared to take Luna’s word for gospel. She moved to resume her position behind Hermione and continue her torturous hairstyling, grumbling dramatically, “A bunch of tender-headed nancies, the both of you.”

“Too right, Ginny,” Luna sang, mindlessly flipped through the pages. “By the way, do either of you know how much longer it will be until we arrive?”

“Dear Godric, Luna, that must be the tenth time you asked that,” Ginny groaned, but with clear amusement dancing in her words. “I’ll learn to be more gentle if you learn to have a bit of patience, my sweet friend.”

“Oh, that’s quite alright, I’m plenty patient.”

“Mhm, sure,” Ginny’s tone was teasing and placating as she twisted and turned the remaining strands of Hermione’s hair.

“I am. I just simply have less of it when it comes to traveling and sitting for long periods of time. I don’t do well with idleness– I blame being born under a waxing moon for that.” Luna met Hermione’s eyes as she said this, a knowing twinkle shining in the blue sea of her irises before she continued. “But I assure you that I have a great deal of patience, Ginny. Especially for those who believe themselves undeserving of it.”

Quite unexpectedly, a forgotten scene flashed before Hermione’s eye: a blonde girl, bundled up in an array of colorful cloaks and scarves, standing with a present dangling sadly from her hands as a girl with hair of raven walked away.

Was Luna offering this insight into her own personal life to Hermione, a little quid pro quo, after witnessing whatever she saw on Hermione’s face before?

Hermione didn’t know why, but it made her angrier than anything Luna had ever said or done before.

“What if they don’t just believe they’re undeserving of it?” Hermione demanded, far too aggressively. “What if they actually are undeserving of it?”

“I understand, Hermione.” Luna smiled gently at her, before returning her focus back to whatever The Quibbler had to say about the mounting Gulping Plimpies epidemic in Eastern Europe. “I don’t mind a bit of darkness, you know. I believe I have enough light within me for the both of us, undeserving or not.”

Hermione narrowed her eyes. “Luna–”

“To answer your question– yes, I’d happy to be patient and wait anyway. Your concern is appreciated, of course. But not needed.”

“... Luna may understand, but I sure as hell don’t. You both lost me.” Ginny interjected, finally beginning to tie off the freshly completed plait. “What’s this about waiting and darkness?”

Hermione didn’t know what Luna’s response was going to be, or if she would even bother offering one to Ginny. And it seemed as though she would never know, as a sudden knock against the door of their compartment interrupted any reply either may have had.

All three girls turned towards the left to find none other than the Chosen One standing on the other side of the glass pane of the door.

He was uncomfortable, Hermione could tell– he only ever scratched the back of his neck mindlessly when he either felt unsure of himself or was in a situation he very much did not want to be in. Perhaps a bit of both were true this time, she supposed.

Ginny and Luna both glanced at Hermione, obviously waiting for her to invite her best friend inside. She, however, made no move to do so. Hermione just continued staring at him, focusing all her attention towards schooling her features into an expression of indifference. Channeling Pansy Parkinson helped her a little bit, on that front. The Slytherin girl was on her brain anyway, thanks to Luna’s penchant for dropping illusive hints and breadcrumbs in conversations.

Realizing she wasn’t going to initiate any form of invitation, Ginny waved her hand to signal Harry inside their compartment.

“Happy New Year, girls,” Harry greeted, lacking any real cheer in his well wishes as he slid into the enclosed space.

“Harry New Year, Harry,” Luna sang. “Did you have a good holiday?”

“Oh, yeah, it was smashing. I stayed with the Weasleys,” Harry jabbed a finger in Ginny’s direction, though kept his eyes as far away from her person as possible. “It was good to see everyone again. I’d nearly forgotten how quiet Hogwarts had become without Fred and George, until they quickly and repeatedly reminded me over the break.”

Luna’s laugh was equivalent to church bells in the spring. “They are quite ridiculous, aren’t they? Though I’ve known that ever since I met them– their auras were absolutely drenched in a bright green colour. What adventures are they up to now?”

Harry looked hesitant to respond to Luna, gnawing the inside of his cheek as he sheepishly replied, “Well, if you call stringing up a garden gnome in a tutu on the Yule tree after it bit Fred an adventure, then–”

“He was bitten by a garden gnome? Before the new year?” Luna was in awe, The Quibbler all but discarded and forgotten on her side now. “That’s incredibly good luck! Oh, I’m so envious I could positively die and be reborn as a ghost with unfinished business.”

“… The unfinished business being not having been bitten by a garden gnome, correct?”

“Obviously.”

“Oh, well, if it’s a gnome you’re wanting, I’m sure there wouldn’t need be much convincing on your part to get Fred to part with the little bastard–”

“What do you want?” Her interruption was abrupt and awkward in this wholesome moment. But the question crossed Hermione’s lips before it could be processed within her mind, her troublesome mouth acting of its own accord.

Harry, seemingly done with making polite small talk with Luna, hardened his face as he took her in. The uncertainty and discomfort lived on within his eyes, but not enough to prevent him from doing… whatever it was he came here to do.

“Luna, Gin– could I have a moment to speak to Hermione, please? Privately,” he added, upon seeing Luna shaking her head in accession, not comprehending that that had been her cue to clear out.

“Um, sure. C’mon, Luna. Let’s go see if we can hunt down the trolley again,” Ginny said, holding her palm out for her friend to take. Luna happily grabbed it, retrieving her father’s paper in the other, as the two girls made their exit.

It was sudden– so sudden that Hermione knew she was meant to have missed it. But when Ginny walked past Harry with Luna in tow, there was a quick compilation of actions that categorized themselves to be a Moment:

Ginny’s eyes flickered right, Harry’s eyes flicked left.

Ginny grazed two fingers of her free hand along the outside of the wrist that was hanging limply at his side. Or that was hanging limply, until the delicate array of tendons lying underneath his skin tensed upon the contact.

Ginny’s mouth swallowed a smirk as she turned her head back to the exit, Harry’s mouth swallowed a gulp as he turned his head back to Hermione, curling his hand into a fist.

And Hermione, ever the attentive audience member, embodied a sneer worthy of a Malfoy.

They were becoming so blatantly obvious, Hermione realized. She knew her conversation with Ginny months ago hadn’t left a lasting impression on the reckless girl. Ginny was the definition of a go-getter, after all. Cheap thrills and good times. When she wanted something, she went after it– never mind the potential consequences. Still, Hermione hoped that she had shamed Ginny enough into sparing Harry from whatever mess the brazen girl was currently creating.

Deciding she would tackle this scandal later when she had the mental capacity and wherewithal to do so, Hermione relaxed her curled lip and wiped the disgust from her face before Harry could perceive it being there. He was likely too busy thinking about Ginny, anyway. The moron.

Physically shaking the red haired siren out of his head, Harry gathered himself and settled into the seat Luna had been occupying across from Hermione. Her silence made it clear that he would have to be the one to initiate this conversation.

“Your hair looks nice,” Harry started, the compliment falling stiffly off of his lips.

“Thanks.”

Silence. And a bit more silence. Until–

“I saw Cormac at King’s Cross today,” Harry commented as one might on a weekend quidditch match. Unfortunately for them both, Hermione spent enough of her formative years growing up with Harry to know when he had a front up.

“Oh,” Hermione responded. It wasn’t a question nor exclamation in reference to his comment. Just barely an acknowledgement of hearing him speak.

“He seemed to have healed up fairly well over break. I have no idea what kind of magic Madam Pomfrey has in her repertoire, but the worst of the scarring is mostly gone.” Harry hummed faintly as he spoke, tapping his knee with his middle finger. “His vision in that right eye, on the other hand, is another story.”

More tapping. Hermione focused in on the repetitive motion, trying to discern if he was subconsciously playing the beat to one of his favorite songs. He has been listening to Blur quite a lot recently, ever since Hermione lended him her Parklife vinyl.

“Appartently, he’s starting to see more outlines of shapes and stuff out of that eye, but it’s coming back incredibly slowly. The best Madam Pomfrey thinks he will get is object discernation – only she didn’t say how accurate the distinction between objects would likely be.”

Harry would have been a dreadful drummer in another life, Hermione thought. He couldn’t maintain an even tempo for shit.

“It’s just so wild that your date for the Christmas party, a man that you quite openly despise, ended up halfway dead before the night was over. It’s like every interaction you have with him ends up with him in the hospital wing.” Harry squinted his eyes as he examined her in full. “Weird, right? You wouldn’t happen to have any theories about that, would you?”

The rapping was picking up speed, each hit against his leg becoming more confident and decisive. He was likely approaching the meat of the song, then.

“Hermione. A knut for your thoughts, please.”

Tap. Tap tap tap tap. Tap tap tap. Tap tap tap. Was she mistaken, or was that not the chorus of Girls and Boys–

“Hermione.”

“Not yet, Harry.”

“Not– not yet?” He spluttered, a flash wrath that was awfully familiar to Hermione passed behind his eyes.

“Yes.”

“Cormac McLaggen nearly died that night you both attended the party together, a fact that you looked neither surprised nor very concerned about that morning after in Hogsmeade, and your response is not yet? Are you–”

“You said before that the next time we talk about all this will be the last. I’m not ready for that yet.”

“But–”

“Believe it or not, Harry, I’m trying to do right by you and respect your wishes.” Hermione couldn’t stand to look at the betrayal written across his face, electing to turn her head and stare at the glass pane separating them from the ever darkening mountains and fields of Scotland. Various small drawings were still on the glass pane, remnants from whatever Luna had been mindlessly doodling earlier that day. “I want to talk to you. I want to share everything I’m feeling and experiencing with you. I’m… simply not ready. There’s too much going on in my head to even–”

Her hand slipped from the window – when had she placed it up there? – effectively ruining whatever miniature masterpiece Luna had created. She took a deep breath, staring at the hand now limply resting in her lap, faintly covered in drops of condensation. “You once were agreeable to giving me time and space. I’m just asking that you give me a bit more of it.”

It was completely silent and still within the compartment for an indiscernible period of time. On account of her inability to look back at him yet, Hermione was unsure as to why he was being so quiet. She pictured in her mind an amusing choreography of facial expressions forming and falling off of his face in sequence as he considered her proposition: anger, hurt, confusion, curiosity, contemplation, acceptance. Until, finally–

“How much?”

“Huh?”

“You need more time. Okay, sure– I’m happy to give it. But not in perpetuity.” She saw Harry lean back in the corner of her eye, crossing his arms over his chest. Because Hermione knew him so well, she was sure he had raised a brow in challenge as he spoke. “We need a deadline. So that way you have time to prepare… whatever it is you have to prepare for, I guess. And so I know that my best friend isn’t going to spend the rest of her life hiding from me, lying to me, and stringing me along with all of this bullshit.”

Hermione’s jaw ticked. She didn’t have an argument to give back to him. It was a fair offer, and she knew it. It was certainly the best one she’d be getting from him at any rate.

The only issue was – how much time was warranted to tell your best friend that you’ve betrayed them and practically all of the wizarding world? That you’ve become a sadistic, unrecognizable version of yourself? That you’ve allowed his sworn enemy to touch you, embrace you, taste you – the same sworn enemy from which your original betrayal originated? Not to mention everything else in between all those betrayals, too. The aforementioned reprobate Cormac McLaggen came to mind, accompanied by a satisfying memory of him choking on his own blood.

“One year.”

Harry scoffed. “As if, Mione. One month.”

Hermione shook her head, feeling the suffocation of such a close deadline encroaching on her already. “Ten months.”

“Two.”

“Nine?”

“Three.”

Hermione’s head hadn’t stopped shaking. It all felt far too soon. She could barely think three days ahead, let alone three months. Add every other blasted thing she had to deal with during this tumultuous time, and it felt impossible. Even her general responsibilities like prefect duties, the ever approaching final examinations– hell, even just attending class felt like climbing a mountain–

“The end of the school year. That’s the best I can do, Harry.” She finally met his gaze again, so he could witness her resolve in that decision. “Let me get through this term, finish with classes and exams and all of the other classic Hermione Granger fixations. Let me survive through the remainder of sixth year, and I will tell you everything.”

Even though she had spent the entire last term lying to him, Hermione knew she was speaking the truth at this moment. She would tell him.

Harry seemed to realize that fact, too.

“Deal.” Harry sighed, his taut shoulders relaxing as his body practically melted into the cushions of the bench beneath him. She felt a twinge of guilt, realizing that the stress and uncertainty he had been carrying with him was almost entirely attributed to her.

“And don’t worry– I won’t make you swear an Unbreakable Vow.” Harry winked at her, trying to lighten the mood. She didn’t mind, happy to see him slowly morphing back into the cheeky boy she grew up with. “Your word is good enough for me.”

“Unbreakable Vow?” Her brows furrowed inward as she mulled over his words. She was momentarily distracted from the internal panic of the newly established deadline by his brash reference.

“Don’t tell me that I’ve learned about something magic-related before Hermione Granger did? Best call the Daily Prophet.”

“I know what an Unbreakable Vow is, you idiot. I’m just surprised you brought it up. It’s a pretty taboo bit of old magic, even among purebloods.”

Genuine confusion washed over Harry’s face, the space between his brows scrunching inwards. “It is? Why?”

“Well, obviously because of how severe the consequences of breaking an Unbreakable Vow are. It’s outlawed in most countries, punishable by life in prison or even death– depending on the outcome of the vow. England is actually a tad behind the ball on that one. Our most extreme punishment is a maximum of 25 years in Azkaban. Though many higher ranking wizards and witches often get off with a much lighter sentence when found out.”

It felt familiar to lecture him about some random topic again. Familiar, but in the way that had her feeling a strange sense of mourning as well. As though she was already grieving a moment she was still presently experiencing.

“Huh. Ron didn’t mention any of that, the tosser.”

Hermione’s eyes narrowed. “Why were you talking to Ronald about Unbreakable Vows?”

“Oh, that’s right, I didn’t update you before we left Hogwarts for holiday!” Harry gasped, his own eyes widening as he leaned back forward, practically sitting on the edge of his seat. “Now, don’t get mad and go all Hermione on me – but, I tailed Malfoy. After Slughorn’s Christmas party.”

Hermione wasn’t completely sure that the window in their compartment didn’t spontaneously burst open, forcing all the icy rain and wind to seep into her skin until she froze over. “What?” She breathed, not sure she could muster more than a one syllable response at this time.

“I know, I know,” Harry’s leg was bouncing with what she assumed was anticipation, but she didn’t dare consider what he was anticipating to tell– or confront – her about. “Save the lecture for when we actually get back to Hogwarts, please.”

Hermione could barely string together a sentence at this point, let alone give a lecture. “What did you see?” That question was all she could manage, hanging on to his response for dear life.

“Not much, honestly. Snape locked him and Malfoy in some empty classroom for a shouting match. But what I heard through the door proves that I have been right all along! Who’s the know-it-all now, Hermione–”

“What have you been right about? What did you hear?” Hermione gritted out nervously, in no mood to match his playfulness right now. Not that Harry noticed with whatever high he was on, reminding himself of this encounter.

“That Malfoy is up to something, of course. And by something, I mean Death Eater shenanigans. Though that’s probably too light of a word for whatever plans he has in store.”

“You heard these plans?” Hermione hated how raspy she sounded, petrified that Harry had found out– well, something, as he put it.

She tried not to look too deep into why she was fearful. Or rather, for whom.

“Well– no, not exactly,” Harry looked a bit sheepish, but spoke the next words with conviction nonetheless. “But he and Snape were talking about a task that their master assigned to Malfoy, and how Malfoy wasn’t letting Snape help him see it to fruition. Something about stolen glory and occlumency and his father’s imprisonment. The details aren’t as important as the point, Mione. Malfoy was given a job by his master – Voldemort, of course – and Snape desperately wants to help him. They’re both in on it.”

Hermione bit her lip, contemplating what Harry had just revealed to her. On one hand, she was grateful: Harry did not tail Malfoy long enough to see the encounter Malfoy had after talking with Professor Snape, likely only a handful of corridors and a flight of stairs away. The hammering in her chest subsided slowly, now that her body was able to process no imminent threat or danger from being found out by her friend.

On the other hand, Hermione was… intrigued– in the most macabre definition of the word. Hermione and Harry both knew Malfoy was a Death Eater, but Hermione was still the only one with concrete proof of that fact living spitefully within her mind. She knew he was likely inducted as a Death Eater in the first place to be given some terrible and disastrous responsibility. She just never liked thinking about it much. After all, Hermione was too focused ruminating on the fact that he was a Death Eater and she was keeping it a secret, without even introducing his evil duties that came with that job title into the mix.

But now…

Hermione mentally snapped herself out of whatever theories and speculations she was spiraling towards. Before she could do that, she had to deal with Harry first.

She did have until the end of the school year to start being honest with him, didn’t she?

“Don’t you think–”

“–that Snape was pretending to offer help so he could trick Malfoy into telling him what he is doing?” Harry grumbled, crossing his arms across his chest. Clearly, she was not the first one to bring this up to him.

“Well, yes.”

“Lupin said the same thing. And Mr. Weasley. But I don’t even give a shit about Snape at this point because I want to hear you say it, Mione.”

Hermione narrowed her eyes a second time at Harry, not overly fond of the tone he was using. “What?”

“That this definitely proves Malfoy is up to something nefarious. You can’t deny that anymore.”

“No, I can’t,” Hermione sighed theatrically, letting Harry taste a brief moment of victory. Before she was about to snatch it away from him, yet again. “But, that doesn’t necessarily mean he’s working for Voldemort, does it? He never said his name, right?”

“No, but–”

“Well then this ‘master’ Snape was referring to could very well be his father, for all we know. You have first hand experience with Lucius Malfoy stirring up trouble at Hogwarts, so it’s not like this would be a first-time offence. Plus, Malfoy’s plans could just center around trying to get his father freed from Azkaban.”

It was a stretch, and she knew it. But it was enough to sow doubt into Harry’s mind. She sat there in her silent triumph, watching Harry groan in exasperation as he was left without a rebuttal to her logic– for the ever shrinking future, that is.

Hermione was happy to let sleeping dogs lie and put the conservation she somehow talked her way out of to rest. But there was something missing. A nagging feeling that she had missed a crucial detail to the story–

“Hang on,” Hermione forced Harry out of his pity party for one, as her friend gave her his attention again. “What does any of that have to do with Unbreakable Vows?”

Harry laughed, but without much humor. Hermione felt another wave of shame overtake her, knowing she had taken his light and completely correct ideas, and squashed them like a bug underneath her traitorous boot. “Oh, right. That was another thing I heard Snape mention to Malfoy. He said he made an Unbreakable Vow, that he and Malfoy’s mother both did, and they were all to be held to those promises. I think they both made a vow to protect Malfoy, which may have been why Snape was pressing him so hard to figure out the plans.”

“What did Malfoy say in response?” Hermione pressed. She couldn’t pinpoint exactly why, other than the goosebumps that made themselves at home on her skin, but she felt that this was incredibly important. More so than anything Harry told her thus far.

“I don’t fully remember, to be honest. He got real shirty with Snape after he brought up the vow, I know that. Stormed out of the classroom soon after.”

“Huh,” Hermione sank further into the cushion at her back, fixing her gaze through the window for a third time. But she wasn’t really looking. There were too many thoughts spinning rapidly through her brain to attend to something as inconsequential as eyesight.

“Yeah– that’s why I asked Ron about what an Unbreakable Vow was in the first place. Which could be something you both could talk about together, y’know. Since the two of you are so knowledgeable about them…”

Hermione ignored Harry’s pathetic attempt at broaching the Ron Thing with her again, letting him ramble on for a bit about how much Ron misses her even if he doesn’t admit it and wah wah wah. She had more important things to think about. Two, to be exact.

The first being that Hermione thinks Harry interrupted Snape incorrectly. She felt as strongly about that belief as she did in her belief that Divination was nothing more than a fool’s subject. As strongly as she felt about the existence of bloody magic, even.

Harry clearly assumed that Snape was talking about one Unbreakable Vow, between himself and Narcissa Malfoy. Based on what Harry had said and the specific wording he used, Hermione believed that two had been made in concern to Draco: one by Snape, and one by Narcissa.

He said he made an Unbreakable Vow, that he and Malfoy’s mother both did, and they were all to be held to those promises.

The second thing– or rather, question Hermione was left stewing over as the train pulled into Hogsmeade Station was a rather obvious extension of the first. Snape’s vow was clearly centered around providing his protection for Draco, in whatever dark Death Eater schemes he found himself engaging in.

But if Snape’s vow was for protection, what was Narcissa Malfoy’s vow for?

And, of equal importance, with whom did she make it with?

***

The Great Hall was as lively as ever after a prolonged break, in which friends groups from every house were reunited in a symphony of banter and roaring laughter. The boisterous conversations were occasionally interrupted by someone unleashing whatever Weasley Wizard Wheeze's contraption they received for the holidays in the dining hall, which many of the professors bravely attempted to ignore in favor of ruining the good spirits around them.

Hermione sat at the table with the usual Gryffindor crew. Minus Ron, who she had not spared a glance to since exiting the Hogwarts Express, much to Harry's disappointment. She could feel Ron's frustration in that fact as well from the opposite end of the expansive Gryffindor table, where Lavender was busy trying to hand feed him Shepard's Pie.

But in one Weasley’s absence, another took their place. Ginny was not a completely new addition to their group’s dining arrangement, but she was an uncommon one– considering she ate off to the side with Dean most days. Except for today, it seemed, as Dean was situated a handful of metres away from their table. Another reminder for Hermione to file away for later, in which she would be confronting Ginny for a second time, as she watched the redhead cozy up next to Harry.

Hermione was distracting herself with an in-depth analysis of table arrangement politics and her friends' antics, she knew. She was trying her hardest to not look through the space between Harry’s and Neville’s shoulders to the far side of the room, where the snakes tended to their own respective meals

Hermione made it all of eleven minutes from sitting down at the table before she began rationalizing.

One glance. That was all she was going to allow herself, after the absolute disaster that was the night of Slughorn’s Christmas party and the infernal letters that followed it. One glance, and she would… well, she hadn’t really gotten farther than the glancing-over-at-him part, yet.

Screw it, Hermione hastily thought, not giving herself time to second guess the decision. She stared straight ahead to the location where something within her body – perhaps her soul – already knew he was at.

He was just as haunting and striking as she remembered him from those couple of weeks ago. It was maddeningly cruel.

Blond hair, perfectly clean but still wildly unkempt, hung poetically over his forehead. A pointed, angular nose that was completely smoothed over, currently lacking the ripples that made a home across the ridge with every sneer. A darkened mouth, unfairly full with a corner barely turned upwards, likely in contempt more than amusement knowing him.

And grey eyes–

Grey eyes, she could not see. Because, perhaps for the first time since the start of the term, Malfoy was sitting across from Hermione in the Great Hall and he was not looking at her.

He was looking at Daphne Greengrass, instead.

The hope she didn’t know that was dangling precariously in her stomach dropped. In its absence, something horribly fiendish took its place, crawling up from some unfamiliar but hellish place within her.

Daphne wore that stupid smirk on her porcelain face, flipping a lock of perfectly straight honey blonde hair over her shoulder as she spoke. Her body was angled towards Malfoy’s on her bench, damn near straddling the seat in his direction.

Hermione wondered what else Daphne’s legs had straddled recently. The fiend, the hellhound, the beast– whatever it was that had awoken within Hermione in the last few seconds growled wretchedly, longing to snap those pretty little legs in half.

It was hard to perceive the way Pansy and Blaise were almost intentionally sitting separately from the pair, eating their plates of food as dutifully as one would when ordered to. It was even harder to notice Nott sitting on the opposite side of Malfoy, who was busy doing his own share of deadly staring– except towards the Gryffindor table, in a location Hermione did not know nor did she care where.

She couldn’t really perceive or notice or even see any of those little details, because the scene that unfolded gave her complete tunnel vision. The most hateful, torturous kind.

Malfoy nodded once to some question or statement Daphne had made.

Daphne offered a sensual smile, speaking another couple of words with raised brows.

Malfoy kept his face relatively blank as he shrugged his shoulders, staring down at the girl's untouched plate of food on the Slytherin table.

Daphne cusped the sharp edge of his downturned jaw – and Hermione knew just how sharp and deadly it was – before fully leaning her chest into Malfoy’s shoulder, placing a territorial kiss on his cheek.

Malfoy did not pull away.

Hermione heard a faint, but undying, ringing in her ears.

Obviously because they know I’m already spoken for, mudblood!

Ah. Malfoy had “spoken” on behalf of Daphne Greengrass, did he? Interesting. As the hellish beast clawed away at the inner wall of her intestines, ripping her organs to shreds, Hermione wondered about the rules and regulations attached to pureblood betrothals. Or were they simply in the courting period, which still made a betrothal just another foregone conclusion? Regardless, was it normal for a man promised to another to spend his nights away from his sweet beloved, practically fucking a mudblood against his leg, seconds away from begging her to come all over his trousers–

This simply won’t do. Hermione gave no thought or reason as to why that fact was. She just simply knew it to be true.

"Mione? You alright?"

Hermione broke the one-sided eye contact swiftly, facing Harry with a soft smile on her face, but with undoubtedly deranged undertones. "I'm brilliant."

Or she would be, soon enough.

Hermione was frighteningly calm as she finished her dinner, nodding placatingly along to whatever her friends were chatting about. She strolled leisurely back to Gryffindor Tower, pleasantly bidding Harry and Ginny goodnight before ascending the staircase to her chambers. Lavender and Pavarti had not made their own entrance yet, on account of them giggling with Ron on the couch in the common room– which suited her needs just fine.

Her trunk was already prepared for her thanks to the work of the poor house elves, resting perfectly on the foot of her bed. Hermione delicately undid the latches, opening and exposing its contents to the empty room.

They laid at the very top of her luggage, because of course they did. She packed them last, not even sure if she should bring them until moments before she walked out the door of her house. Now, in this state of highly functional rage, she was ever grateful for her unintentional foresight.

Hermione picked up the first letter in one hand, raised her vinewood wand in the other, and set off to work.

It was delicate spellwork. Likely too difficult to achieve for the average wizard. But Hermione Granger was a witch, and a brilliant one at that.

After nearly an hour of meticulous incantations, each one targeting a specific curve of a letter or a slashing stroke of the quill, it was done.

The content of the letters Malfoy had written her were largely the same: barely concealed innuendos, suggestive propositions, direct references to past liaisons. They were still arrogant and flirtatious at their core. Much like him.

But Hermione had done the impossible and changed them irrevocably, too.

Any reference that could be traced back to her – or worse, them together – was eliminated. Every greeting addressed to the Poisoner or the Raging, Dirty Gryffindor Bitch was replaced with a more common endearment, such as Lover or Sweetheart. She erased any mention of the Astronomy Tower as well, substituting it with various well-known shagging spots within the castle.

The major bit of content she left – or rather, manipulated – was applying Draco Malfoy’s official signature from the final letter to every letter that predated it.

Anonymous love letters. Only instead of the sender being the anonymous one, it was the receiver.

And courtesy of Hermione’s brute-force approach to the spellwork, the letters would be ascertained as legitimate. Because they were. She didn’t cast a lazy transfiguration spell or glamour to sell the letters as something they were not, magic that would be easily traceable and recognized as a forgery. No– Hermione quite literally forced the ink on each page to adjust and shape itself into different words entirely. It was in essence no different than the chemical composition of water remaining largely the same whether it was frozen or melted: full of oxygen and hydrogen molecules that simply took a different form.

There would be hardly, if any, excess magic to account for. Hermione was certain that if someone were to cast a spell to detect magic or a Revelio on the pages, nothing untoward would come up. She was that good.

The beast within her was pleased with her work as well, knowing what it was for. Hermione grabbed the Maurder’s Map (that she was still holding captive from Harry) to ensure no one of importance was still in the common room that would notice her leaving. Satisfied with how bare it had become in the past hour, Hermione grabbed her cloak and the letters, making her way sneakily through the Fat Lady’s portrait.

Hermione heeded Malfoy's advice – surprisingly – in the last letter. She did not make way for the Astronomy Tower this night. She had a different sort of tower in mind for what she needed accomplished. One with decidedly more feathers.

It was a long but pleasant walk to the owlery, one that remained uninterrupted thanks to Harry's nifty map. Hermione took her time strolling there, savouring the feelings of retribution that were gloriously on the horizon.

Upon arriving at the owlery, Hermione spent a few thoughtful minutes trying to select the ideal school owl for her purposes. She settled on a medium-sized, tawny barn owl with weathered eyes. He would do quite nicely, indeed.

Hermione carefully placed every single letter into a larger envelope, using the Hogwarts-provided stationary utensils in the owlery to seal the parcel. After inscribing the recipient and a brief message in an intentionally generic handwriting, she attached the new and improved letter to the chosen owl’s leg, where it would remain until its duties could be fulfilled in the morning.

She left that dark and windy building, the fiendish creature purring contently in her stomach. In the background, her chosen barn owl hooted softly, shaking its newly tied leg out until the envelope and the name of the addressee upon it was facing up towards the stars:

To Miss Daphne Araminta Greengrass,

Thought you should know.

Chapter Text

It was a scene straight out of a painting from the Romanticism era waking up that next morning – something along the lines of John Constable or Casper Friedrich, perhaps. Hermione was bathed in soft yet moody colours from the sunrise beaming through the ancient dormitory window. The promise of either a lovely winter day or an impending natural disaster were equally plausible in the violets, pinks, and yellows painting her face.

Hermione unleashed an exaggerated sigh, a grin already present on her mouth as she opened her sleep-ridden eyes. Lavender’s snoring and Pavarti’s sleeping-mumbling (there were never enough discernible words to classify it as talking) did nothing to dampen the sublime mood she had woken up with.

Her smile was only accentuated to find Crookshanks perched royally on the pillow next to her head. He unleashed a meow that could be roughly translated to: Good, you’re up– can we crack on then, while I’m still here to spare you my attention?

Well, if the kneazle insisted.

Hermione was closer to flying out of the bed than she was to exiting it. She hummed some random little tune as she prepared herself for the day, going through the motions of getting dressed with an extra bit of flourish in every movement.

“Whoze singin’?” Lavender grumbled into her pillow, pulling her wool quilt up higher over her own set of bed-induced frizzy curls.

“The owls will be, soon enough. Singing the most interesting of songs: tales, limericks, and ballads from far and wide.”

“Hmph?” A question, likely.

“Hermione’s gone round the bend again I think, Lav,” Pavarti supplied from the bed next to her still half-asleep friend, keeping her eyes closed as if she could stave off the waking hours for just a bit longer. “Best leave her to it.”

“Hmph.” An acknowledgment, surely.

Hermione ignored Lavender and Pavarti in their semi-conscious states just as she had in their unconscious ones, running her fingers through the last of her newly dampened spirals. Once satisfied with the somewhat-defined curls that would quickly become not-defined-in-the-slightest-did-you-even-use-any-blasted-product in a matter of minutes, she all but skipped towards their dormitory’s door.

“The return of the swot,” Lavender prophesized somberly to Hermione’s fleeing back, finally sitting up in bed to watch her departure with tired eyes.

She reckoned Lavender would not be the first nor the last person to incorrectly guess the reason behind Hermione’s uncharacteristically (as of this year) upbeat mood. Which was completely fine– she was in no rush to correct any of them.

What she was in a rush for was to be among the first students at breakfast. She required plenty of time to find the ideal seat, and count down the seconds until the morning mail arrived.

Hermione exited the common room as quickly as she entered it, walking with a giddy sort of haste in every step away from the Fat Lady’s portrait. Crookshanks followed, shimming in and out of her ankles, evidently deigning himself to join her this morning. It was probably a sign that there would be some interesting breakfast items on the menu this morning– kippers and the like that the kneazle could beg for scraps for from her housemates.

No matter. Kippers be damned. Today would be a marvelous day– and eventful one, certainly. Possibly bloody. But marvelous, nonetheless.

Crookshanks whined earnestly at her heel, slinking off to the side and behind a tapestry of one of the many hidden alcoves along the route. Hermione sighed, hearing him continue to chirp noisily from the other side as though to get her attention. She approached the tapestry and pushed back the thick fabric to retrieve her awfully needy cat.

Yes, nothing could ruin today–

Bloody fucking fuck.

They were a mess of tangled hair and half-fallen-off school robes, wrapped around each other like a frenzied storm of lust. Freckled hands gripped firmly against darkened waves, though not even their grasp could tame the wild strands. Pink and red mouths alike moving against each other, fighting one another, until one of them surrendered to a wet tongue– though it was impossible to say whose. The roughened, wind-burned hands of a quidditch player grasped their partner’s hip bone, holding and moving it against their own groin, seemingly unsure about the motion until a gasp escaped one of their mouths–

A stream of daylight from Hermione pushing the tapestry aside hit directly across Harry’s eyes. The surprised boy nearly hissed as he released Ginny, instinctually cowering back from the sudden and bright sensation before he had a chance to process what brought it on to begin with. The downside of being born with green, sun-sensitive eyes, Hermione supposed.

Ginny, trying to follow his retreating mouth with her own, was slower to the draw. Her own eyes blinked disorientedly, perplexed by the newly present sunlight but not blinded by it. It was only when her eyes fluttered over to meet Hermione’s that she looked well and truly stunned.

“Well, isn’t this cosy,” Hermione leered at the scandalous pair. Harry, at least, had the decency to look guilty. Ginny remained simply shocked, thrusted out from whatever blissful place her mind was occupying up until a few seconds ago.

Crookshank sat proudly before them both. He pawed at Harry’s leg, looking expectantly up at his mother. Hermione was certain he was expecting some praise on her end for his job well done in finding her no good, promiscuous friends. But it didn’t feel like an appropriate time to murmur good boy, Crookies.

Harry adjusted the front of his trousers in a poor attempt at being discreet, while his other hand angled towards the nape of his neck, scratching an itch she knew wasn’t really there. “Hermione–”

“Please, don’t bother. I’ll leave you both to it.” Her words were relatively nice on the surface, but the icy undercurrent was painfully obvious to them all. She dropped the tapestry, leaving it up to Crookshank’s discretion this time to join her again or not. Hermione backed away from the alcove, continuing her path towards the Great Hall. Though in a decidedly different mood than before.

The bright serenity from this morning clouded over, as something dark and scornful took its place. It seemed like the impending natural disaster had won out over the lovely winter's day, then.

Merlin, she felt so angry– no, not angry. It was some other emotion, swelling near the pit of her stomach close to where the beast inside her resided last night. It was somewhat familiar… yet different, still. Its potency swiftly overcame her senses, and it felt as though her eyes could only see the world through a pair of green-tinted glasses–

“Mione, wait up–”

She increased her pace, her Mary Janes slamming harder on the floors with every step.

Not that it mattered, anyhow. Harry’s long legs and athletic endurance were no match for her, especially in this state. He caught up easily, matching her stride without issue. Hermione kept her gaze forward, scared for both her and Harry’s sake for what she would do if she looked over and saw a smudge of Ginny’s lipgloss on his neck.

She wondered briefly where the redhead was, but had a sinking suspicion she was still frozen in that alcove. Perhaps Crookshanks was keeping the shocked trollop company.

“Mione–”

“Don’t.”

Harry paused for a few moments, and Hermione thought briefly that she might be permitted a silent walk to breakfast. Her thoughts, as so often recently, were wrong.

“... Alright. Um, are you excited for Apparation lessons, then?”

Hermione bit the inside of her cheek, longing for the tangy taste of blood to ground her. She remained silent at his poor attempts at engaging her in a conversation. Though it was becoming increasingly difficult, as a terrible mixture of rage and that other, sickly emotion swirled around inside her. And she was longing to let it all out.

“Evidently not. Ha… Ahem–” Harry cleared his throat, and she caught him attempting to pat down his extra-wild hair from the corner of her vision as he spoke. “Well, you missed it after going upstairs early last night, but I have another lesson with Dumbledore soon. Sounds important, too. What– what do you think he’ll show me this time?”

Silence– and more anger. More of that something other, too.

Harry let out a near agonized groan, and she knew neither of them could dance around this any longer before he even spoke. “Hermione–”

“Eight o’clock is a bit early in the day for infidelity in my books, personally. But what do I know? Maybe the promise of bangers and mash is enough to make anyone randy and rearing to start an affair.”

“What– that’s not– this isn’t an affair– we just both couldn’t sleep last night, and we went on a morning walk together, and–”

“You don’t need to explain yourself to me. You’re your own person, Harry. Free to make your own decisions. No matter how utterly stupid they might be.”

“Hermione, I– it’s not like that–”

They had rounded the corner of the corridor, the entrance to the Great Hall within eyesight only a handful of paces away. Hermione stopped in her tracks, rounding on Harry herself. He skidded, nearly ramming his body straight into hers, not anticipating the sudden confrontation. But she wanted this over with already, so she could enjoy her vengeance in peace– over a nice cup of tea, maybe.

So, Hermione cast a dual silencing and disillusionment charm in one go, now that more and more students were frequenting the halls on their way to breakfast. And she did what she wanted to do: let it all out.

“I mean, really, did it ever even cross your mind that snogging a very much not available girl wouldn’t be the best thing for the Chosen One’s reputation? Do you like serving up tabloid gossip to Rita Skeeter on a damned silver platter?”

A spot of anger flashed across Harry’s eyes, and he was no longer solely on the defensive. “She is not some girl, Hermione, she’s Ginny. Our friend, Ginny. My Ginny–”

“Your nothing.” Hermione hissed, stepping closer to Harry, wanting to seep the words into his skin. “You don’t own the right to her body, her heart, her fucking time of day just because you grew up with her, Harry. She’s still with Dean. No matter how you spin that, that fact doesn’t change.”

“She doesn’t want to be with him! They’re horrible for each other and you know it.”

“Be that as it may, it doesn’t change the facts. Ginny is dating Dean. Not you. And until either she or Dean ends it, you’ll be doing nothing but engaging in a sick fantasy.”

Harry’s nose wrinkled in disgust at her words, as if she was the barmy one in this situation. “How can you talk about Ginny this way? About me? You’re allowed to keep secrets about Godric knows what from me with barely a complaint, but now you act like we deserve to serve time in bloody Azkaban for a couple of snogs. Some friend you are, Hermione.”

“Don’t you dare, Harry Potter. I love you and Ginny both. But loving someone doesn’t mean turning a blind eye when they’re doing something incredibly foolish.”

“So, what? You think we’re not good for each other, me and Ginny?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“That’s exactly what you’re saying, Hermione–”

“I did not. Your potential for love for each other has nothing to do with this.”

“Then what does?”

“The fact that you two are starting off on the worst possible foot you could start on, Harry. You’re building a relationship on the back of unfaithfulness and lies and secrets. What kind of future does that provide to either of you? What makes you think that you even have the right to do this in the first place? It’s just– this whole bloody thing– it’s– it’s just not fair.” The words poured out of her throat, nearly strangled in their delivery.

Ah. There it was. That bitter, twisted something inside of her finally had a name.

Envy.

It was selfish, this overreaction from her. It had been selfish for months now, even before Harry and Ginny had officially crossed that line. A selfishness that had been borne of envy, from every flirtatious interaction and coy greeting between them that made her feel bitter and spiteful. She could use her protectiveness over Harry as an excuse as much as she’d like, but it didn’t change the truth.

Harry and Ginny were able to have their sordid, no good affair in peace. The only truly bad part about what they were doing was the moral implications of it all. But the only people that would really be impacted by said moral implications were themselves and Dean. A minor, almost domestic sort of conflict.

The fact of the matter: Harry Potter was allowed to be with the person he wanted, even though it was wrong and unethical on paper. And he got to do it so godsdamn easily. Hell, he’ll probably end up being rewarded for it somehow, too.

But she would never be afforded that luxury.

Hermione didn’t want to want Malfoy. However, it was far beyond the point of pretending that she didn’t feel something more for the wicked man. She hated that for a lot of reasons (truly, an overwhelming list of reasons, with the memory of Daphne’s lips on his cheek lingering in her surface thoughts). But among her chief complaints was the simple fact that nothing could ever truly come from those feelings.

Her ghost being a generally evil, cursed bastard was nothing at the end of the day. In Luna’s words, Hermione was certain she could handle a bit of darkness, having plenty to spare herself. But Malfoy wasn’t just dark. He was a Death Eater. She was famously Harry Potter’s Mudblood among his cohort. They were at directly opposing forces. And he couldn’t stand to touch her.

Any further exploration with each other… an affair of sorts for themselves wasn’t conceivable. Even if fucking Daphne Greengrass wasn’t in the picture, and the only infidelity present between them would be her breach of promise to Harry and his to Voldemort.

The sight of Harry and Ginny lost in each other’s arms, with no real loss at stake between them, only served as a reminder to why anything with Malfoy would be insupportable.

So yes, she was no better than Malfoy right now, being an utter hypocrite herself. But it was all owed to envy, the new companion to her wrath, boiling in her stomach like a vat of oil. It made her feel just as foul and grimy as oil did, too.

Dear Godric. But Harry just got to have everything, didn’t he? A brand new Firebolt with no questions asked, the opportunity to compete and win in the Triwizard’s Tournament, credit for all the work she put into organizing the D.A., a fraudulent potions legacy owed to a book that magically fell into his lap, and now– and now– this? Hermione was becoming more sympathetic to Ron’s plight by the second.

It’s just not fair.

Harry, of course, being the genuinely good soul that he was, misinterpreted her words. Believing she was angry on behalf of him and Ginny both, that it wasn’t fair for them to do this to each other.

Nevermind that the actual intricacies of their relationship was the last thing on her mind.

His frustrated eyes softened, as something akin to shame and uncertainty took its place. “Mione, I–”

“–want to do this in front of our friends, Draco? Fine. Your faithful dogs can tag along and you can tell us all about the whore you’ve been frequenting these nights!”

Hermione snapped her head towards the entrance to the Great Hall positioned behind her back, hearing the high-pitched shrieking steadily increase in volume. A shrieking that was owed to none other than Daphne Greengrass, who was apparently marching steadfast towards the exit to the Great Hall.

She hadn’t even realized how much time had passed during the entire shitshow that was this morning. Damn it, she missed the post!

Well, at least she would soon be getting a front row seat to the aftermath of her trusty barn owl’s hard work.

Only, she nearly forgot that Harry would be attending the show as well. “What’s all that yelling about–”

Hermione twisted round again to face her oblivious companion and roughly pushed him back towards the corner they had only just come from, giving themselves some cover behind the jagged stone walls. Realistically, she knew her silencing and disillusionment charms were still active on them both. But charms such as these were always susceptible to failure, especially when her attention would now be divided in the name of eavesdropping.

Better to make sure there wouldn’t be any interruptions on account of Daphne seeing the girl she was (unknowingly) raving about.

“Hmph– what the hell, Mione–”

“Shut up.”

“Wha–”

“Shh,” she shushed him, peeking from behind the corner wall just in time to witness the familiar band of snakes exit the dining hall. Daphne, in all her scorned fury, stormed out of the open doors first. Pansy followed closely behind, her strut much more casual yet still with a lazy kind of elegance– she was the picture of boredom. Jaded, as Pansy once called it.

Harry, ever the curious Gryffindor himself, did indeed shut up and peered over her head to get his own view. Hermione was sure he was elated to see Malfoy stroll out the doors next, likely convinced that they would catch him in some terrible Death Eater plot out in the open corridors.

She really, really hoped they didn’t. Not yet, at least.

“Hey! Pansy isn’t a dog.” Nott’s face was stern as he appeared a few paces behind Malfoy. “She’s a bitch.”

“Flattering, Theo,” Blaise mumbled, making up the tail end of the group as he walked out the Great Hall. He was clearly the only level-headed and mindful one of them all, having the decency to close the wooden doors behind him. Wouldn’t want anyone eavesdropping on Daphne Greengrass’ meltdown.

“I’ve been likened to worse.” Pansy shrugged, leaning against the same wall Malfoy had evidently claimed, directly adjacent from where Hermione and Harry were disillusioned. Their overall demeanors were similar, but not matching. Where Pansy was bored and jaded, Malfoy looked … understimulated. Repressed.

Hermione’s grip on the stone’s sharp corner tightened.

“Who is she?”

“Bold of you to assume the recipient is a ‘she,’ Daph. And a little homophobic,” Nott chastised, crossing his arms with a disapproving look in his eye. “I am personally offended.”

“Not now, Theodore,” Daphne snapped, before turning her attention back to Malfoy. “Answer me, Draco. Who is she?”

Malfoy looked as though he were suffering an hours long History of Magic lecture, lazily twiddling his hawthorn wand in his left hand. But he tilted his head to the side for a moment, as if in thought, before responding, “Why do you assume they’re a ‘she’?”

Daphne screeched in outrage while Nott cackled. “Stop deflecting, Draco, and answer the damn question! What slag did you write these disgusting letters to?”

“Afraid you’ll need to be more specific, dear. I’ve written a lot of letters.”

The answer to his query was quite clear, seeing as Daphne was holding the recently opened stack of letters. She balled each one up in her fist, before throwing them at his chest one by one. Malfoy didn’t bother fending them off, only raising a blond brow at her tantrum escalation. Nott, on the other hand, was treating this as some sort of Defense Against the Dark Arts exercise, attempting to hit each flying crumpled paper with a repelling charm.

“What–fucking–letters–do–you–think–I’m–talking–about!” Each word was accompanied by the throwing of another parchment.

A couple of the balled-up pages Nott had successfully landed a hit on rolled near Hermione’s and Harry’s feet. She felt Harry’s body shift behind her, trying to reach for one of them, before she swatted his hand away. It was not the correct time to test the strength of her spellwork.

“Well?”

“Well, I use my eyes to read and not my skin, so hitting me with those mysterious bits of parchment doesn’t help me much–”

“Ugh!” Daphne turned away from him, grabbing and pulling the strands of honey hair at her scalp. Malfoy smirk was entirely rotten. But no matter how self-satisfied he seemed at making Daphne lose her mind, Hermione knew better. There was something lurking beneath his composure. He was being stifled, somehow.

“How do you know those letters are even real, Daph? Who even sent them to you?” Pansy drawled.

“I have a better question, Pans– why do you even care?” Nott interjected. Hermione was sent back in time to the darkened corridor outside McGonagall’s office and the promise of you’ll remember me last. His voice, through the superficial guise of cheekiness, sounded eerily similar to that night.

At her back, Hermione felt Harry’s body tense.

“They’re real.” Daphne’s lip curled at that truth– well, manufactured truth. “I don’t know who sent them, but I’ll bloody well find out. And I have every right in the world to care, Theodore.”

“Not yet, you don’t.”

There was no mistaking the sinister lilt of Nott’s voice this time, as the whole lot of them went silent. Daphne’s eyes narrowed, seemingly toying with something in her mind. Whether it was a response or a decision, Hermione didn’t know.

The voice of reason in their group finally spoke up, trying to deescalate them all.

“Look,” Zabini was talking slowly, as one might when approaching a rabid animal. “No one is saying you’re not allowed to feel upset–”

“I am.”

“Not helping, Theo,” Zabini snapped, glaring at his provoking friend. “Bloody fucking Baron– we all need to settle down, maybe go back to the common room and regroup–”

“No, thank you, Blaise.” Daphne said, her chin tilting up in an awfully superior – and a little bit vindictive – manner. “Theodore’s right after all, isn’t he? That I don’t have the right to care?”

Nott was sneering at her, but his jaw ticked– as if anticipating a blow.

Daphne grinned right back before she began walking away from the group of Slytherins, her delicate heels clicking ominously against the floor as she headed in the opposite direction of Hermione and Harry’s position, back towards the dungeons likely. The words she left them with felt just as ominous, as well.

“And since I don’t, I’ll do my very best to be impartial in my report this week.”

It was a confounding series of sudden, simultaneous reactions from each of them:

Zabini threw his head back with a mumbled fuck, before he determinedly took off after Daphne’s disappearing body.

Pansy finally permitted an emotion to breach through the indifferent mask on her face, as her panicked black eyes widened. She glanced between Nott and Malfoy quickly, before following Zabini’s suit and running after Daphne.

Nott’s right hand twitched, as if he were itching to reach for the wand stored away in his robes. Instead, he curled the hand into a fist, staring at Daphne’s retreating back, before turning around and heading back into the Great Hall.

And Malfoy…

Malfoy was focusing very hard at the crumpled letters on the ground, laying far too close to Hermione’s feet. His eyes flashed suddenly, like he had some sort of abrupt realization or understanding. As if an illusion had faded.

Hermione’s stomach dropped as his eyes locked on to the left leg peeking slightly out from the stone wall. Eyes trailed up from her scuffed Mary Janes, to the gap between her knee high socks and skirt, and up her partially covered figure until he reached her shadow-shrouded face.

His eyes – grey eyes she had been searching for the night before – now stared at her. And there was murder promised within them.

“Shit,” Harry hissed, grabbing her from behind and pulling Hermione away from her position until they were both no longer visible.

He didn’t give her a second to recover or gather her thoughts before he grabbed her hand, tugging her along as he sprinted away from the Great Hall.

“Do you think he saw us?” Harry inquired over his shoulder to her, slowing down his running once they were a safe distance away.

Hermione tugged her hand out of his grasp, but didn’t answer him. She didn’t have the brain function currently to do so. All she could think about was the anger and violence promised within her ghost’s eyes.

Her stomach clenched again from the memory, but for a much different reason.

Merlin, how she missed this. As always, she hated herself for it.

***

Harry had tried to theorize with her about the interaction they witnessed soon after returning to the common room with their stomachs empty. He was making connections to their conversation on the train the night before, wanting to discuss who Daphne Greengrass could possibly be writing this “report” to and how Malfoy was inevitably involved.

Hermione was hearing none of it, shutting him down immediately. The memory of him and Ginny was still fresh in her mind, even though it was now only a side plot in comparison to Malfoy’s eyes. Harry’s excited speculation quickly turned into gloomy dejection, the shame and uncertainty from before creeping back into his disposition as they quietly left for classes.

Ginny was still nowhere to be seen.

Hermione felt telltale signs of Malfoy staring at her throughout their lessons that day: tingling sensations along her skin, her heartbeat quickening as prey would be when being stalked by a predator. But it was different from his hauntings in the previous term: his gaze felt less inquisitive and mischievous, and more like he was trying to manifest real knives with the daggers he was staring into her back.

It was wrong, she knew, to cross her legs while seated in Arithmancy, feeling something down low within her thrum at the thought. And its promise.

Professor Vector eventually concluded her lecture on the ancient Egyptian's approach to theoretical Arithmancy, bidding them all with an off you pop before retreating to her office. Hermione gathered her books and parchments, making a swift exit from the classroom.

She had wondered at some point, earlier in the day during Transfiguration, when Malfoy would confront her. How he would do it.

As Hermione felt something pull on the back of her robes, dragging her into one of the cupboards just outside of the Arithmany classroom, she knew her wondering had officially come to a conclusion.

He wasn’t gentle, and she hadn’t expected him to be. Malfoy yanked her into the confined space, shutting and locking her only means of escape. Hermione barely had time to gasp before he slammed her into the wooden shelving behind her still-surprised body, her shoulders knocking into various canisters of paint and cleaning solution.

There may or may not end up being markings left over on her back from his rough handling, but Hermione didn’t care. Not when he was still looking at her, with a delicious loathing still shining around his irises. Not when she had driven him to this point. Any bruising would be most welcome.

Godric, how she resented missing his initial reaction at breakfast this morning.

“You sure do take the title of an insufferable, fucking busybody to heart, don’t you?” Malfoy snarled at her, stepping as far into her space as their bodies and the space would allow. Her eyes flickered between his bared teeth and icy eyes, trying to memorize his countenance in this moment for some reason. It was hard to do so, what with the only light in the dark cupboard coming in from the outside of it, owed to the many weathered cracks in the door.

“Come again?” Her voice sounded a touch too honeyed and unbothered, even to her ears.

“Fuck off. You’re only insulting yourself with this feigned ignorance, Granger.”

“And you're insulting my intelligence trying to get me to answer a clearly rhetorical question, Malfoy.”

“You want me to be direct? Fine. What fucking strand of gillyweed were you on that led you to believe sending the letters to Daphne would be a good idea?” Malfoy grasped the shelving at her head, bracketing her in around him. Hermione squirmed, remembering the last time his hand had been this close to her head. How frantic it had felt against her skin, tracing her untouched lips, brushing against her neglected tongue.

She didn’t want to think about what happened after that, though. Not right now.

“None– I was quite sober for that.”

Malfoy scoffed in disbelief, looking at her with marked disgust as he shook his head. “Fucking Salazar– brightest witch of her age my arse. Do you often make moronic decisions in the heat of the moment, any time your delicate little feelings are hurt?”

“My feelings are perfectly fine.” Lie. “And I certainly did not post those letters in the heat of any moment.” Another lie.

“Please–”

“You said yourself the letters were a mistake. Unimportant, even. So I imagined it didn’t matter who saw them, and figured Daphne might be interested in just how poetic you can be. Given your budding relationship with her, that is.” Hermione tried to minimize any scrunching or twisting happening on her face at the mention of their relationship.

“Typically, when a person deems a handful of letters as a mistake, it's a hint to burn them. Not send them out to others via post.”

“Possibly. This way seemed a lot more fun, though.”

His eyes narrowed, but in triumph. “Because it was an emotional-driven response.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No. I’m just as indifferent to them as you claim to be.”

He dropped his arms, freeing her in the name of bracing his hands against his own head. His eyes were upturned towards the ceiling, as if he were about to beg Salazar Slytherin for respite. “Fucking hell, Granger. You must be drowning from the weight of all your pretty lies.”

“I’m not lying.” Yes, she certainly was. “The letters were unimportant to me as well, and I gave them to someone that might find them infinitely more interesting for a bit of a laugh. I could care less about all this rot.”

“Yeah? Is that why you stayed around to watch the aftermath, then?”

“That– that wasn’t intentional. I just happened to be there.” God, Malfoy was right: she really was a liar, wasn’t she?

“How fucking convenient.” He laughed like he could read her mind. It was difficult to tell in the darkened space, but it looked like he was struggling to land on an emotion to feel. Torturously waging battle between anger and amusement. “Pray tell, why were you lurking around the corner then instead of enjoying breakfast, Granger?”

Because my friends are a bunch of no-good horny harlots, Hermione thought unkindly, refusing to acknowledge her envy at the center of that thought. Even as the image of them wrapped around each other flashed through her mind again.

“It’s none of your business, Malfoy. And even if it were, I wouldn’t tell you. Because doing so would do nothing but give you something or someone else to blame for your poor actions.”

“My poor actions?”

“Yes. If you don’t want a girl angry and ranting about betrayals, then don’t commit what could be perceived as a betrayal. Maybe you shouldn’t write disgusting and degrading prose for a mudblood you can’t stand. Food for thought.”

Hermione was happy to leave on that, satisfied with getting the last word in. She made way to the cupboard door, but was halted by Malfoy grabbing her arm. She tried to ignore how it suddenly felt like her arm caught on fire. “Is that what this was? An annoying little attempt at revenge– for what? Not shagging your poor, needy little cunt that night? What is your excuse this time, Granger?”

“Pig,” Hermione hissed, wrenching her arm away. “I don’t need an excuse to hurt you. I’d make a career out of it if I could. And I’d still do it for free, even then.”

Another contemptuous laugh. “I think that’d be called having a kink, Granger, not a career. Or perhaps just a penchant for serial killer tendencies.”

Hermione sneered. “Like I said: pig.”

“Your denials and deflections would almost be cute if I wasn’t so fucking pissed right now.”

“And why are you? Pissed,” Hermione clarified, tilting her head in what she hoped conveyed mock curiosity. But in truth, she was curious. This was a bit of an extreme reaction, especially from him. “Are you heartbroken you might have lost your opportunity to woo the twit with the bad attitude and grating voice?”

Grey eyes bore into brown, with a new intensity. Malfoy regarded her as if he could read something within them that she couldn’t. “And if I said yes?”

“Then I would mourn the apparent and sudden death of your brain.”

“I’m pissed for a lot of reasons, Granger. Reasons your own know-it-all brain can’t even begin to comprehend. But believe it or not, that is one of them.”

Hermione felt like he had plunged a stake into her heart. She had been hoping… she didn’t know exactly what, but perhaps at least that he wasn’t attempting to court Daphne Greengrass of all people. Hoped that there was some other explanation to what she witnessed at dinner last night, and that he would reveal it dramatically and passionately to her. Perhaps with a rendition of what had occurred the evening of the party.

His affirmation hurt, and he knew it. Malfoy wore her anguish like a badge of honor pinned to his crooked grin.

“Don’t start that which you can’t finish, Granger.” Malfoy cooed at her, and she despised how much he could read her. That he knew not only where to place the stake, but how to twist it in.

He backed away from her, and Hermione knew he was going to leave her there, beaten and raw with emotion. She couldn’t have that– refused to be on the backfoot yet again by this blasted man. She pushed any ache or sorrowful feeling she had deep inside, and put what had been her main goal of this morning back into the forefront of her mind: vengeance.

Hermione, using their height difference to her advantage, looked up from beneath her eyelashes the way she had seen Lavender and Ginny do countless times. She smiled at him, so obscenely sweetly that it stopped Malfoy in his tracks. As she lightly bit her bottom lip, she witnessed his shoulders go impossibly taut.

“But I did finish it, don’t you see? Daphne won’t be running back into your arms anytime soon from my vantage point. And if she does,” Hermione stepped right back into him, so her shoes were practically on top of the point of his. Her lips were only a handful of centimetres away from his parted ones, and she was drowning the scent of cypress and leather. A tongue darted out from between her pink mouth, moistening her lips to deliver her words. “If she does, then I’ll keep finishing it. Over. And over. And over again. Do you know why?”

Malfoy was breathing heavily, his hardened chest pressing against her own as it expanded with every inhalation. Hermione, as gentle as a lover would, reached up to cusp the corner of his jaw. His skin was so cold to the touch that it burned her. She swiped away at nothing on his cheek, but he shuddered against her hand all the same. Still not able to stand it, apparently.

“I’ll keep finishing it, because a world in which you win and get what you want is not a world I’m content living within. Why do you think I never came back to the Astronomy Tower? Your suffering, your pain, your hatred is mine to nourish.”

“Doux poison…” She wasn’t sure if Malfoy even knew he had spoken, as the words escaped from his mouth much like a breath.

“You may be ‘done with me,’ Malfoy. But I’m most certainly not done with you.”

Hermione dropped her hand with a cruel smile. She turned to open the door, meeting no resistance this time. Her shoulder hit his chest on the way out, and Malfoy somehow lost his footing from the minor nudge.

The locked cupboard gave no fight against her Alohamora, Malfoy likely not bothering to keep concentration on his own spell. It was a full circle moment from this morning as she wrenched the door open: a bright light washing away all the darkness of the space two people with bad intentions were occupying. Though every word and touch shared with Malfoy had felt vastly more erotic than anything she witnessed between Harry and Ginny.

Hermione turned over her shoulder, taking pity on the poor man. She left him with an opening to continue whatever fucked up game they had begun this year with, before striding away towards Gryffindor Tower.

“It’s your move, as I believe they call it.”