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- Lady Malfoy
Hermione Granger. Mudblood. Bookworm. Gryffindor Princess.
Simple. Complex.
She was a bookworm, yes. Hermione Granger studied extraneously. But she wasn't just the buck-teethed bookworm Gryffindor that everybody, including Harry and Ron imagined her to be. They never approached the complexity of her mind; they preferred to wallow pathetically in the relatively calm and balanced flimsy outer shell of her consciousness. If only they had dug just that much deeper, if only they had observed Hermione Granger's mind closer, if only. If only. If only.
The only one that came close was Ginevra. Ginevra Weasley.
Hermione came to, her kaleidoscope eyes blank; unfocused. Her forehead and neck was rimmed with a sheen of sweat, the type produced by her nightmares. Her gray cotton blend nightgown was wrinkled around her thighs. Gray. Her favorite color. Gray, because gray was the color of intelligence.
It was him again in her nightmares; the strangely familiar character that returned nightly to haunt her dreams. Again, and again, and again. He would spoil the best of dreams; he would always manage to create living hell for Hermione, always managing to wake Hermione up in a cold sweat, panting. Each time, unnoticed to the world, Hermione sunk deeper and deeper into the depths of her mind. She began losing her spark, her fire, her fight. If only Harry and Ron were there for her. They always had Quidditch. They always were out in Hogsmeade. They were never there.
Even after countless of hours of studying his face- the phantom who haunted Hermione's dreams- she never concluded who he was. The fair hair was oh, so similar to someone in her past's, the chiseled nose, the sensual, defining, rugged jawline, the dark, hooded, metallic eyes. The eye lashes that cast extended shadows on his sharp, high cheekbones. The debonair grace, the elegance. The lips…. The lips…. The lips….
Hermione's bare feet scuffed at the floorboards as she pushed past her Hogwarts trunk. She froze as she saw her reflection in the mirror. Her face was pallid and hollowed and shadowed in the semi-dark. Her eyes were glowing honey- no, green- no, amber; ochre. Hermione's frame looked frail, slender, but willowy and strong in a twisted synchrony, and her hair, once a bushy, wild mess, was now a mass of wilted, but tamed ringlets.
Hermione pressed a skeletal hand to her cheek, tracing the bulbous and prominent cheek bones that rimmed her glinting, kaleidoscope eyes. She dropped a trembling, weak hand to the back of her mahogany vanity seat, retrieving the gray pearl silk robe that Hermione had carelessly discarded earlier in the evening. Hermione wrapped the silk curtain around her shivering 5 foot 6 frame, weaving the velvet straps together at waist with precise fingers.
Hermione crossed the dormitory, with care to avoid the creaking floorboards and the strewn, slatternly clothes and lipstick tubes that littered the mahogany floor. She lovingly scooped up her oh, so familiar wand, rejoicing at the tingling feeling in the tips of her fingers. The wand was a pearl and carved mahogany treasure; it was carved with cherry blossoms, with each flower's delicate inside embedded with a pink pearl.
Ron and Hermione had been dating- or in a less casual relationship since June, before Hogwarts had started. However, since the start…. There had not been the zest, the romanticism that Hermione, herself longed for. Hermione still pretended to herself to love Ronald: she lied to herself and deceived herself into believing that she was still infatuated with Ron. She had neither the heart nor the passion to sever the relationship; for Molly, who had turned into something vile, had always reinforced the image of a Weasley (particularly Ronald) to be married to Hermione. Hermione's birth parents: the Grangers, where both Muggle dentists, who had extended their lucrative business to the Wizarding world with support from their darling daughter. Molly wished for Ronald to have a wealthy, young, vibrant wife that'd bear him numerous children and provide financial support- which the Weasley clan indefinitely lacked.
Over the years, Hermione's feisty demeanor had crumbled, yes, but her natural beauty had not. Hermione was slender, with a tall five foot six inch frame. Her hair had been tamed into bearable natural ringlets, and was now an ochre color. Hermione's eyes had changed the most; they were now kaleidoscope and large, fringed with dark eyelashes. Her features were arranged on a somewhat enigmatic palette- her nose was high and Grecian, while her lips were thin- but most definitely feminine; her eyebrows were high arched and delicate.
Albus Dumbledore smiled benevolently down at Hermione and Draco, the torch light reflecting off of his glinting bifocals.
"This will be your dormitory. The password will be up to you, just alert the portrait" – Dumbledore gestured at the painting of Lady Evangeline Aquarius-Black, the renowned benefactress known for her magical prowess. She was dressed plainly in the black robes of one in mourning; and indeed, throughout her life, Lady Aquarius-Black had always been mourning. At age 13, on her third year of Beaux Batons, her father, Augustus Black, passed away. Later that year, her sister, Mei Li, the ambassador to China, had been murdered. In close sequence, her elder sister Angelica had ran off with a handsome muggle, her mother passed away with lung cancer and extreme psychological disorders, and her brother was arrested and sent to Azkaban for uncertain, unjust reasons and had turned into a lunatic in the duration of his arrest. She bore her husband, Lord Parkinson six children- yet all of them had died in their teenage years. Her husband later ran off with a shallow, beautiful wife.
"Hermione!" Dumbledore smiled amusedly down upon her.
"My apologies, sir. I wasn't paying attention; I was reminiscing the tragic life of Lady Aquarius-Black, which, of course, was prompted by the Head's dormitory's portrait."
Draco scoffed coldly at her eager stance and ran his hand through his hair, scrutinizing Hermione's disarray with a frigid distaste. He, himself was attired elegantly in polished designer shoes, ironed and pressed pants, a crisp shirt with emerald and silver wrist cuffs, and a evergreen velvet and silk cloak.
"Headmaster was just notifying us of the Head dorm regulations."
"Yes, my dear Draco"- Draco scowled at the affectionate term, and corrected Headmaster:
"I do not wish to go by my Christian name; a simple Malfoy will suffice."
Dumbledore merely acknowledged Draco's steely statement with a covert nod.
"I shall think it over- but for now, I must call you Draco. Hermione, in short, the head dormitories work like the Room of Requirement. On your command, the rooms, which there are sixteen in total's décor will change on verbal and magical command- just tap your wand on the wall and utter the charm 'Decorus' and the room will magically alter. There are, restrictions, of course.'
"Each of you will be waited on by two house elves. Hermione- your house elves are Ann and Paige, whilst yours, Draco, are James and Kreacher, who, you must know, was retrieved from the Noble House of Black. Your retiring chambers are each connected by a suite bath and a common room. Here is each of the keys to your rooms; I expect you two down to the Great Hall at six for the opening feast and at nine thirty, to visit my office. Congratulations on assisting the first years arrive safely at the castle."
Headmaster Dumbledore swept away majestically. Draco glanced at me frigidly.
"Perfect's meeting at five fifteen tomorrow."
Hermione did not acknowledge his statement, but brushed past him coldly. As she passed; she caught a whiff of his scent; the musky, boyish smell mixed with designer cologne. It couldn't be…Could Draco Malfoy be the man doggedly haunting her subconsciousness?
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Love,
Lady Malfoy