Cold (Hermoine X Draco)

Chapter Nine

HERMIONE POV

Homework. I generally like it, and I have a reputation because of that, but sometimes it's too much even for me. I'd been buried up to my eyeballs in assignments today, and I stayed up well past midnight in the common room finishing essay after essay. So, when I'm rudely woken after a mere hour of sleep, I'm beyond annoyed.

Several people are screaming out in the halls, and my wand is out in a flash, a reflex from the war.

Someone pounds on the portrait hole, and I hear the Fat Lady protesting loudly.

"Hello! Where's Harry Potter? Where's the Head Boy?" cries a girl on the other side.

"Harry!" I shout. "Harry, get down here!"

Then, I race toward the hole and climb out into the hallway. People are running from all directions, owls swooping through the halls, teachers are failing miserably at keeping order. There hasn't been this much chaos since the Battle of Hogwarts, and for a moment I'm afraid there's a threat in the school. But then why aren't the teachers fighting? They're only calling for silence, so it must not be too bad. A prank, maybe? Zabini after the Ravenclaws, again?

Harry taps my shoulder, in his pyjamas, hair a tangled mess. "What's happening?"

"I don't know, they all just want the Head Boy."

The crowd is all moving in the same direction, so we follow. I can't help but develop a sickening feeling in the pit of my stomach, one that only grows stronger with each step I take. Down, toward the Slytherin commons. A mob after Zabini? I'm sticking to this theory because it's innocent, and alternatives certainly don't look good.

Harry pushes through the crowd with me hot on his heels. I feel a pang of regret. Once, Ron would have been right there with us. Now, I don't know where he is, nor do I care.

My hand flies to my mouth when I finally reach the front of the crowd and I reach for Harry's arm, shocked. Horrified.

At the foot of the stairs going up lies a body. She's twisted at all the wrong angles, like a broken doll, with blood pooling around her head and several clearly broken bones. Her face is warped into a look of pain and terror. I hold out hope until I see her neck, and I know that she's dead. Her head is lying quite awkwardly, back too far to be normal, twisted and snapped. She's wearing nothing but a nightgown, and it's covered in blood.

She called me a bitch and a Mudblood. She sneered and taunted and laughed and I thought I hated her. But nothing changes the pity I feel for Pansy Parkinson, lying dead before me. What's worse is that she wasn't killed by a curse. There's bruising around her throat and on her arms, where hands grabbed her, snapped her neck. Though horrible, the Avada is clean and detached. A raised wand and a couple of words.

This was personal. Someone wanted to get their hands dirty, so to speak. Someone wanted her dead enough to break her neck with their own two hands. I shiver involuntarily. I expected this when Voldemort was alive. Not here, at Hogwarts, when the wizarding community has finally eradicated all threats.

"Where's Draco?" Marcus Flint shouts. "Everyone knows he didn't like her."

Malfoy elbows his way through the crowd, just as tired as Harry, but still managing to look good. Hang on, Hermione, where did that come from?

"Come on, Flint." he says tiredly. "I didn't do this, ask Blaize. We were playing Wizard's chess until an hour ago."

"Yes, but, as I recall, you were arranged to marry her. A nice Pureblood arranged marriage. You didn't like her, but your father would have forced you. So why not get her out of the way?"

"Flint, I--"

"Yes, most convenient, isn't it, Draco?"

I turn at the new voice and groan inwardly. Normally I would have suspected him, but I know in my gut that he's not responsible for Pansy's death. For one thing, even though he's a good actor, nobody can fake looking that pissed off. And even though he could have done a simple scourgify to clean his hands of her blood, he's too well put together to have ever touched Pansy. Which means someone called him here.

I've been doing homework for the past five hours. I've barely gotten any sleep. A girl's lying dead, and they're accusing Draco. When exactly did I start calling him Draco? On top of that, we now have to play host to one more person I hate.

So the question is, at roughly one thirty in the morning, who the hell invited Lucius Malfoy over here?

DRACO POV

"Father, Pansy just died, and all you can talk about is Hermione?"

My dad had just arrived. Within seconds of spotting me he'd gotten me alone in a secluded hall, and seemed intent on following me. Everyone's eyes had been trained on me as we'd left, their gazes cold, dark and frightened. People undoubtedly believed that I was responsible for Pansy's death, no thanks to people like Marcus stirring up trouble, creating accusations. Everyone but Hermione, who looked tired, but not angry. Certainly this meant she believed I was innocent, or at least didn't completely hate me. I wasn't sure why I cared what she thought, but I couldn't help but sigh with relief when we scurried by her on our way to this dark hall.

Speaking of Hermione...

"Draco, there's nothing we can do about that poor girl now." Despite his words, he seems anything but sorry about Pansy's death. I almost roll my eyes at his false concern. "But I do demand a reason as to why you're associating with mudbloods like that Granger girl. We're better than people like her, and a Malfoy doesn't befriend those less than him."

My ears turn red with anger, and I can't help but gush words of defensive for Hermione.

"Who cares if she's a mudblood? Does it really matter that she's not Slytherin? She's a far better person than Pansy ever was, than I am, or ever really will be..." My voice trails off, my eyes looking down.

"What's wrong with you, boy?" His voice rages until he's almost screaming, which of course, takes me by surprise. "She's a mudblood, a dirty broad. Someone less than us. You disappoint me, Draco. Your mother won't be very happy about this either."

My cheeks turn the same shade as my ears do. What the hell was wrong with him? And why did he have to bring mother into this? We'd gotten enough crap after the last few years, with the Death Eater business, and Voldemort. He and the rest of our family should be grateful we all didn't end up somewhere in Azkaban. I knew I was madder than I should've been about his cruel words. Heck, not too long ago I would've been the one muttering them, but I can't help my sudden anger.

"I don't care what you or mother think!" I take a step forward, my arms rigidly pinned to my sides.

Slap.

My father's cold hand comes in quick contact with my face, leaving a sharp sting in its wake. Dad had hit me before, but it had been a long time since I'd felt that pain. I look back at my irate father, the confidence I'd had a mere few seconds ago replaced with some sort of submission.

"You should always heed your parents, boy." His words are just as sharp as his slap. "I expect you to stop talking to that bitch, or I expect not to see you again."

"Don't you think you're being a little overdramatic?" I murmur, the full force of his words hitting me like a muggle-made bullet.

"You have no idea what this means, do you Draco? You have no idea what these recent developments will do to us, and so no, I'm not being dramatic at all." He takes a step back, towards a door. "Goodnight, boy."

And with that he opens the door and rushes out, without another word.

I slump my shoulders, sighing deeply. With the shut of the door, the light dims again, leaving me in the dark to face even bigger problems than my father's newest meltdown.

Who had killed Pansy?

And why did they seem to want to frame me?