"Why don't you just give it up, Mudblood?" Draco sneers at the pitifully crying Hermione—Hermy, he snickered to himself—as she lunges at him yet another time in frustration. She snarls menacingly, tears crawling down her cheeks, eyes a rubbed tint of red, cheeks flushed in absolute desperation. She wasn't even bothering with her wand, just those puny fists flailing uselessly at his face. As for his wand, well, it had recently set fire to her loaded book bag (a quick flick and triumphant "Incendio!"), setting ablaze two weeks of homework and just about 100 Galleons worth of textbooks and other miscellaneous stuff. Her jaw had dropped, and started quivering, before blind rage took over her body, and Draco found himself dodging badly aimed attacks. They were both retaking their years at Hogwarts, Hermione for missing her last year of "Really important information, I'm sure!"—and Draco for, well, being a Death Eater. Harry and Ron had already given up, choosing to live lives with their new family, so it was just them two.
A year had passed since Voldemort's extinguishment, yet neither of them had changed. Hermione was still memorizing books word for word, and Draco was still picking on half-bloods and being Draco. He especially terrorized Hermione, she being the only one from the "gang" that stayed in Hogwarts. Although the new Headmaster (McGonagag) had set in a rule that no one was to be discriminated because of their blood, Draco still picked on the Mudbloods. He had targeted Hermione for the past two months, small things, like spray painting her binder, mixing up her shampoos, and drugging her food, but she had not budged one bit. But this had been the last straw. Draco smirked. Sweet, sweet, victory.
Hermione's mind was frantically yelling at her to calm down—this was just Draco; don't get yourself detention over a stupid prank. But it was her precious work, time she could have spent partying, and it was all gone. After her latest so-called kick had failed to land a shot between his legs, her body deflated, all energy sucked out of her like a vacuum. Physically, she was very weak. She had neither stamina nor power, but her strategies were extraordinarily brilliant. Her voice shook when she spoke, not with fear, but with pure, unrestrained, anger.
"Malfoy. Dor-a-co. Mal-foy." She chanted ominously, enunciating every syllable like a curse. A mad smile split across her face, and Hermione suddenly became frighteningly similar to the reflection in the Horcrux.
"Oh, you pitiful being." She cooed softly, tracing imaginary circles on the ground. Draco blinked. Wasn't she about to hex him? Strangely, this seemed scarier than any hex. He had never seen Hermione so calm, so calculated.
"How should I do this, Draco Malfoy? What hex should I use? Or should I jinx you? Aren't they the same thing? Silly me, I should know this. Aren't you a fabulous student too, Draco Malfoy? Tell me, Draco Malfoy, how should I hurt you? Or maybe, I could drug you to fall asleep in class—you've done that to me before, haven't you? Oh, and I could also spray paint your books. How would you like a taste of your own medicine, Draco Malfoy? You, of course, wouldn't suspect a thing, you ignorant fool, because why would anyone, least of all you, know how I feel about this? Silly me, I shouldn't have—have—d-d-do—"Hermione sags, eyes wide, mouth slack. Her sudden need to taste Draco's downfall had vanished, leaving her empty and confused. She was Hermione Granger, top student, best witch in the entire school. She had never once been wrong about most things, and was always prideful, intelligent, and controlled. Never once had she lost it like this, hungering for revenge. Even her younger self had only lost control once, to the same person. That adrenaline rush when she punched Draco was similar to the feeling she had just experienced—crazy, rebellious, and it felt so good. What had she been thinking? Perhaps this was how Draco felt when he picked on her.
Draco stood there, stunned. Hermione—the Mudblood—had turned into a demon. It was quick, but there was a flash of insane bloodlust in her eyes when she had begun to rant. He was the first to recover. Attempting at a sneer, he began to speak again.
"Is that all you got? Huh, silly Mudblood? Are you that pathetic you can't even seem dangerous? Hah, to think that I waste my time on y-" His eyes find hers, her sad, lonely, eyes. His voice crackles and dies, like a fire on an eerily stormy night. Suddenly his chest constricts, and his throat closes up. He can't breathe, and his head is spinning spinnin g—
"Get back here you wench!" A drunken man stumbles out of a large house, drink in hand, fist raised. A young girl with bushy red-brown hair scrambles over her feet, mouth stretched wide in a silent scream. Her arms swung in a surprisingly familiar way, wild and desperate. Large hazel eyes brimmed with tears darted around in search for something—anything to defend herself with. The man is wavering, but his anger is steady.
"Pathetic girl! Are you trying to defy your father? Don't even think about it!" He snarls, words dripping with alcoholic venom. The girl shakes her head, the bush of hair slapping her strangely dry cheeks. Not a single tear had dropped from her eyes. The man's large body looms over the girl's small frame ominously. The girl drops to the ground, hands over her ears, forehead touched to the cold, hard, gravel. Her mouth gapes and freezes in a wide O, and a tiny noise escapes.
"Huh? What'dya say, punk? Did you have permission to speak? I think not! Say that again! I. Dare. You." The man shouts in her face, causing her to shake uncontrollably.
"G-g-go a-a-aw-way." She squeaks. He closes in, eyes narrowing to slits.
"I-I sa-said—" His hand darts out, clenching around her frail neck. Her doll-like head bobbles violently back and forth as he vents out his anger. Finally, a tear slides down her pale cheeks, and her reserved dams finally break.
"I SAID, GO AWAY!" She shrieks, loud enough for the entire neighborhood to hear. Her eyes flare a bright scarlet hue, and the man suddenly stops advancing. His knees buckle, and a loud thud is heard as his body collapses.
He doesn't get up.
Draco felt as though he had been socked in the gut. A nervous, weakening, feeling had overcome him, the same blood-curdling feeling that came when he had been in the Death Eaters. A cold sweat broke out over his face. Her eyes were so desperate. He steals a glance at Hermione, and he freezes, a new kind of terror rooting deep inside him. This time, it was not the terror that rooted you in place—no, this kind of terror told him to flee as fast as he could.
Her eyes are a piercing red.
