Saving You

Safe At Hogwarts

Taking up her wand, Hermione held the tip lightly against the marks on her skin. "Tego," she whispered, watching as the water-scars disappeared, blending into nothing. Bitterly she thought about how cruel the world was, of how scars were drawn so effortlessly, and how with such difficulty they faded away.

If they faded away.

Still looking at her reflection, at the place where the blistering burn had been, she smiled humorlessly. All those drooling boys didn't realize that she was still the ugly duckling. They didn't see the scars that lay hidden beneath the magic, the lines that marred her skin. They had never seen the evidence of her secret shame, the proof that she wasn't as perfect as they all thought—that she wasn't anything at all. They had never seen the truth... only a spell, a magic trick, a lie.

Hermione raised a hand, lightly placed it on her neck, felt the wound burn underneath its invisibility. The skin that had been red and raised only moments before was softer now, smoothed over by the Concealment Spell. Her solemn smile became a cynical laugh. Like all the others, the scar would probably never pale or fade away. Once she lifted the spell, all the hidden slashes would reappear.

They were never really gone, not even with the magic.

"Hermione!" called a woman's voice from down the stairs. "Hermione, you're going to miss your train!" Hermione didn't move, didn't even glance to the door. "Damn it, Hermione—I have a plane to catch! If you want a ride to the station you'll have to hurry it up!"

Hermione didn't call back to her mother. Silently, she collected her things, slinging her bag over her shoulder, taking her trunk by its handle, clutching Crookshanks' kennel to her waist. And with one last look around, and one final glance at the girl in mirror, she pulled her luggage, and herself, away.

The rain was coming down in heavy drops, splashing against the manor's rooftops and into the metal gutters at the covering's edge. The vacant hills of English countryside that surrounded the mansion were veiled in shades of grey, the smoke-colored clouds drifting so close to the ground that they seemed almost to touch. The wind was picking up, blowing the leaves and branches of the stray trees, bending their thin trunks until they looked like they might snap.

There was a knock on Draco's bedchamber door, a quiet, timid sound.

"Enter," he called, not turning from the window. The creak of the door signified obedience.

"The master sent Squiggly to fetch Master Draco," a tiny voice said from behind him. "The master is impatient for him to come."

"He can wait," Draco told the house-elf tersely, his eyes still on the rolling hills.

There was silence and then a worried sound. "Master says Master Draco should not miss his train," the house-elf went on bravely. "He says that you cannot be late for school again this year."

Draco clenched his jaw hard and did not answer. A strangled moan came from the small creature. "Master gave Squiggly direct orders, sir, and Squiggly cannot disobey." There was another pause. "He says Squiggly must not return without you, Master Draco."

Draco turned sharply from the wide window, his eyes falling to the servant elf. "Tell your master that I will leave whenever I want to leave," he told Squiggly simply, "and not before."

The dangerous tone behind the words had the elf wringing his little hands, had him whimpering shrilly.

"What is that confounded noise?" barked someone from down the corridor. The master of the house appeared at the end of the corridor, his head snapping in the creature's direction, his silver eyes, so like his son's, already condemning. "You—house-elf!" he demanded, heading down the long hallway towards the slave's tiny quaking form. "Didn't I give you business? Where is my son?"