Ergo, Sum

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The Foreigner Slytherin

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Final Friday, September

We are scratching the underbelly of the heat, raking our fingernails through the aftermath; we are slowly baking, like children we are wrestling against each other over silly convictions. We are Cain and Abel, we are Capulet and Montague, we are Tory and Whig: we embody Voldemort and Harry. We continue the fight, and through this we are letting ourselves decay in a rapidly exacerbating way as we trade punches like Christmas presents.

I hear methodical, sparse knocks at precisely one in the afternoon. Today I have felt good enough to pull back the curtains completely on the floor-length windows in the living room. Glancing up occasionally at the view of variously elevated roofs helps me maintain a steady pace at my typewriter.

He knocks again, this time louder, his knuckles striking wood much the same way as a fighter strikes his foe: systematic, harsh, unrepentant.

I smooth my sweater, take up my wand, and rise. He is just about to knock again when I open the door. Zabini is taller than I remember; stubble covers his dark chin, and his eyes are yawning wide open. I can see every little capillary winding across his cornea. His lips tighten with fear when he recognizes me. I have not seen fear since I moved in—I have not seen my face.

He mutters an apology as he enters, pointedly avoiding looking at my face. Maneuvering inside with his groceries, he neglects to wipe his feet on the doormat. I am mildly irritated when he strides into my living room without cleaning his shoes. I briefly look outside before I close the front door; the foreign blue-green carpet of the corridor sends my heart rattling up my throat. I shut and lock my door.

Zabini is dressed in a Muggle fashion, with a great grey overcoat and a pale scarf; I, irrational as it was, had expected him to be in his old Slytherin outfit, dazzlingly defiant in silver and green. He deposits the groceries on my kitchen counter. 'Which one of these is the pantry,' he asks me, but it sounded more like a command than an inquiry.

'Good afternoon to you too,' I tell him, pointing at a small door next to the stove.

He doesn't have the decency to blush; instead, Zabini snorts under his breath and starts putting the food away. I decide to continue typing, but my glance keeps jumping back to the groceries. "I hate granny smith apples,' I tell him. 'And I don't eat pork or beef.'

Zabini pauses. His dark hair is closely shaved, his wiry body is Olympic in comparison to my wasted muscles. He gives me a strange sidelong look—I imagine he has never even thought of giving up meat. 'Then I guess I'll find something else to do with these,' he says, gesturing to a bag of bloody animal product. I remain on edge, my eyes flitting around the room nervously. My manifesto is still within the typewriter; uncomfortable now, I hastily pull it out of the slot. I store it in my desk and whisper the locking charm, my back to him. When I turn around again, Zabini has gone to the counter and begins pulling out the drawers. He reaches into one and draws out a long, smooth steak knife.

All of a sudden, the world roars. The grey glint of the polished steel in his dark, deft hands sets my head flaming and struck a loud, reverberating din ringing in my ears. It isn't until I'm kneeling on all fours, cowering behind the coffee table, that I notice that Zabini had rushed to my side. 'What the bloody hell?' he demands.

I spring away from him, my eyes flickering from his empty hands to the knife that still lies on the table. There were only four knives in my flat, used primarily for cooking; they were large and wicked. That he is all the way across the room did not soothe me at all; I think with terror of his wand, which hung at his belt, hitched in one of the loops. It would be so easy for him to summon one of those knives… Zabini follows my gaze.

'Your Weasley told me to get them out of your home for now,' he says testily. 'Stupid bint, get back to your work and I'll get back to mine.' He walks over, transfigures the knives into soft, squeaking children's toys with a few shakes of his wand, and drops the toys into his canvas bag.

I resist the urge to hex him. Tightening my hands into fists, I lean on the side of my couch and turn my face fully toward him. He knows I'm staring at him, and I know that I must appear ghastly, all ugly and disfigured, a tangible ghost of the War. Still, he resolutely tucks food away, bringing out fresh bread from the bakery down the street and untouched muggle tea bags. What had it cost him to go into a muggle store and buy that, I wonder.

It takes all of five minutes for him to finish—those were the most excruciating, tense moments of my life. Then he looks up, straight into my face. I notice his attention pushes past me to gaze over my shoulder just before he asks if he could use the bathroom.

'Find your own,' I say in a raw voice, praying it hid my uneasiness with antagonism.

Zambini crosses his arms over his chest. 'Merlin, woman. It's just a piss. I'm not going to curse you with it.'

My whole face burns with embarrassment. "Go, go," I tell him, gesturing toward the hall. 'First door on the left.'

As soon as he'd closed the door behind him, I scamper over to the kitchen, examining all of the drawers and cabinets to make sure he hadn't done anything unorthodox. He'd taken his canvas bag with him into the bathroom, so I could not check it. Still, everything I found was perfectly appropriate—fruit, marmalade, scones, some boxed takeout for tonight. He'd gotten me cheese, which I disliked, and the wrong flavor of yogurt, but I can live with that. I wouldn't be able to live with an enchanted bomb tucked in the freezer, though. I glance through every part of the kitchen; by the time I am satisfied, turning around to face the living room, he is back. Blaise Zambini is a hell of a sight, standing in my hallway with a bemused frown.

'I work for your side now,' he says. 'Why would I do anything to you? McGonagall would turn me over to Nott and then I'd have hell to pay. Keep that in your mind before suspecting me of anything.' His voice was highly bitter. My heart drops into my stomach and sloshes around in the acid there. Suddenly, I feel guilty. He moves on quickly, going toward the front door. 'I'll be back in two weeks. No pork, no beef, no granny smith apples, right?'

I nodded. 'I like blueberry and plain yogurt, not pineapple, I hate citrus fruits, and I'd like a little more extra-virgin olive oil.' I become aware of the surrealism of standing in my kitchen, half-harrowed with worry that my ex-enemy would try to sneak a cursed object in to hurt me, while at the same time giving him my food preferences.

'I'll get that to you,' he says, slinging his canvas bag over his shoulder. He leaves hurriedly, with a loud click, as if he couldn't bear to spend any more time with me than he had to. Well good—I wouldn't be able to bear spending any more time with him than I had to.

I look toward the bathroom, tempted to go in and inspect the environs, but I remember what he said when he found me rising from inspecting the oven in the kitchen. I remember the way he tensed up immediately. Dammit, Hermione, good going. I sigh. The hand of magical clock on the counter shifted to Reading, and I let my feet drag me to the bookcase and pick out a muggle book. I'd do anything to forget about the magical world just about then.

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Dinner is reheated miso soup and teriyaki with rice. I sit by the window and watch the sun set in the sliver of sky between two over-close apartment roofs. Am I brave enough today? I wonder. The rice isn't very good, I tell myself. If it were better, than maybe I would be brave enough. I can hear Harry laughing at me: 'Courage has nothing to do with rice, Hermione,' he says in my mind. Edged on by him, I gently unlatch the window and push it up a crack.

The din of the outside world seeps in slowly. I stare fascinated at the thin slot of air where my flat was mingling and blurring with the outside world. I can see the air currents mixing, I imagine. It's gentle but insidious; the outside is carefully and deliberately invading into my home—

My heartbeat steadily increases tempo until the hair stands up perfectly perpendicularly on my arms and I slam the window back down, breathing heavily. Dammit, I tell myself. I wasn't brave enough today. The tears are quick and warm, and cease after a handful of minutes. With them, all the pent-up stress is released, dropping each concentrated dose of panic onto my dinner tray in salty splotches.

A creak in the hardwood flowers rings throughout the flat. I jump away from the window, brandishing my wand at where it originated—the hallway. But when I edge close enough to look into it, there is no one there. No one at all. Apprehension makes me heady; I flip on the light switch and look about. Besides the photo of the Golden Trio hung in the middle of the wall, there is nothing in the hallway.

It must have been my imagination, I tell myself. I give the hallway a lingering once-over before I go back to the soft chair by the window and quickly finish my dinner. I draw the curtains after I'm done, turning on all the muggle lamps, and set my tray in sink. Before I sit back in front of the typewriter, I stand in front of the hallway and look again. I know rationally that it must have just been the building settling, or maybe the groan of my upstairs neighbor traveling through his apartment. Still, I stand there as if waiting for something.

Like before, there really is no one and nothing there. I retire to the loveseat and start typing again, putting it out of my mind.

-

First Tuesday, October

There is some poltergeist in my apartment.

That's the conclusion I've come to after furious deliberation. It is either that there is a poltergeist around in my flat, or I have developed multiple personality disorder—and I do not have the latter. I can't; I don't have any instances of "lost time" and everything I've touched is accounted for. There must be a poltergeist in this house.

Not a poltergeist like Peeves—this one is of a different caliber: one much quieter, much craftier, who enjoys playing mind games. It started three days ago, when I set out cookies to cool overnight on a tray overnight, and by Saturday morning, three were gone. I looked all over for mice, mouseholes, anything. There was no one else in the apartment with me, however. Developing multiple personality disorder came to mind; for the first time in a long while, I realized that I might not know me as well I thought I did.

The fear rendered me speechless for several hours. That night, however, I tied myself to my bed with magic after setting out baked goods on the table. I woke in the same position as I slept, my muscles aching. The baked goods had not been touched, but someone had drank about two glasses worth of wine I'd kept tucked away for special purposes. I found the bottle corked on the table and put it away with my hands shaking near uncontrollably.

It could not have been me. In no instances could it have been me. I hated wine—that was why I only had one medium bottle.

So here I sit, staring down my hallway. I have turned on every light, latched every window, and pulled tight the curtains. From here in my bedroom, in the chair I have dragged from by the window to place in front of my door, ignoring the scuffs I've just made from on my floor—from here I sit and watch. When I see the poltergeist, when I see what rat bastard weaseled his way into my airtight and warded flat, my wand will be put to the heaviest use it's had since… since the War.

No one has invaded my apartment like this before. And I will not stand for it.

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There is no one. It cannot be my imagination but there is no one. After three and a half hours of fruitless waiting, I gave up and went to the kitchen to brew tea. I passed through the hall and let my fingers trail on the walls and the paintings. Gently, I turned the antique knob on the spare bedroom-slash-library. It has been relatively untouched; a visible layer of dust covers everything. I pointed my wand inside and murmured, "Scourgify." Each book—the ones on the bookshelves as well as stacked on the floor haphazardly—brightened. The windows were carefully scrubbed, the floor lay gleaming.

After I pulled out a couple books to read—muggle and magical alike—I locked the room behind me.

The other door—the one to the bathroom—I knew I could not lock. It was a small room, claustrophobic, almost, with a tiny shower and a tiny sink and a tiny yellow ceramic toilet. The dark blue tiles were passably clean, but overwhelmed the entire room, scaling all the way up to the ceiling and darkening the bathroom. The fact that the sole lightbulb was tiny, weak, and flickered erratically only made the room more disconcerting to be in.

I opened the tap and watched the water flow out, rusty at first and then running clearer and clearer in an unsteady stream. It curled into the drain; I couldn't detect any residue of magic in the water, nor in the piping. The poltergeist had not come through the plumbing system.

I chuckled a little at my paranoia. A poltergeist through the drainage system? What was I thinking…. As I turned off the tap, I knocked over my hairbrush to the ground; it made a dull clattering noise on the tiles. Even the sounds of this room are muted—my bathroom, I grinned despite myself, was stifling. But as I picked it up, a dark mass between the bathroom counter and the wall caught my eye. My breath snagged; I drew the object out from its hiding place, and almost immediately dropped it.

It was a mirror.

Surprisingly, it didn't shatter. A shiver of fear passing down my neck, I bent over and picked it up again, not daring to take a good look at it. I ran out of the bathroom and slammed the door behind me.

There is no one. It cannot be my imagination but there is no one. And there is nothing, except for this mirror. This hand-mirror, about the size of my two palms put side-by-side, set in some intricate bronze-hued metal with a long handle beveled with runes.

I do not have any mirrors in my apartment; I cannot have any mirrors in my apartment.

The only one who has been here recently who may have brought in a mirror is Zambini.

Oh, Merlin's Beard!

It must be an enchanted mirror. It is too ornate to be a Muggle-manufactured mirror, and though I can barely make out the runes, they glimmer of power.

Gently, I tip it towards me. Its surface reflects the ceiling at first, then the window behind me. I take a good look inside, watching the twilight pour itself over the roofs of this London street, settling its gray-blue darkness into the nooks and crannies of the outside world, filtering itself into my apartment. I take a deep breath, and slowly angle the mirror so that my face comes into view.

I've seen outlines of myself reflected in windows and in pools of water, but never with the biting clarity of a mirror. There it is, my tough hair, highlighted by long gray threads. Then my forehead, with the raised scars of Lestrange's curse running down from my temple over my nose and the side of my cheek. The burned lower portion of my jaw. The pits near my nostril, and the long closed up scar of where Lucius Malfoy had cut me with a curved dagger, from my chin upwards, fading near my eye. I am lucky I can still see—I am lucky he missed my eye.

I look like a Gorgon. Too shell-shocked to cry or even to scream, I can't pull my eyes way from the horror that I realize has to be me. Ugly, monstrous, fearsome… I hate my face with burning ferocity that I hadn't felt since the War. Every little treasured dream of my youth is shriveling; I could never be the Hermione my friends knew again. This is not the Hermione they had known.

My reflection began to slowly smooth over. I watched in fascination as the enchanted mirror carefully erases the battle-scored skin and gives it a pale, ivory sheen. Then, in horror, I realize my reflection is being converted to the reflection of someone else: the hair shortening and lightening, the eyes misting over, suffusing blue into brown until a strange striking gray set in, the nose lengthening, the chin sharpening, the jaw narrowing, the lips tightening.

Recognition strikes me over the head like a persistent hammer steadily growing in strength; I know this face.

Draco Malfoy is in the mirror.