One-two-three – that's sugar cubes hitting the bottom of a cup. One-two-three – that's cups of tea collected on a tea-tray. Red one with a cracked handle and lots of sugar is for Harry – our golden boy is always in need of a source of energy. Blue one with even more sugar – for Ron, whose urge to have more than Harry is highly comprehensible. Hermione chooses the right cups and counts sugar cubes without thinking, automatically, repeating the very actions she has been performing for the last seven years since she first came to know which way boys liked their tea. Hermione never forgets anything. She takes the perfectly settled tea-tray and then suddenly drops it onto the floor with all the hatred she feels for being so bored. She smiles contentedly seeing expensive porcelain barbarically broken and takes out her wand.
- Reparo.
Harry and Ron can't be distracted: they're arguing over a very important issue – whether to tell Hermione what they're arguing over or not. Finally, Harry admits Ron was right while Ron admits Harry was right and they start all over again. Hermione walks out of the Room of Requirement noticing they haven't noticed her leave. It doesn't hurt anymore – since once when Hermione accused them of being careless egoists and abandoned them for the whole week. Back then they returned back to normal in a second when Ron simply forgot they weren't talking and asked Hermione to write an essay on Transfiguration for him. That was the moment she realized she needed something else – something different from all so very nice Harry and all so very easy Ron. Something different from knowing how many sugar cubes should be put in a cup.
After all, Hermione is beautiful – not in a traditional way, maybe, but still, very attractive. And being a person able to learn all the dates of goblins' riots ever occurring, she is able to achieve almost anything. After all, Hermione is free – she's sacrificed her childhood to fighting with an enemy and doesn't want to sacrifice her youth to looking after two grown-up men who had already lost their innocence while she was busy writing essays for them. And don't forget setting tea – one-two-three – that's sugar. After all, if anarchy in the UK is reduced to being disgusted by a cup of tea, Hermione is most certainly a rebel.
She starts by getting drunk in an absolute solitude and some serious thinking. She is sure of a single thing: people never change. Although she is now possessed by dark desires, it's highly probable that her understanding of life is measured in cups of tea, not shots of firewhiskey. Hermione pronounces a pledge for herself and weighs the possibilities. One: she has to try. Two: she mustn't hurt anyone. Three: she has to enjoy it. Hermione makes the bottle of firewhiskey disappear with a flash of her wand and crawls to the library to finish Ron's essay.
The next morning brings a terrible headache. Harry and Ron find her half-dead in her bed and become suddenly uptight. They run around with wet towels, and healing potions, and butterbeer, and explain the subject of their recent conversation meanwhile. They are planning out a party for Gryffindor tower. They wanted it to be a surprise for her upcoming birthday but ended up not knowing how to finish what they have started: their scheme turned out to be too difficult to be organized by two and a half of them.
- Two and a half?
- Neville doesn't count.
- Of course, Neville can count!
- I mean, we can't count him. We tried to replace you with him and… yeah, that was a rotten idea from the very beginning. I mean, no one can replace you, not that just Neville can't.
Harry puts his hand in his hair, and Ron wrinkles, and Hermione loves them both more than she can tell, and she feels she has betrayed them. Suddenly her headache stops, and she is overwhelmed by gratitude, and starts to cry, and her boys just get to her bed to hug her with their large rigid arms, and no one asks her whether she had already finished the Transfiguration essay.
Harry and Ron walk her to the Honeydukes and speak non-stop, it seems they are truly fed up with keeping secrets. According to boys' plan someone should go out to London and buy some muggle stuff while others get the tower ready for a big party – sex & drugs & rock'n'roll, all included, adds Ron and quickly asks what rock'n'roll means.
- You see now, why Neville and Ron are not suitable for this part, - smirks Harry and looks at Hermione apologetically, - Really, if you feel foolish…
- Not at all, I guess, that's what I needed anyway, a change, - Hermione smiles and she now means it.
It's been a while since she saw London with her own eyes and she is very much looking forward to it. She doesn't have anything special in mind – she's so happy her friends found their way back to her that she doesn't need anything else. All is right. She kisses their cheeks and disappears into autumn air.
London is a huge city and she gets lost quickly. Heavy bags start to annoy her and she puts them on the ground to have some rest. She has already forgotten how it feels to be a simple girl without a magic wand and, frankly speaking, she doesn't like it. She closes her eyes for a second to imagine a map and try to understand where it was that she made a wrong turn. Marble arch is on her left? Or her right? Marble arch be damned! She opens her eyes to double-check and finds her bags gone. London be damned! Harry and Ron be damned twice for being such assholes who are not capable of doing anything right. She won't be surprised if they even spoil her party – if she ever makes it home! She takes out her wand and carelessly pronounces a spell.
The Ministry of Magic is a wonderfully beautiful building. This cabinet with heavy wooden furniture and a fantastic theatrical chandelier is especially good. Hermione meticulously examines the collection of paintings on the walls and gives a whistle.
- Miss Granger? – the Minister says, wanting to attract her attention, - You aren't going to answer my questions, are you?
- Honestly, I don't think you'll get something from me, - Hermione sighs, - I'm not stupid, you know.
- I know it, - the Minister sighs as well.
- Then why don't you just tell me the facts you are concealing?
- How do you know I'm concealing something?
- Obvious, sir. If I was the only person on the Hyde Park Corner to cast a spell, you would withdraw my wand the very next moment. But, judging from the fact that you are trying to persuade me to admit my guilt, I conclude that there were at least two spells pronounced at that place and at that exact point of time, maybe even three, but two is a most probable variant.
- Unfortunately, you are an exceptionally smart witch.
- I didn't want to cause you any trouble, sir.
- Now listen. You are right. There were two underage wizards on that crossroad, but a single spell was pronounced. And if you tell me for sure, that you hadn't…
- Oh come on, sir, don't be ridiculous. This thing is called Prisoner's Dilemma. It's taught in the third year. You don't really think I would swallow the bait, do you? Particularly, while I'm quite sure the other guy hasn't said a word as well.
- Then we ban you both and that's it.
This thing smells bad. Hermione sits in an old chair in a poor hotel room. She has to admit that the Minister has found an elegant way out of this situation: the arrestees, both, will have to spend the whole night locked up in this room and, if by the dawn's early light they aren't able to tell who really was to blame, they both will be banned from using magic. Hermione hears distant steps and opens her eyes to see her one-night by-stander.
- All right, - says Malfoy, when they get tired of shouting at each other, - I guess it's time to ask: did you really use magic?
- Do you even dare to think I'll tell you?
- Granger, - Malfoy sounds very bored, - They detected magic. One of us did use it.
- That was you.
- But I know that wasn't me, - he smirks and Hermione suddenly realizes she is losing this game. What if he really didn't use magic and then he knows for sure she's to blame?
- So do I.
- Yeah. You know that wasn't me, as well, - Malfoy plays on her words and smiles triumphantly: that'll be easier than he thought.
- I meant… - Hermione begins and feels such rage that she's unable to finish. Instead she takes a vase from a nearby table and throws it directly at Malfoy.
- All right, - says Malfoy, when they get tired of throwing things at each other and the room now looks, if possible, even poorer than before. He has a huge gash on his left cheek and he rubs it violently; his white shirt is covered in blood and dust. Hermione is exhausted but satisfied: she evidently scored more than he did.
- Nothing's right.
- Stop whining, Granger. We've got business to attend here.
- Screw you. That's not how this evening should have progressed.
- Oh really? – Malfoy asks, uninterested. He falls on the sofa and closes his eyes. He looks really tired.
- Yeah. I imagined how I would… you know… meet someone – just a random handsome guy in the street.
- And talk him to death? – Malfoy purrs out of some old habit. His tone isn't even offensive. Hermione looks at him, distraught, and instinctively walks up to the sofa to seat nearby. She recognizes the state she sometimes see Harry and Ron in – complete lostness and boredom. She massages his shoulders until he starts to relax.
- And sleep with him, you idiot.
- Ah, - curious, Malfoy puts his head up and watches Hermione for a full minute before closing his eyes again.
Three hours later Hermione wakes up to find herself cuddled to Malfoy's chest. She doesn't care. He smells expensive and classy. His shirt is made of the finest silk and it's comfortable to sleep on. Hermione caresses his hand absent-mindedly.
- What would you do if they took your wand away? – she asks nervously. Malfoy shrugs.
- Tell my father and get it back. You?
- Kill myself, I guess, - Hermione murmurs.
- You are joking, right? How about getting married to a handsome muggle and living happily ever after?
- Kill myself, - Hermione repeats, this time with much more confidence.
- That's ridiculous, - Malfoy abruptly sits and shakes her by the shoulders, - You aren't saying there's nothing more to life than magic, are you?
- Guess I am.
- Guess you never had sex, - Malfoy winks, trying to turn her on a bit.
- Guess I didn't, - sings Hermione sadly and turns away. Her face is red.
Three hours later her face is still red. She watches him out of the corner of her eye. He is calm and confident, and that fact, strangely enough, makes her a bit calmer. Malfoy catches her glance and sees her fear, and feels sorry for a girl he thought was fearless. Who could have ever known she's so afraid of one thing – being powerless? He's never been a person who hasn't had anything else to lose apart from a single wand. Moreover, if it came to that, he would more willingly give away his wand than his Gringotts' key.
- All right, - Malfoy says reluctantly, - I did use magic.
- You did?! – Hermione shouts, getting to her feet at once, - Why?
- I saw someone grabbing your bags and I stopped him. Really, please, don't think that means something. That's what they call good manners.
- That means I'm safe!
- No. That doesn't… - starts Malfoy lazily but is cut off by Hermione throwing herself on him. He hugs her reflexively, immediately liking the feeling of her body in his arms, and sighs, - Granger. That doesn't mean I'll repeat that in the morning. I just thought you should know.
- Oh, - she says and lets him go, - Sorry. I'm still going to kill myself in the morning then.
It's getting dark. The only lamp they had been given lies broken on the floor. Hermione looks in the direction the sofa has previously been but is not sure anymore she chose the right direction to look in. Existing is much easier in the dark. She can even imagine there's someone other than Malfoy sleeping on the sofa – someone nice and easy. Except that Malfoy isn't sleeping – he is whistling a famous melody quietly and that pisses her off. It may turn out to be her last night on Earth and bloody Malfoy spoils it with his bloody whistling. Hermione weighs the possibilities. One: she admits her guilt and she's banned. Two: she doesn't and she's still banned, because Malfoy doesn't as well. Three: she doesn't while Malfoy does, he's banned and Malfoys reach her in an hour or so. She should have never left Harry and Ron. She cries a bit, then stops and stares into space, wondering silently what is it she's loosing right now – a round-the-world-tour, healthy and long marriage and smart children, some scientific prizes… Not much, it seems.
They keep this uncomfortable silence for the time being and then Malfoy asks for some unknown reason:
- Don't you want to actually try having sex before you kill yourself?
- Don't think so.
- Sorry.
- That's all right... You know, - Hermione creeps on the sofa and yawns, - I did use magic as well.
- I knew that.
- I knew you knew. But how you did?
- That was written on your face.
- Hm. What's now written on my face?
- That you want to have sex with me.
- Strange you were right about using magic then.
- You want me to prove this?
- No, - Hermione states blatantly. Malfoy suddenly feels offended and turns inward to consider this.
They sit for several hours in complete darkness and silence, stuck in a rough soul-searching, and, finally, reach a decision.
- Hey, Granger, - Malfoy calls, - I've got a suggestion. Listen to the very end of it and then you may officially start murdering me.
- Go on.
- I don't know how it could happen, but it seems… I want you. You know what it means?
- I do.
- Yeah. So I want you… Really. And, I guess, that's the right thing to do – firstly, you'll get distracted; secondly, afterwards you may change your mind about killing yourself.
- What are the chances?
- Pretty high, - Malfoy gets annoyed quickly, - And could you please stop asking these questions for the record? I've always considered myself a romantic person and that a bit… spoils the mood.
- Go on, Malfoy.
- That was all.
- I mean, go on – do your thing.
She doesn't have to ask twice. Malfoy immediately comes closer and seats next to her. She watches him with her eyes open wide and simply waits. He hesitates for a moment and kisses her lips. They kiss, until they run out of air, and she breathes deeply, and he takes his chance to move lower and kiss her neck. She bends her head backward, and his hand slides up her arm and stops on her shoulder, tickling her skin... She laughs silently, and that makes him somehow excited, and he puts off his shirt and embraces her petite body, kissing her lips once again. She opens her legs and enfolds him, clasping them on his back… He moves downward to her breast and she suddenly whispers:
- Do you drink tea? I mean, English tea with lots of sugar…
- Black coffee, no sugar, - he breathes out, and pulls her dress away.
She moans in response.
The next morning, the Ministry worker opens the door to ask loudly:
- All right, kids. Now answer yes or no, did any of you use magic yesterday on the Hyde Park Corner?
They never look at each other, but answer absolutely simultaneously:
- No.
- Yes.