:::Safe at Hogwarts:::
England rain drizzled down outside, the light pitter-patter of it hitting the roof, the sound soothing Hermione. The morning sky was dim and grey, making the heavens seem like a gloomy place. The people walking along the sidewalks wore heavy raincoats and boots, their umbrellas reflecting the raindrops as they lazily fell to the ground. Those people blended so well into the colorless scheme that she could almost see the beauty in it.
Almost.
She turned away from the window, resumed her silent packing. She folded her clothes by hand, not bothering to use the wand that sat an arm's reach away on the mattress. She preferred the unrushed pace, and though she was running late for the train, she didn't have enough energy to hurry.
Closing the trunk, she moved to the mirror, staring blankly at the girl she saw there. Light scarring cascaded down the right side of her neck, ruining the smooth alabaster from the top of her spine to the scale of bones along her shoulder. She couldn't recall what exactly she'd done, but she could remember her father's familiar reaction to whatever it was: the impatient way his eyes rolled when he perceived her disobedience; the way his affectionate smile turned grim and hot as he watched her move about the room; the way his voice raised, the way he spoke through his teeth as he harassed her. "Why must you always tempt me, sweeting? Why do you always make me hurt you?"
She had recognized the tone in his voice just before he'd snapped, just before the scalding water had poured over her skin. She had known something was coming. But she hadn't screamed or gasped, hadn't run or cowered away or even stepped aside. There was no need—she couldn't feel it. She was numb to the pain. Only the gentle slide of water and the warm rush of heat had lingered…
She was grateful that she'd at least been left with that much. She cherished whatever pain did happen to penetrate through. It was the only proof she had that she was still alive. And even then, she wasn't always convinced...
She sighed, watching the girl in the mirror sigh with her.
Hermione had always been awkward, both in personality and in appearance. Her bushy hair and shapeless form had failed to leave lasting impressions. The fact that she was intelligent tended to scare the opposite sex away—and the boys who were smart enough to not be intimidated by her didn't appreciate her either, because to them, she was nothing more than competition.
And she was comfortable with it that way. Being competition suited her. It made her faster, sharper, stronger. It gave her the chance to focus on her work, on being the best that she could be—an ambition that, over time, evolved into just wanting to be the best, period.
But as the years passed, her appearance had begun to soften. Her frizzy hair had begun to smooth, until finally all that was left of the bushy mess had been long, luxurious curls. A woman's body had begun to form without any effort at all, thinning out in some places, rounding out in others. She suddenly found herself in the disconcerting position of being desired. She started to notice her classmates scrambling to be her assigned partner, boys with A-averages "needing" her to tutor them after lessons. They began to cater to her need for approval by agreeing with her interpretations of books, by letting her answer all the teachers' questions, praising her when she was right and consoling her when she was wrong.
Hermione never adapted to this new perception they all seemed to have of her. The pressure to be more weighed even heavier on her now—the pressure to be perfect, or, at least, to appear to be. So she continued to go through the motions as this newer, thinner Hermione Granger—and it was only the two men closest to her who sensed the cracks splintering underneath.
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?"
"I'm here," Draco called easily. His eyes connected with the little servant's. He made a short, cutting nod, warning the elf away before their master could get too close. Squiggly didn't have to be told twice. He scrambled out of sight just as Lucius stormed into it.
He stepped into the room, the pure embodiment of annoyance. The men regarded each other for one long moment, twin sets of eyes both vigilantly watching, a twin set of guards both raised high.
After a few tense moments, Lucius spoke. "The Express has been at the station for quite some time, Draco," he informed his son sternly.
Draco looked at the clock, nodded in acknowledgment. "I can see that."
Lucius' eyes narrowed with practiced patience. "Then perhaps you can explain to me why you're here and not there."
Draco shrugged an indifferent shoulder. "I wasn't aware I was required to be the first man on the train," he said with a sarcastic smile.
Fury heated in Lucius' eyes, but he kept it repressed, kept his voice reserved. "Don't get cute with me, boy," he ordered icily. "I've put up with your wasteful frolicking, your apathy, for long enough. Believe me when I say I will have none of it this year. You have a responsibility to me, to your mother, and to all the Malfoys that came before, to carry on the prestige of this family name. You may not understand the kind of strings I've had to pull for you—in the school, in our Circle. I'll tell you, Draco, it has not been easy work..."
Oh, but Draco did understand. He knew all too well what his father had done, the 'strings' he had pulled, easy work or not. Head Boy wasn't the only title Lucius had sold his son into. The role of Death Eater followed close behind, a deep, dark shadow that clung to him always, like a death shroud.
"And I cannot have your Joining compromised by even the slightest misbehavior," his father was warning. "There will be no more gambling, no more drinking, no more gallivanting around with that string of harlots you keep at hand. It is imperative that your status not be sullied by misconduct of any kind."
"I understand," Draco assured the older man crisply, his voice deadpan, like his eyes.
"Do you?" Lucius stepped forward, looking skeptical. "There are big plans for you, Draco," he informed his son seriously. "Bigger than I think you willever comprehend."
Draco looked into his father's eyes, recognized the cool steel of his own. The men stared each other down, each one daring the other to cross him. After two tense moments passed, Draco was forced to relent.
"I've decided I'm leaving now," he told his father edgily.
Lucius smiled in satisfaction. "Excellent," he said shortly. He watched as his son pulled on a long tailored robe. "Don't forget to kiss your mother before you do."
And then he was gone, leaving Draco without so much as a 'good luck' or a goodbye.
The drive to King's Cross Station was long and silent. Diana Granger made no attempt at conversation with her daughter, didn't even spare her a glance. The woman, instead, was focused on weaving between the cars, from one lane to another, obviously frustrated with the downtown traffic.
The radio was off, but the light rhythm of rain against the windshield, of wipers swiping it away, provided a solemn soundtrack for the quiet ride. The upbeat ring of a mobile phone interrupted the silence, the theme song from some television sitcom or another sounding over the rain. The cheerful tune was painfully out of place on a dreary morning such as this.
"Diana Granger," was how she answered. No 'Hello?' in a frilly voice, no warm words or inviting tone—just business, all business, always business. "Jack. Hi." She switched the tiny cell from one ear to the other. "Yeah, it's a traffic nightmare. Would've gone the way you told me to, only I have to make a stop."
Hermione smiled thinly at the words. That's all she was now, all she had become: a stop, one that was always taking Diana Granger out of her way.
The sound of a horn honking could be heard in the distance. "Is everything set up...? Good. Give me the rundown." Diana's brows furrowed as she listened to the voice in her ear. "Yes... perfect..." And then: "What?" she snapped. "I specifically told her to put the newer drill out—no, the newerhandpiece, Jack. That's what we're trying to sell, isn't it?"
Without warning, a tiny yellow sports car cut into the lane in front of them. Diana quickly stepped on the break, narrowly avoiding a collision. "Watch where you're going, you bloody git!" she shouted, though, of course, the man in the sports car couldn't hear her. "Sorry. Damn city drivers," she explained into the phone. The man named Jack must have returned with some humorous quip because Diana let out a light, uncharacteristic laugh.
Hermione looked at her mother, surprised, but it was only a glance, just as fleeting as the laughter itself. The businesswoman returned within seconds, leaving Hermione to wonder if she had really heard the warm sound at all.
"I'll be at the airport in—" Diana took the phone away from her ear so she could glance at her wristwatch. "I don't know... twenty-five, thirty minutes, tops." She sighed. "I know, but I've got to drop Hermione off at King's Cross Station." A short silence, the quiet patter of raindrops. "Hermione," she said again, expectant. "My daughter Hermione." Another pause. "Nonsense. I'm sure I must have mentioned her sometime." The voice in her ear must have disputed that, because she shook her head in wonder.
But Hermione held none of that same surprise. Why would Diana have mentioned her? Why, when she had business to talk about: dental drills, big corporate deals. She had places to go and toothpaste to sell. She had never let the child she'd carried in her stomach affect all that. For whatever reason, Diana Granger had chosen long ago where her priorities rested—at dental conventions in countries far away from England. Far away from Hermione…
Diana was still barking orders into the phone when the car pulled up to the sidewalk at King's Cross Station. Wordlessly, Hermione gathered her luggage, struggling with her heavy trunk, patiently dragging it on the wet pavement towards the platform. She didn't turn back to smile or wave goodbye, not even as the car sped away from the curb and disappeared from sight.
Hermione walked slowly, taking all the time in the world, moving as if she had no particular destination in mind. Loading her trunk onto an empty trolley, she pushed unhurriedly through the rain, not bothering to shield herself from the gentle downpour. By the time she reached the platform, her clothes and hair were drenched. Without help, she loaded her belongings onto the train. And then, silently, she boarded herself.
The buzz of excitement echoed through the passageways. Hogwarts students of all sizes and ages were drifting from compartment to compartment, hugging their housemates, gabbing about summer, about classes, catching up. Hermione searched the endless cars for her friends, wanting desperately to see them, to hug them and have them hug her. Wanting to feel protected for once, loved for once—wanting to try. But, alas, she couldn't find them, and was forced to conclude that they weren't on board.
Hermione found the last empty compartment at the front of the train and moved into it tiredly. Slowly, she sat, situating Crookshanks' cage beside her. Her soaked clothing and wet curls dripped onto the floor, already creating miniscule puddles beneath and around her.
She turned her gaze out the window, watching the raindrops as they slid down the glass. People stood in clusters on the platform, waving goodbye to their daughters and sons. Hermione closed her eyes to them, not wanting to think of her own family. She would be safe again with Harry and Ron. She would be safe at Hogwarts... at least from her parents, at least for now.
She watched as the train slowly began to pull away from the station, watched as the clumps of people became distant specks, watched as they disappeared into nothing at all. She smiled sadly. The Express could take her away from her father, but she carried his voice in her head, his brutality on her body. She could be safe from him for a while, but she would never, never be safe from herself.
Draco ran onto the Hogwarts Express just as it began to inch forward on the tracks. The narrow cars were packed full of excited students, leaving almost no space for late arrivals. He pushed his way through the crowded passageway, searching from one room to another, not wanting to have to resort to the dreaded Head Boy Compartment. None were empty, and he cursed himself for letting his pride make him so late.
"Malfoy," came a low, easy voice from in front of him. "Better late than never, I suppose."
Draco looked up. "Zabini," he said with a nod—no handshakes or hugs were exchanged between Slytherins. "Where are you?"
Blaise pointed a thumb over his shoulder. "At the end with Crabbe and Goyle. And Pansy, of course," he added with a faint smile. "She's been waiting ever so patiently for you in there."
Draco looked towards the compartment with something akin to dread. "Perfect," he replied dully. The determined hanger-on had been his shadow since their youth, always a single step behind him in everything he did. "Where are you headed?" he asked the darker-skinned boy, wanting a distraction, not wanting to think of her.
Blaise smiled. "To find the sweet trolley," he answered mildly. "She's been the Spanish Inquisition all day, demanding to know where you are. I need some sort of sustenance to regain my strength."
A new, more feminine voice entered on cue. "Blaise, you still haven't heard anything from—" Pansy's feline eyes landed on Draco, brightening with satisfaction. "Draco," she finished smoothly. "Finally. There you are. I was beginning to worry you'd miss the train."
The woman before him was by no means ugly. Looking at her now, Draco was forced to acknowledge the opposite. Pansy was every virile man's fantasy. Smooth, straight hair fell to her shoulders in shiny streams. Steamy, staring sloe-eyes watched him—dark blue, like cold night sky. Mascara-coated lashes spiked sexily across her eyelids. Wide, sultry lips pouted, even when things were right. Her body, like a battleaxe, had curves that could slay even the hardest of men…
But when Draco watched those killer curves, he felt not fire ignite. Instead, all he felt was... resentment.
Marriage in aristocratic, pure society was still trapped in the Dark Ages. In their world, happiness and love were the products of mere coincidence—propermarriages weren't built on emotions or compatibility, but rather on things like status and wealth. Dowries, bloodlines, and reputations were essential in the choosing of an appropriate life partner. Parents were the ones who arranged influential matches for their heirs—and the Malfoys and Parkinsons were no exception to the rule. They had all but pledged their families' union at Pansy's birth, and though Lucius had never said outright that he would force Draco into matrimony, it was a cultural understanding that passed from every father to his son.
Still, like with every expectation, Draco had dragged his feet. He had never completely committed to Pansy. To everyone's great dismay—most especiallyhers—he had never declared them an official couple. He brought her to school functions, sat with her at meals, corresponded with her over summer. He had kissed her five or six times, had slept with her once. But he showed her no affection, graced her with no promises. He had scores of other girls who kept him far better entertained, and he only ever chose her company over theirs for duty's sake.
He made no secret of that fact, not even to her, which made her devotion to him all the more pathetic.
"Pansy," he acknowledged shortly, nodding once, and though anyone with ears would know it was merely a patient greeting, Pansy took it as an invitation. Breezily, she came forward, latching onto him with surprising strength. She guided him forward, towards the Head Boy and Girl Compartment, leaving an always-amused Blaise Zabini behind.
Draco clenched his jaw, but didn't pull away, didn't object as she began to speak disdainfully about some muggle-born first year who had already managed to earn her contempt. But halfway down the train he had already lost his patience.
"While I just adore hearing all about your little spats with the fledglings, Pansy, I think it might be best if I continue to the Head Compartment alone," he said through his teeth, drawing them both to a halt. "It is meant for Head Boy and Girl, after all. I'm sure there's a more suitable compartment for you to ride in."
Pansy looked up at him through her dark bangs and heavy lashes, pulling his sleeve with her signature pout. "There you go already, trying to push me away," she purred. "You're always trying to be so tough, playing like you don't want to get too close."
"I'm not playing," he assured her tightly. "I don't want to get close. Not to you."
Pansy only smiled, more than accustomed to his darker moods. "Now, now, no need to be harsh," she reprimanded, clucking her tongue. Her dark eyes sparkled, playful and possessive. "You know, I'd let you go on your way if I thought you wouldn't go looking for some other chit to take my place."
He heard the edge behind her lighthearted tone. That, and the claim of ownership, had tolerance withering fast. "What I do when I'm not with you is none of your concern."
"Perhaps," she agreed quietly. "But you and I both know that that won't always be the case." And then she laughed, as if charmed by his cruel candor. "For once in your life, don't be so obstinate." A pause. "I'm sure Head Girl won't mind if I sit in."
"Maybe I mind," he told her darkly.
Pansy only rolled her eyes. "I've spent the entire summer without you, Draco. You're not escaping me that easily."
Draco gritted his teeth and continued to let her pull him through the cars. They reached the front of the train, where the last compartment waited. Head Boy & Girl was etched into a wooden sign on the door.
Pansy looked through one window into the tiny room, smiled with satisfaction at the sight of empty seats. "The Head Girl's not in there, anyway, whoever she is. So I won't be bothering anyone." Without giving him another chance to object, she threw the door open and sauntered inside.
"If only that were true," Draco stated under his breath.
Running a frustrated hand through his hair, he happened to glance to the side, into the compartment opposite his. A lone thin figure sat quietly by the window, staring through the glass at something far away.
Hermione Granger...
Ready to dismiss her immediately, as he always did, he turned to enter his own compartment. And then suddenly he turned back, urged on by some unknown force.
He assessed her with narrowed eyes.
She was drenched to the bone, her school uniform soaked with rain, clinging to her body like a second skin. Her light brown hair was dark with water, long tendrils of it hanging over her shoulders and down her back. She sat, spine straight, rigid against the backrest. Her hands were folded together and resting unmoving in her lap. She should have been shivering, but he didn't see her shake—he couldn't even see her breathe. She was as still as a marble sculpture, her stone gaze glued on the distant landscape as it passed.
His brows furrowed.
Granger had never been anything much: at times mousy, at times strident; bookish and plain; off-putting, of course, because she knew all the answers; obnoxious because she never tried to conceal it. Their childhood rivalry had always made her unappealing to him—even now, years after it had cooled.
But... the Hermione Granger he saw now intrigued him... attracted him. Something about her called to his blood. He didn't know what.
He wasn't sure he wanted to.
Sensing his gaze, she turned her head—a slight, slow movement that brought her chocolate eyes to his. He raised a brow. There was something there he'd never seen... or, rather, something gone from them that he remembered being there before. Where he expected to see fire, or ice, or something, he saw only wariness. The answers she'd always flaunted were gone from their dark depths... lost...
Draco recognized those eyes. He had seen them in the mirror, in his own reflection, a thousand times. They were the eyes of someone with secrets. The eyes of someone who had seen too much.
Hermione stared back, her gaze frank, unafraid. What was it he was trying to figure out? What was it he was trying to find? Or was he realizing now what she had known all along—that not everything is how it appears on the surface. That there is more to a person than what they let you see.
Nothing is ever as perfect as it seems...
She smiled at him, a soft, sad turning up of lips.
Nothing, Malfoy—not even know-it-all Granger.
Draco frowned. He saw a message in her eyes, one he couldn't decode.
What did it mean? Why, suddenly, did it matter?
"What's the matter?" Pansy poked her head out of the door. She tried to follow Draco's gaze, her eyes narrowing as they landed on the soaked girl in the other compartment. "What are you looking at?" she asked primly, even though she knew very well what—and who—it was.
One last silent moment passed between them. And then Draco turned his eyes away. "Nothing," he said, bringing the satisfied smile back to Pansy's lips. "No one."
He settled into his seat in the Head Boy and Girl Compartment, clenching his jaw tightly as Pansy lowered her head to his shoulder. She began to give him a play-by-play of her summer in French Polynesia. Though her voice was practically in his ear, Draco didn't hear a word. His mind was far away… focused on Hermione Granger's sad—and strangely alluring—brown eyes.
The black Hogwarts carriages were waiting for them at Hogsmeade Station, their dark hoods in place to shield their passengers from the rain.
Hermione watched with wistful eyes as the first years marveled at the wagons, at their large, elegant wheels, at the light glow within the lanterns that were mounted to their sides; watched as disappointment weighed down their smiles when they were herded off in another direction.
She rounded the line of coaches, ready to hop into the nearest one—and suddenly stopped short.
Slowly, carefully, she backed away with a frown.
The thestrals... She could see them. Long, large, and black as the night around them, they stood between the carriages, patiently waiting to pull ahead. Their sunken skin was clinging like thin black shrouds over their bones. Their dark manes were blowing in the wet night breeze, and their skeletal dragon-faces pointed forward, hiding their white eyes.
Hermione swallowed. She didn't know why they were visible to her now. She hadn't seen death, hadn't dealt with any failing life force but her own.
Her gaze turned wary. Maybe that was why she could see them. Maybe her father had finally managed to kill off the last bits of life. Maybe this was proof that finally she was dead.
"You taking this one?" someone asked from behind her in a familiar Irish brogue.
Hermione didn't answer, just kept staring at the reptilian horses, her gaze distant, ghost-like.
The person came around her. "Oh, Mione, it's you. I didn't recognize you from behind." Seamus Finnigan smiled down at her. Habit had him coming forward to hug her, and Hermione let him, dutifully bringing one hand up to lightly pat his back.
But her eyes were still over his shoulder, grimly watching the death-creatures waiting beyond.
He released her. "You're soaked," he laughed, brushing drops of water from her shoulder. "It's barely raining. How the hell did you get so wet?"
Hermione was still. "I guess I didn't dry off much on the train," she answered absently.
Seamus shook his head with affection. "You should be wearing a school robe, at least. You'll be a sneezing mess tomorrow," he predicted. She didn't reply, causing his brows to furrow. "What are you staring at," he asked her, looking over his shoulder, trying to follow her gaze.
A moment passed. And then Hermione shook her head. "Nothing. Sorry." Her gaze slowly traveled to meet his. She forced herself to smile. "Have you seen Ron or Harry?"
"Nope," Seamus replied, causing her to sigh. He sent her a winning smile. "Knowing them, they'll probably show up fashionably late." Hermione nodded. "You could always ride up with me, Dean, and Neville." He began to look around. "They're floating around here somewhere. I told them to meet me by the carriages."
The two boys appeared on cue, but didn't notice their friends right away. "Just choose a carriage, Nev," Dean was commanding patiently. "It doesn't matter which one. They're all the same."
Neville was biting the inside of one round cheek. "But Seamus probably already found one," he argued as he stepped forward. "He's probably saving us seats. We told him we'd meet him, remember?"
Dean was about to reply when he caught sight of their missing friend. "There you are," he called, his step picking up. "Good thing we found you in this mess. Neville was worried."
Neville scratched his neck. "I was being a good friend." He shifted at the other boys' entertained smiles. "Hey, Hermione," he quickly distracted. "Are you riding up with us?"
"Of course she is," Seamus answered for her, putting a lighthearted arm around her shoulder.
"Good," Dean put in. "Then let's get her out of this rain." He smiled at Hermione. "You look like you just came out of the ocean," he informed her, tongue-in-cheek.
She tucked one long wet tendril behind her ear. "Do I?" she asked wanly.
"Yeah, pretty much," Seamus confirmed. "Here, get in." He ushered her forward, and she went without a fight, stepping up into the carriage and lowering to one cushioned seat. The boys piled in behind her, Neville taking a seat across from her, Seamus sitting next to him, and Dean sitting beside her, across from Seamus.
The dark-skinned boy immediately began to shed his robe. "Here—put this on, Hermione."
She shook her head. "It's okay. I'm fine." He stilled, sending her a questioning glance. "I'm not cold," she assured him.
"You look cold," he told her, one eyebrow up.
"I'm not," she promised. She forced her lips up into a halfhearted smile. "Thanks anyway, though."
Dean shrugged and sat back. "If you change your mind..." he said, drawing the thing back up over his shoulders.
The boys talked as they waited for the carriage to move, sharing all the stories they'd saved up from over summer. Neville recounted his visit to the emergency room after tripping and falling down a flight of stairs. He drew up his sleeve to show off the six-inch scar that hadn't completely healed. Seamus bragged about his summer fling with a pretty Portuguese girl who'd just moved to Dublin—and brought out his wallet, which housed the pictures to prove it. Dean told them about the brushfire that had broken out during his camping trip in Lake District, and how he'd had to save the day with a wave of his magic wand.
"What about you, Mione?" Seamus asked her. "Got any war stories from the summer?"
Hermione swallowed. Yes, she had war stories—had very real battle scars carved into her skin. But they weren't the kind of scars you paraded around for the world. They were the kind you kept guarded, hidden, buried away from sight.
Her friends waited.
"I stayed home," she answered finally, trying to smile.
"Sounds eventful," Seamus laughed when she didn't go on.
Hermione only shrugged one shoulder and turned her gaze back out to the distant sky.
There was a small jolt, and then the carriage began to ease forward. The boys resumed their conversation, but it was all white noise to Hermione. Her mind was far away—as far away as those stars on the dark horizon.
She reached her hand out of the carriage and into the night, letting her palm catch the heavy raindrops as they fell.
What happened when your soul died off before your body, she wondered. How long could a heart last, how long could it beat on?
She tilted the hand, watching the rainwater stream from her skin.
She supposed she would find out for herself soon enough.
Draco stepped off of the Express and silently strode towards the carriages with his entourage in tow.
The slow, thick raindrops had reduced to a light drizzle. Still, Crabbe and Goyle were holding the necklines of their robes up over the back of their heads, trying to shield themselves from the tender downpour. Pansy had her designer umbrella opened, keeping herself dry, and only rolled her eyes when Blaise eased his way underneath the shell with her. But Draco, who walked ahead, didn't fight the rain. He let it float down onto him, dampening his clothes and his white-blond hair.
Most of the carriages were either occupied or claimed. Draco went to the nearest one, not knowing or caring whether it was taken. Two Slytherin fifth years were about to climb inside, but they were easily displaced with an imperial wave of the prince's hand.
No one moved to get in. Instead, they waited for their orders.
"Go on," Draco commanded quietly, nodding Crabbe and Goyle inside. "Take the left side." The larger boys obeyed, climbing up the single step and seating themselves where they were told.
Sharing a quick glance with Blaise, Draco silently stepped up next, disappearing to the far end of the wagon.
Pansy took the umbrella down from over her head, closing it, shaking the raindrops from its skin. And then she turned back to Blaise, expectant. "Blaise," she prompted impatiently when he didn't move, shooing him inside with her hand.
"After you," he said with a mocking bow.
Pansy crossed her arms. "You know how I hate being crammed in and claustrophobic," she told him expectantly. "I'll take the window."
Blaise straightened. His smile stayed in place, but it was no longer lighthearted. "I don't think so," he returned.
Pansy didn't budge. The princess was indignant at being denied—and the Amazon inside her was ready to demand deference. "Draco," she called, her eyes still glaring at Blaise. He was grinning at her with that placid, entertained smile. "Draco," she called again when he didn't come when he was summoned.
Draco appeared, eyes grim, jaw set. He stepped down to the footstep between the carriage and the ground. "Is there a problem?" he asked deadly.
"Why do I alwayshave to sit in the middle?" she asked him with a pout. "I shouldn't have to be packed in between you two."
"You could always ride in another carriage," Draco bit off with practiced patience.
"Or one of them could," Pansy returned, glancing pointedly at Blaise, then back again. She took one slow, sensual step forward, looking up at Draco through her eyelashes. She fingered the lapel of his robe. "Or all of them could," she added, arching one long, suggestive eyebrow.
Blaise smiled from behind her. "A quickie in the carriage?" he asked amusedly. Pansy's head whipped around. "I'd expect that kind of thing from Draco—but you, Pansy? I thought you were all about class."
Pansy turned. She put on a feline smile, and walked to Blaise in one slow, sauntering step. "Maybe I am and maybe I'm not," she answered breathily. She lifted one manicured hand and smoothed it seductively down the side of his face. And then she patted his cheek hard, smiling with sugary sarcasm. "It's too bad you'll never be in the position to find out for yourself."
Blaise watched her with a raised brow as she stepped away. "I'm surprisingly at peace with it," he told her wryly.
"Then you don't know what you're missing," she said back sweetly.
Blaise's brow stayed high. "I can guess," he replied.
Pansy rolled her eyes at her friend and turned back to the silver-eyed man. "I don't know why you let him talk to me that way," she scolded with a playful pout.
"It's my job to manage you—not him," Draco informed her through his teeth.
Pansy's smile stilled. "Your job," she repeated tightly. "You make me sound like a chore."
Draco only looked at her grimly. "Get in the carriage, Pansy," he instructed quietly.
Her arms were crossed. She didn't so much as bat an eye.
"The front of the line has already started moving," he informed her, patience waning. "Get in the carriage," he commanded when she pouted. "Don't make me say it again." Without giving her another chance to disobey, he turned and retreated back to his seat.
A moment passed. And then out of the corner of his eye he saw that Pansy had relented, the way she always did, dutifully following him and taking her seat.
Blaise followed her, wearing that always-wry grin. The carriage began to jerk forward just as he lowered on Pansy's other side.
Crabbe and Goyle immediately began to fill the wagon with hot air, talking about their reluctance to start classes and describing the violent ways they planned to annihilate in the upcoming quidditch season. Pansy rolled her eyes, putting in a few haughty comments when appropriate, and Blaise contributed a sardonic statement here and there.
But Draco stayed silent, his gaze turned out to the dark scenery as it rolled by. The sprinkle of rain had once again become heavy drops, the sound of them tap-tapping against the carriage roof as they fell.
He stuck a hand out, letting water drench his skin, drew it back inside to slick through his dampened hair. He regarded the black around him with bleak grey eyes: the black night that cloaked a black and rainy world; the black carriage, drawn by black death-horses, that solemnly carried him forward, as if to death… the black future that waited like a shadow at the end of the road…
There was a bend in the uphill path, and Draco watched as the line of wagons slowly eased around it. As one made its turn, he could see something stretching out in the moonlight: one pale, delicate hand reaching into the night, catching the rain.
He shook his head and looked away. Somehow he knew it belonged to Hermione Granger.
The students poured into the Great Hall, talking loudly, looking around excitedly. People were taking their seats at their respective House tables, chatting about the summer, the new school year, the Sorting Ceremony and more. Hermione, however, moved slower than the rest, her eyes searching the crowded room uncertainly for her friends.
"Mione!" she heard someone call over the noise. "Mione, over here!" She turned slowly, finding the familiar source of the voice. A tall boy was standing at the edge of the room, smiling widely, a distracted redhead situated at his side.
Hermione flowed to them as if carried by a stream. "Hello," she said softly, only a whisper of a smile spreading her lips.
Harry opened his arms and she went into them, closing her eyes as he held her close. "Your clothes are damp," he laughed into her ear. She laughed, too, a small, quick, barely audible sound. "Aren't you cold?" he asked, holding her away.
Hermione shook her head, moving easily from Harry's warm embrace to Ron's. "We missed you," he told her, always a bit reluctant to admit it.
"I missed you, too," she whispered in return, backing away to meet his eyes. "I looked for you everywhere on the train."
"Ginny didn't want to take the Express," Harry informed her, one perplexed black brow raised. "We wrote to tell you where to meet us, but you didn't—"
"You didn't answer any of our letters!" an indignant Ron cut in. "We wrote, like, a thousand—"
"A dozen," Harry corrected dryly.
"And how many did we get back? A fat, whopping zero." Ron crossed his arms expectantly, waiting for an explanation.
Letters? Her eyes looked up at them from under furrowed brows. "I didn't..." get any... oh!
Hermione sighed inwardly as the puzzle pieces clicked into place. Mail was a privilege only decent daughters were allowed. It wouldn't be the first time her father had hidden her letters from her—nor, no doubt, would it be the last.
She looked down, swallowing. "I didn't... have much time to write this summer," she covered quickly, hating the words, hating herself. There would always be more secrets, always more lies. Had she really believed she'd be safe from them here?
A second of silence passed before Harry nodded. "It's alright," he told her, hugging her to his side. "Right, Ron," he added, nudging his friend.
"I guess," Ron sighed grudgingly.
"So your summer was busy, eh?" Harry asked with a smile. "Was it fun finally being at home for a change?"
Hermione nodded, but couldn't muster a smile. "Lots," she told them, but it was just one more lie. "Maybe we should sit. Everyone else is," she said, trying to turn their attention—and her own—from summer vacation, from anything involving the place she called home and the person she called father.
The boys ushered their friend to the Gryffindor table, seating her between them. The bench was already so crowded that her shoulders were crammed on either side by one of theirs. Though it should have been uncomfortable, Hermione liked the feeling. Their strong arms framing her thinner ones had her feeling secure, supported, like there was no chance or way to fall as long as they stayed by her side.
"It's good to be together again," she whispered almost to herself, her voice just barely loud enough for Ron and Harry to hear.
They smiled at her comfortingly, nodded. But as Professor McGonagall began to speak, the boys shared a meaningful glance. Neither had failed to notice that she was even thinner than she'd been before, even paler. Her voice was even softer, even sadder.
Things had been bad last year. They hadn't thought it could get any worse.
And neither knew what to think except that something was very, very wrong.
The first years were sorted into their newly assigned Houses before Dumbledore stood from his place at the center of the High Table. The hall went silent, waiting for the headmaster to speak.
"Firstly, apologies must be made to this year's newest Prefects," he said in a raspy voice that seemed to echo against walls, "as well as to our new Head Boy and Girl. I have just now been informed that hey have not received their badges. We must start by rectifying this immediately. Professor Snape will distribute them now." He nodded to Snape. "Severus..."
Snape stood from his seat. Leisurely, he retrieved a small scroll from the folds of his robes. He unraveled it, scanning its contents with a bland look of disapproval. "The Prefects from Hufflepuff: Charlotte Jennings and Luca Hale. Stand up, both of you," he commanded, his dark eyes scanning the hall.
The pair stood, each on opposite ends of their table, and a shiny badge appeared on the lapel of each of their robes, the word Prefect engraved deep into the metal. Luca dropped into his seat, shy of the attention, but Charlotte smiled brightly at the applause and fiddled with the large pin before taking her seat.
"The Prefects from Slytherin: Alythia Barassa and Claudius Stark," Snape continued before Hufflepuff's cheers could completely die.
Alythia stood slowly, as if it was an annoyance to do so, and Claudius rose haughtily, sneering at the rest of the room. Slytherin clapped for them as their badges appeared, the whole table wearing similar smirks.
"The Prefects from Ravenclaw: Birdie Walsh and Chad Lander."
Birdie and Chad stood from their seats, both of their cheeks blushing red with embarrassment.
"And the Prefects from Gryffindor: Vianne Pirelli and Cal Crane."
Vianne rose, clapping giddily for herself, and Cal joined in with a playful bow that made even the strictest of the professors smile.
"Moving on to Head Boy. This year, from Slytherin..." The Slytherin table exploded into cheers, already recognizing their prince. "Draco Malfoy."
Dutifully, Draco stood, his face unreadable as the Head Boy badge appeared on his robes. It was an honor, everyone said, a great achievement. They would never know his father had bought everything for him. They would never know he didn't want it.
"And finally," Snape went on as if he really was relieved, "this year's Head Girl. From Gryffindor..." The Gryffindors broke out into surprised, excited applause. "Hermione Granger."
Hermione heard her name as if from miles away. It didn't register, not even when she felt a congratulatory pat on her back. Not even when she heard Snape call her name again. "Please stand, Miss Granger." She obeyed the command with uncertain eyes, rising silently from her seat.
"Hermione, why didn't you tell us?" someone was laughing from nearby. She hadn't told them because she hadn't known, herself. Apparently the change in transportation wasn't all she'd missed in this summer's mail.
She didn't speak, didn't smile, nor did she look down at the feel of the heavy badge as it fastened onto her clothes. It was an honor, she knew, a great achievement. They would never know her father had spoiled everything for her. They would never know she didn't deserve it.
Though hundreds of eyes were on Hermione, she felt only the one pair. She looked over the Slytherin table, easily finding the intense silver of Malfoy's gaze. He raised his glass to her in silent salute, one intrigued brow arching. She let out a hollow laugh, the sound humorless and quiet. She didn't toast back, didn't so much as touch her glass, just shook her head sadly before slowly looking away.
"Mr. Malfoy, Miss Granger, please stay after the festivities." And with that said, Snape slowly slithered back into his seat.
The headmaster waited for the noise to settle down before standing to make his annual opening speech.
"Another year..." he began, his voice echoing thoughtfully. "Another year at the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry." A pause. "One more year of twists and turns, of challenges, changes, and surprises." His mouth twitched. "And, of course, of magic." A knowing light twinkled from behind those half-moon glasses. "Something is telling me it will be quite theadventure. I am interested to see how it all turns out…"
The professor paused, as if listening to the silence—and then nodded, deciding it was enough.
"Let the feast begin."
"You didn't say anything about being Head Girl, Mione," Ron commented conversationally as he shoveled potatoes into his mouth.
Hermione shrugged a shoulder, pushing her food around on her plate, not bothering to bring any of it to her lips.
"I guess it means you'll be seeing a lot more of the ferret, what with him being Head Boy and all that." His voice held a mixture of resentment and disgust.
Hermione shrugged that same shoulder. "I guess."
Ron let out a sound of pure revulsion at the confirmation. "The thought of that manky bastard being Head Boy makes my skin crawl," he declared with a shiver. "I just don't get it. Out of allthe Prefects they could've chosen, why in God's name did it have to be him? It's not like the dung beetle has been deprived! He's been a Prefect the last two years, and the Slytherin quidditch captain—not to mention he's filthy rich!"
"You sound jealous," Harry observed with a smile, piling more food onto his plate.
"Jealous? Of a dung beetle? I think not," Ron rebuffed. "I'm merely stating that Malfoy is the last person in this school—no, on the face of this earth—that deserves to be in charge of the school, and have his own luxury dormitory, and everything else that Head Boy gets."
Harry looked at Hermione then, realizing what her being Head Girl would mean. She would no longer be living with them in Gryffindor Tower. She would no longer be where he, Ginny, and Ron could keep an eye on her. Worse, she'd be living with Malfoy, whose heartlessness and hatred could only prove to make things worse.
And Harry didn't want to know what worse looked like.
"I'd forgotten about the dormitories," Hermione said quietly, frowning down at her uneaten food.
"So had I," Harry admitted with a clenched jaw. She looked at him, and he forced himself to relax. "But we'll still be around all the time. Things will still be the same," he assured her with a smile. "There's nothing to worry about."
She wasn't worried—didn't know how to worry anymore. But she nodded anyway. The fact that he was worried would have to be comfort enough.
"God, these potatoes are like something out of heaven!" Ron was saying, his mouth half-full of them as he spoke. "You should try them, Mione. They're amazing."
Hermione stared at her plate, sniffed. Her appetite was gone, had been gone for a long time, but she nodded, raising the heavy fork to her lips, taking a small bite. "Good, right?" he asked. She nodded once, swallowing, trying to smile.
Her friends smiled back, but they weren't convinced.
As the evening's festivities began to draw to a close and people began to depart in groups from the hall, Hermione headed slowly towards the High Table.
Malfoy, she saw, was already there, listening dutifully to a stern-looking Snape. But his eyes seemed to sharpen as she came into his line of sight; they stayed on her, bright, burning through her, and she had the sudden feeling that he wasn't listening to Snape at all.
"Hello, Miss Granger," Dumbledore welcomed warmly.
"Hello, professor." She looked from his twinkling eyes to Draco's cool, assessing ones, then back again.
"If you're both ready, I'll show you to your dormitory now." They glanced at one another. "Severus, if you'll excuse us."
"Of course. Albus, Draco, goodnight." And then, as a distant afterthought, "Miss Granger."
She nodded with downcast eyes. "Professor..."
Dumbledore lead them from the Great Hall, passing the time by humming an airy tune. Draco and Hermione walked in silence side by side, both of their heads straight, staring ahead. The figures framed within the paintings they passed showered them with welcomes, questions, and congratulations. But neither of them bothered to make a reply. Their gazes never strayed from the path before them, not even to glance at each other out of the corners of their eyes.
The headmaster slowly guided them up a staircase... around a corner... down a corridor... around another corner... up a second flight of stairs... through another hallway... so far into the stone fortress that they thought they'd never find their way out. When the only place to go was back the way they'd come, Dumbledore suddenly, finally came to a halt.
They couldn't know for sure what part of the castle they were in. There was a window at the end of the portrait-covered hallway, but it was too high and they were too far away to really see out.
"Where are we, exactly?" Draco asked the older man skeptically, once trying to see out the window proved unsuccessful.
Dumbledore looked at him seriously from over his half-moon glasses. "Exactly, we're at Latitude 56.203648570004034, Longitude -3.3782958984375. More informally, however, Mr. Malfoy, we call it Scotland," he added gravely.
Draco smiled blandly over tightly gritted teeth. "How illuminating," was his dry response.
The headmaster turned to face the nearest painting, fourth-to-last in the long line. A centaur was painted over shades of purple night. His arms and chest were strong, looking rock-hard to the touch. His hair was wild and coarse, falling in shaggy mane over his back. The contours of his body, half human and half horse, were haloed by moonlight as it streamed in through the trees.
Noticing them, the creature turned his gaze from its search of the starlit sky. Those wise eyes became expectant, waiting for them to speak.
"Domek," Dumbledore greeted warmly, nodding to the beast.
The centaur, whose name was legend in epic poems of ages past, nodded to the familiar man—but crossed his arms patiently, as if reserving judgment on the others.
Hermione and Draco waited, letting awkward silence fall. One moment passed, then two.
"The password, professor," the Head Boy prompted when no one spoke.
"Oh, yes, the password! Of course—I'd quite forgotten." He shook his head, smiling at his own forgetfulness. "As with every year, we've left it up to you two to decide on a password."
Draco looked at the centaur portrait as if the idea was unappetizing. "What, now?" he asked the headmaster unenthusiastically.
Dumbledore bobbed his head with a tiny smile.
The blond-haired man frowned, wondering how to come up with something on the spot that the girl next to him would consent to.
But he didn't have to. She beat him to it.
"Pax pacis," she suggested, her voice and eyes staying down.
Peace… a truce.
Draco raised a brow, intrigued. He didn't argue.
Dumbledore's smile widened, that knowing glint brightening in his eyes. "That is very fitting, I think."
Domek the Wise nodded slowly in approval, and the portrait silently opened, letting all three of them step inside.
Dumbledore watched his pupils' expressions as they took in their surroundings for the first time. One's was tense, strained, and skeptical; the other's was hesitant, wary, and sad. Never had the headmaster seen a Head Boy and Girl more reluctant to receive their due. They appeared not to want to look, as if it hurt or burdened them, their shaded eyes staying low, moving only in muted bursts as they scanned from wall to wall.
"This, of course, is your common room," he explained.
Hermione slowly looked around at the prize suite she had won, but not really deserved. It was quaint, and small, much smaller than the Gryffindor common room. The place was charming, intimate, every individual decoration adding to its elegant essence. The four walls were painted in cream, were bordered in black and dark, majestic red.
Across from where she stood, an archway opened up the space, revealing the start of a hallway that continued forward behind the wall. Two tall wooden bookcases stood guard on either side, leather-bound first editions resting in rows along their shelves.
To her left was a mahogany table, floral carvings blossoming over its legs. Sturdy chairs accommodated it, one on each end and three on each side.
"Eight chairs instead of two," Draco observed to fill the silence.
The old man nodded, his smile holding a mix of wisdom and good humor. "Officially speaking, of course, you are the only two allowed in this dormitory. But I made sure to have extras brought in—for those guests you 'aren't' going to have."
His words had their future at that table flashing before their eyes...
Draco saw playing cards, piles of coins, and empty bottles of firewhiskey; saw drunken Slytherin boys laughing away their losses and wins; saw perfumed girls sprawled out over chair arms and on laps, leaning over to blow luck onto small black-and-white dice; saw himself at the head of the table, trying to smile—and barely succeeding.
Hermione saw schoolbooks, Wizard's Chess boards, and half-drunk cups of tea; saw Harry and the other Gryffindor boys faithfully finishing late assignments; saw Ginny speaking from behind a fashion magazine; saw Ron smiling triumphantly as his king destroyed the opposing king; saw herself at the head of the table, trying to smile—and barely succeeding.
They turned their eyes away, wanting to banish the inevitable.
The rest of the room provided a welcome distraction from their thoughts. To the right was a Regency-style sofa, framed in wood, upholstered in satin, with two round tea tables that sat at each of its scroll-end arms. Two antique wingback chairs completed the set, which was situated around a low coffee table, facing the hearth.
The fireplace, wide and large, had curtained windows on either side, and the hearth housed flickering flames, ones that snapped audibly with heat. Above it, on its mantle, was the room's only real adornment: a square metal plaque that mysteriously read Dum Spiro Spero—or, While I breathe, I hope...
Hermione smiled without humor as she beheld the buoyant words. She knew firsthand that hope could die long before the body, knew that breathing wasn't necessarily a sign of life.
"Does that lead to our chambers?" she heard Malfoy ask of the archway that had first caught her eye.
Dumbledore answered with a nod. "And the bathroom that you'll share." Draco's silver eyes met Hermione's for a moment before both quickly looked away. "Follow me and I'll show them to you."
The old man crossed the room, passing beneath the archway, turning left into the short, narrow corridor. Candles lit the way, wax under long teardrop flames. Six large paintings were mounted, three to a wall on either side. The first was a large lion king, sitting on dry savannah grass. Next was a lovely portrait of the 18th century pureblood, Lady Barbara Brave. Across from her, to the left, a badger was digging furiously into dirt. To Lady Barbara's right, a boa constrictor coiled around the thick branch of a tree. Across it, at the far end, a raven was perched regally on a stone. Finally, between it and the badger was a portrait of the wizard poet Randolph Delphi.
"Lady Barbara, Mr. Delphi," the headmaster nodded to the paintings, coming to a halt somewhere just between them.
"Who do we have this year?" Randolph Delphi asked him, looking the Head Boy and Girl over interestedly.
"They don't happen to snore, do they?" the portrait of Lady Barbara put in with a condescending sniff. "That Head Boy from last year had snores as loud as a banshee's. I never got a wink of sleep!"
Dumbledore shook his head with an affectionate gaze. "I'll let them divulge their names and sleeping habits in their own time. Perhaps you'll give them a chance to settle in before you go snooping on that score."
"Snoop, you say? Why, Albus, what a notion!" Lady Barbara exclaimed, bemused. "I am a lady. I assure you, a lady never snoops." The statement earned her knowing looks from both Dumbledore and Randolph Delphi.
The headmaster turned to his pupils. "You'll decide on the passwords to your individual rooms, as well," Dumbledore told them. "I trust that you can guess which ones are entrances, and for whom."
Hermione and Draco both looked to their respective house animals, she glancing at the lion to her right, he to the snake on his left.
"Well, I'll leave you to get situated. Sleep well." He began to leave, but paused. "Ah! I almost forgot. These—" he produced two keys, one silver, the other gold, "are for you. They each unlock doors with passages to your respective House common rooms." He handed Draco the shiny silver key, then passed Hermione the gold. "The doors are automatically locked on both sides, and only open for a few moments after the keys are used."
Draco regarded his key with baleful eyes; Hermione held hers in a loose, halfhearted grip.
"Well, if there's nothing else..." Dumbledore tapped a finger against his lips, furrowed his brows as if thinking hard. "I don't seem to remember anything that I've forgotten. Then again, if I've forgotten, I'd hardly remember what to remember," he reasoned. He spent the next few moments trying to solve the puzzle he'd created in his mind, his index finger flitting about as if tabulating numbers in the air. And then he threw his hands up. "Then again, it hardly matters. Both of you are very bright and I'm sure you'll figure things out in your own way."
"I'm sure," Draco agreed dryly.
The old headmaster nodded. "Well then, that is that, and I suppose I'll say goodnight."
"Goodnight, professor," both students replied, not so much in sync as one atop the other.
With a nod, he turned to leave, this time making it almost all the way through the archway when he came to a halt once again. "Fiddlesticks and gobbledygook!" he exclaimed, exasperated with himself. "It appears that I forgot to remember something after all." Dumbledore stepped forward again. "To congratulate you," he filled in with a smile.
Both students frowned as he approached them with gleaming eyes. "Congratulations, Mr. Malfoy; congratulations, Miss Granger," he said meaningfully, shaking each of them by the hand. His fingers were knobby and wrinkled, but the handshake was firm and warm. The way his old eyes looked into theirs, it felt like he was seeing inside of them, to the secrets buried within. "I hope you enjoy your new dormitory," he said. "You've worked very hard to earn it."
The man couldn't know the chord that his words struck in each of them. Still, his last knowing smile said that he knew something… maybe something that they didn't.
They watched, frowning as he finally disappeared. And without glancing at each other, they went about finding their way into their bedrooms.
The lion waited regally as Hermione contemplated a password.
"Cursum perficio," she whispered numbly after a while.
I finish my journey...
The lion looked at her with troubled eyes. A moment passed before it nodded its head, its mane blowing in the invisible wind. The painting opened, allowing her inside, shutting again protectively before the blond-haired man could glance their way. But Draco was too occupied with thinking of what password he should choose to care.
"Contra mundum," he decided darkly, watching as the snake slithered its way tighter around the tree.
Against the world...
The reptile hissed with satisfied eyes before permitting its new master inside.
It wasn't as large as the rooms he'd slept in all the years before. Still, he hadn't expected it to be quite this big. Like the Slytherin dungeons, the place was decorated all in greens and grays. Across the room, the wall was veiled ceiling-to-floor by a thick velvet curtain; behind it, he would later find a window-wall of glass.
The four-poster bed was wide, much wider than the ones the House dormitories provided—but smaller, of course, than the one he had at home. Nightstands stood on either of its sides, already housing a fancy-faced clock and a small, hardcover book.
A sturdy black armoire was pressed into one corner. A cabinet with six drawers was against another wall. An old-fashioned writing desk and chair sat beside the entrance, it's roll top lowered, shielding its surface and shelves from view.
There were four doors in the room, one to each of the four walls: the door behind the portrait, through which he had just traveled; the white door to the bathroom in the wall to his right; in the wall across from that, the locked door that led back to the Dungeon; and in the clear wall, behind the curtain, a thick glass door that led to a balcony overlooking the loch.
Crossing the patterned carpet, he pulled the curtain back, opened that door and stepping out into the night.
Hermione was already there, her arms crossed over the stone parapet, her eyes staring out at the moon's reflection on the lake.
He thought of turning back, but for some reason didn't. Instead, he moved to the stone wall, as well, coming to stand a few feet away from her, letting silence settle between them.
The moon was full and seemed miles closer than usual. Its reflection rippled on the water's surface, making the gentle waves shine like light.
"Pretty, isn't it?" he heard her ask quietly after a while.
He turned his head, his silver eyes studying her profile. She was truly beautiful, he recognized, her dark curls reflecting moonlight, her gold-brown eyes haunting and bright. The realization was new and completely disconcerting.
He stayed silent, his brows furrow.
Hermione didn't press for an answer, had never really expected one. Still looking out into the distance, she smiled, soft and faint.
"It seems like just yesterday, doesn't it Malfoy?" she asked after another long pause. Her voice was tinged with a sad sort of wistfulness.
Draco's frown deepened. "What does?" he asked finally, not understanding her, not understanding his need to.
"When we were young," she said quietly. "It seems like just yesterday, doesn't it?"
Draco's eyes were unreadable. Slowly, he crossed his arms. "I don't know what you're talking about," he returned, his voice serious. "I'm still young, Granger. We both are."
Her smile widened, saddened. "No," she said. "I grew up. And so did you." She turned her face, looked into his eyes. "We never really were young, Malfoy."
He didn't say anything, and she laughed, the sound light and humorless. She turned back to the view. "You know, I'll never understand…" she told him, shaking her head. "Why is it so easy for them?"
"For whom?" Draco asked, eyes narrowed.
She only shook her head. There was another pause. "Why is it we don't have a choice?"
He stiffened at the words, though they were no more than a whisper in the wind. "I don't know what you mean," he said, his voice dead. But it wasn't the truth. He knew what it meant to not have a choice… knew what it meant all too well…
"Yes you do," she somehow knew. She glanced at him again, haunted smile still in place. There was another, longer pause. "I used to hate you," she said then with a short, harsh sort of laugh. "I used to despise you."
"You don't anymore." It wasn't a question. He had known, had somehow felt the change. And somehow his feelings had changed too, though he couldn't pinpoint how, or why, or even what they'd become.
"No. Not anymore," she confirmed. "People look at you and think they know what they see—the dark side… or the bad guy." Her gaze was lost on the horizon. "They don't understand that there are more than two sides, more than good or bad." She shrugged a shoulder, a small, weak move that was barely noticeable in the dark. "There's always more, isn't there?" she asked him, and in her voice were a thousand regrets. "There's always more," she confirmed so he wouldn't have to. She shook her head slowly. "I can't hate you for that."
Draco was silent. She seemed to understand too well, he thought. Why had he never noticed before?
Hermione turned, slowly moving to go inside.
On impulse, he suddenly grabbed her wrist, halting her in place. She didn't fight, or wrench her arm away. Instead, she shut her eyes, smiling slightly at the sharp pain that shot through her arm as he gripped a stitched slash he couldn't feel or see.
Draco tightened his jaw against the smooth feel of her skin—watched the strange look as it fell across her face. He frowned, searching his mind for something, something to say. Searching for a way to return them to the freedom of indifference. Searching for a way to return them to the simplicity of hatred.
Slowly, he released her, carefully took a step away.
"Granger?" he asked skeptically.
She opened her eyes, met his. His grey gaze lowered from her chocolate-dark one... down to the place where his fingers had just been. "Don't expect anything different," he commanded finally, staring at her wrist, wondering...
Hermione seemed to watch him with knowing eyes. "Why would I?" she asked dully.
Draco nodded once, relieved. And then he began to walk inside.
"Malfoy," he heard her say. He stopped, but didn't turn.
"Don't expect anything at all..."
Draco frowned at the words and continued on his way.