Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. I do not seek to make profit off this work. Harry Potter and its characters belong to JKR and I am happy for her to have that title.
That morning she makes a mark on her calendar as a week passes. It is now her tenth week. Twenty-six more weeks for Snape to harass and target her if she stayed. Twenty-six weeks of uninterrupted education, little worry, and sleeping in her own cottage while she spent weekends visiting her parents or going to the doctor's, all without a permission slip.
If she went to the Light Day School.
She rubs the bridge of her nose, already feeling a headache coming on even as she compares the possibilities of the Light Day School next to Hogwarts. No one looking over her shoulder, judging her. Six months of taking it easy while studying for her NEWTs. In May she would graduate, after having given birth, and then she wouldn't have to justify staying in school anymore.
Really, she thinks as she stares down at her calendar and the little 10 scribbled next to the date, it is a win-win situation, except more winning on her side.
It doesn't feel like one, though. It feels like running away.
She gets ready, double checks her bag for homework and miscellaneous learning paraphernalia, and opens the door to find Ginny waiting, arms crossed. She doesn't look very happy, even after Hermione smiles sickly at her.
Maybe there's a good reason it feels like she's running away. She is.
"Hi, Gin," she says and hopes Ginny doesn't hear the grimace in her voice. She must, because her scowl grows. Merlin, that Ron. He couldn't keep his mouth shut! If she wasn't shaking at the sight of an angry Weasley on her doorstep, she would search him out and smack him.
Hermione straightens her blouse, hoping the action serves its purpose: to divert attention from her shaking hands. She swallows and tries a second time. No one ever said she went mad on her way to doom. "What's wrong?"
"What's wrong?" Ginny asks. "I'll tell you. You haven't talked to Harry!"
Hermione blinks, her brain running off the familiar track into the weeds. "What?"
"I talked to him and he said you haven't talked to him." Ginny throws her hands into the air. "I thought we were in this together! What happened to friendship, to loyalty, to making him come back to me? This is terrible."
"You spoke to him?" Hermione mimics her and throws her hands into the air, never mind her robe over her uniform. "I told you to stay away from him for a while."
"So jinx me," Ginny says, her hands destroying her robe collar. "I had to, Hermione. You just don't understand how it is when you love someone."
"Maybe not," Hermione concedes. She also doesn't know what it means to be a flounder, but that doesn't stop her from refraining to breathe underwater. "But I know Harry. And, last time I checked, he still hated you. Now you may have done irreparable damage. Merlin, Ginny, it's only been a week since I asked!"
Ginny blows a raspberry.
She huffs. "Mature. Come on and walk me down to breakfast. Unless you've decided to do that on your own schedule too? Because I don't think the house-elves will approve."
Rolling her eyes, Ginny pulls her book bag higher on her shoulder and they go down the stairs and out of the common room. Breakfast smells divine when they get to the Great Hall. Hermione can't decide whether that's the pregnancy talking or just her own hunger, which could also be pregnancy related. Either way, she sits down at the far end with Harry and Ron while Ginny heads down to sit by some of her sixth year friends. Neville stops to ask Harry about something Quidditch-related and Hermione quickly tunes everything out, focusing on her breakfast. Grease, grease, grease. It's all she craves today, though she does add a roll to vary her diet. Ron scowls at her plate, his hand by his fork twitching, and she pops his wrist.
Neville eyes her plate. "Hungry, Hermione?"
She chews, not speaking, and Neville gets the hint. He grins. "You'll need the energy today. Professor Sprout has some fully grown Mandrakes for us in Greenhouse Three."
This, as it is wont to do, makes everyone taking that lesson's food drop to the bottom of their stomachs, Hermione's included.
"Mandrakes," Ron says, looking green. "That's…"
"Great, huh?" Neville, happy as a violet, grins. "Same batch that helped save Hermione. Remember, Hermione?"
"Hard to forget," Hermione says. She remembers the thought she had back then, too. She liked mandrakes better when she was an unconscious statue than as a mobile, thus mortal, human being. She puts her hand to her mouth, her fork down, when her stomach objects to this new turn of events.
"See you there!" Neville says happily before walking off. Poor Neville, whose joy spread despondency down the table, almost glowed with goodwill. Hermione slaps Ron's hand down when it raises. Even if Neville's words have made her … only slightly less hungry, he doesn't deserve a forkful of scrambled eggs to the back of the head.
"We're going to cut off a slice of the Mandrake—don't worry, girls, they regenerate," Sprout adds, though no one Hermione sees looks especially glum about this. Honestly, they look a little too gleeful to cut into a Mandrake, even Neville. Sprout motions to their tables as she walks down the aisle. "We'll root them in the tubs of sand at your worktable. If you can get those ready, class…" She peered over Hannah Abbot's table at Hermione. "Mister Weasley, will you assemble Miss Granger's tub for her? I need to speak to her a moment. No one is to start until I return."
Harry and Ron tense on either side of her, as if Sprout just suggested they paint nude watercolors of each other. She avoids their anxious gazes.
Dread cowers in her stomach as Hermione follows Sprout to the end of the line of worktables and out of the greenhouse door. She passes Draco and its worse because he avoids looking at her. She takes a deep breath when she closes the glass door behind her.
Hermione shouldn't have worried. Sprout's smile is warm and soft, just like the wind brushing her cheek.
"You're not in any trouble, girl," she says upon seeing her face. "I just wanted to inform you before class started that you can opt out of this lesson if you wish. The earmuffs should keep out the screams and we're stunning any that make a fuss, anyway, but it is dangerous." Her eyes dart to Hermione's stomach.
"Opt out?" She has never heard of a professor offering this. Not even when Amber Greedy, a Hufflepuff seventh year, was pregnant during Hermione fourth year. Hermione had been distracted with the drama between the boys and then with Viktor, but in the dorms girls had gathered nightly for the updates on Greedy's pregnancy, whispers of horror and ridicule as common as hairbrushes. Hermione had been one of the horrified number. Who could risk Hogwarts like that?
"I can give you some errands if you're spare for something to do," Sprout says. Her lips twist wryly, because they both know Hermione has nary an unused minute in her daily schedule.
"That's a very"—bewildering, puzzling, baffling—"nice offer," she says, after a careful choice of adjectives that don't end with –ing. "But have you offered this to a student before?"
Sprout's head pulls back. Her eyebrows raise and Hermione drops her eyes quickly—but why? She makes herself look up again. She is not intimidated just because she is pregnant. She is still Hermione Granger regardless of the belly.
"Well, not exactly." Sprout sounds as careful as her. Her head tilts as she studies Hermione. Hermione stares back. After a few seconds of silence, Sprout stops assessing her and breaks. "If you're sure you want to stay…"
Hermione tries to imagine her child independent of her body, grown, looking at her in this moment. It has no face, no sex—it's just there, considering her, waiting for her answer.
"I am," Hermione says. Her fists clench and she forces herself to unclench them. She doesn't want cockroaches like Skeeter saying there was any preferential treatment going on in her final days at Hogwarts.
She couldn't stand the shame.
"If you're sure…" Sprout trails off, the hope in her eyes disappearing after Hermione nods. She sighs and motions with both hands toward the door. At least she doesn't drag it out.
Harry and Ron relax upon seeing her, as if they expected to find Hermione drawn and quartered when they left the lesson. Hermione slips back between them, accepting the comfort their glances give, and reflects on the spirit with which she's been received by most of the staff and her friends. No condemnation, no hate. Rumors and whispers, of course, and a certain protectiveness; but beyond Snape and McGonagall, the two most unlikely bedfellows, there's nothing like she expected. Even Dumbledore had seemed rather blasé about it. Now she wonders how well Ginny would react if she told her.
It is the first interruption of her last day at Hogwarts.
"So, Hermione, your last day," Zacharias says. He nods to Hannah as she leaves the Prefect's Office with the other prefects, but doesn't seem interested in following them out. He leans on the desk in front of Hermione, where she has spent the last half hour outlining the next week's patrol schedule, Millicent having passed on it when Hermione approached her after breakfast.
"Yep." Ron and Harry's gossip darts through her head and she shakes it, not giving credence to the ridiculous thought as she packs her bag.
"And, actually," she feels compelled to add, "the Headmaster allowed me this week to decide if I wanted to stay."
He straightens, stops admiring his nails to raise his head. "And? Have you decided?"
She looks around instead of answering. Draco stands by the door and his eyes catch and hold hers. It makes her think he's been waiting for her to notice him. His head tilts toward the door, a movement so minute Hermione could have blinked and missed it. It's instinctive, the reaction between her thighs, the tightening and rush.
She looks back at Zacharias and smiles. "I don't know yet," her mouth says without her. Shock runs through her arms, her stomach, freezing that mad rush of lust. She reins in her mouth, wishing she could smack it. Instead, she makes it say what she wants it to say. "There's going to be a small going away party in the old D.A. room on Saturday, if I do go. You're invited."
"Much as I love a party," Zacharias says, a teasing curl to his mouth, "I hope it's a staying in Hogwarts one."
She doesn't know what to say to that, or to the expression in his eyes, so Hermione bids him a quick goodbye before exiting the Prefect's Office. She pauses at the end of the hall. Draco walks behind her at his normal not running after anyone and that includes you, Granger pace. She smiles at Zacharias as he goes past.
Sighing when Draco does finally catch up to her, she squints up at him. "What?"
Draco shows no concern about her eagerness to get to her next class. Considering her next class is Transfigurations, she isn't that eager, come to think of it. He leans on the wall opposite and eyes the passing students with Crookshanks' level laziness. Almost idly, he says, "Guess it's not Smith then."
She huffs through her nose. Hadn't he dodged that bullet? Why does he insist on talking to her, on… seeing her. The truth about Zacharias has her nerves on edge already; she has never been so blind before. Now she has to tell Harry that he's right, damn him.
"Would you stop? I'm not going to tell you."
"Smith is still stumbling around asking you to Hogsmeade," Draco continues as if he doesn't hear her. "And you, smiling and laughing with him. Making eyes." He turns and flutters his eyelashes at her.
This time she has to bite her tongue, but it's because she wants to smile. Or bite him. The problem, she thinks, is that he is everywhere she looks. The Prefect's Office, the greenhouses, the Great Hall. The only place she escapes him is Gryffindor Tower, and he's still in her thoughts. Constant, repetitious, wearing down on her nerves. At least she is past wanting to scream when she sees him. The thought makes her weary now.
But Draco…thinking of him, catching his eyes like before…there's still heat there. A lot of heat. That makes her wary, in addition to weary. She thought that would have disappeared by now, since it has already turned her life upside down.
The body never learns.
"I heard there were things you could do. In the Muggle world," he clarifies, when she only raises her eyebrows. He is the wary one now, not quite looking at her face.
Her lips press together. "There's so many hoops to jump through. It's not viable." Skeeter and her vicious cronies would be on her like strays on a prime steak. She shakes her head. No. She won't subject her parents or Mrs. Weasley to that. Or herself. "I'm sure there are potions that would do the job for me, but…"
"You don't want to?"
"I'm scared to, honestly," she says. "And don't tell anyone I said that."
"Here I planned to send out a newsletter."
"Well don't," she says. She shifts; not caring that it is rude, she glances at her watch.
Draco is a step closer when she raises her head. Her wariness returns full force, with interest for being neglected those few seconds. He tilts his head toward the Prefect's Office, empty now that the meeting is over. Eyes flashing with mischief, he wets his lips.
"How about it?"
Though he doesn't move besides that one step, Hermione backs well out of range of his hands, her glance darting to the Entrance Hall. It's empty. And she is alone with Draco. That is bad. Not only does it mean she is late for Transfigurations—correction, they are late for Transfigurations—it means she is alone with Draco Malfoy.
"Come on, Granger. You scared?"
She sees what he is trying to do. It has never worked before. It will not work now. "I'm sane."
He checks her over, a slow glance down and then back up, and there is that tightness again, that rush between her thighs that makes her dizzy and so very, very aware simultaneously. Aware of him, his body leaning forward, his tongue that slips out to re-wet his lips. Times like this she becomes the greatest Legilimens in the castle. He doesn't want to wait. He wants to push her against the wall, right here right now, where anyone could see his hands open her robes, slide her skirt up, his lips sear that spot by her shoulder he finds every time. He will do it if she lets him, if she hesitates the smallest bit.
She doesn't hesitate.
"They'll catch us, sooner or later," she says. "And they'll find out about me. Sooner or later. You'll be the logical choice for them, then."
Draco stares at her. Seconds tick away as he studies her, and she is certain he sees more than Sprout did this morning. She wants to know what he sees, how he sees her—and then she strikes that thought for the irrationality that it is.
He steps back and relief and disappointment mix so strongly in her chest she doesn't know why she sighs.
"Guess Potter wouldn't like that," he says. That look is still in his eyes, as if he is still considering, as if he wants to press her shoulders against the wall and his fingers into her thighs. His smirk is as lazy as before. "Still. Would be fun."
Half of Hermione wants it too.
"We're adults now," Hermione says, wrapping the words around her like a security blanket, secure from his looks and his wants and her own. "We're accountable to more than ourselves now, too. We're icons for the next generation."
"Potter sung that song to you too?" Draco laughs. It isn't kind.
She starts walking. Hermione won't put up with that kind of nonsense, no matter how he makes her feel. Dismay clutches her when she hears his steps echoing on the marble behind her.
She raises her chin. Let him. He can go on to Transfigurations. She has decided otherwise, to—she swallows and then steels herself—skive off. Bearing McGonagall's disappointment again is something she just can't bring herself to do. She should thank Malfoy, really. She would have gone ahead if he hadn't waylaid her and made her late.
The problem is that Malfoy doesn't turn off at the first staircase. Or the second staircase. The stairs tremble as soon as they step on, Draco like a Grim at her heels, and the stairs immediately move to a level Hermione doesn't want. The next one does the same, and this time Draco's breath is on the back of her head, his fingertips lightly—oh so lightly—touching the back of her skirt. She could mistake them for the skirt trembling with her legs, the force of the wind the stairs make as they move, but doesn't. A breath. She's done for, done even before he moves her hair off her shoulder.
Closing her eyes, she pretends it's someone else pressing cold lips against her neck. Someone without pale blond hair or handsome-not so handsome features. She can't. It's unmistakably Malfoy. He's like a purple bruise on the inside of your elbow: you can't ignore him.
The stairs choose a landing to settle on. Hermione steps off, watchful eyes on the corridor, and they set off. He doesn't stop touching her. He presses his chest to her back as she stops at corners and checks for Filch. His fingers linger on her hips. His hands reach out for her wrists as their steps echo in sync down the corridor. Her spit is heavy in her mouth. It's hard to swallow.
He doesn't turn off at the entrance to the library. Honestly, she doesn't try stopping. He makes a noise that sounds like victory. It is fear, and wild, wild temptation that eggs her on, brimming like tacks under her skin, that takes her to the secret staircase that everybody knows about. To the fourth floor. His sharp inhale makes her face even hotter. He remembers. His fingers dig into her hips.
But he pulls her into a nook instead, another one, in clear view of the corridor, instead of one of the five empty classrooms around them. They know they are empty, still being renovated from when the Acromantulas broke the walls. They have explored these rooms before, though explored is not the technical term.
She pulls her arm out of his grip. "Malfoy."
She isn't fooling him. She isn't fooling herself. Why else lead him up here?
"Come on," he whispers, his hand sliding down her other arm. "It's not as if we have anything to worry about."
If Dean had tried that on Lavender, Hermione would have snorted when Lavender recapped the night later in the dorm. She would have rolled her eyes and agreed with Lavender that, yes, the boy was a legitimate pig-turned-human who shouldn't be allowed to procreate, much less hit on witches.
Hermione isn't Lavender, and Draco—she shivers—Draco is certainly not Dean.
He can read her face, the tense line of her body so well. His eyes soften, now that he knows he'll get what he wants. They crinkle at the corners, but his triumph is there at his mouth, twitching his pale lips. "Let me."
"You're not doing me any favours," she tells him, maybe a little too sharply.
His lips just curl more. "Of course not."
"Don't act like you are."
He leans down, nudging her hair back as his fingers slide between her robes. He murmurs in her ear, warm and silky, "Absolutely not."
She presses against his stomach, but lightly. Softens her voice. "Let's go into the classroom."
"Doors," Draco says vaguely, his attention more on pulling her hips against his, hands curved over her arse like he is considering picking her up. "I like doors."
She pulls away and he follows. She looks at him over her shoulder and his eyes are nowhere but on her, so alive and burning for her, his hands trailing after her as if she holds his leash, her senses delirious and drunk on him, and Merlin, he gives her this control so readily, it is no wonder she is addicted.
"This is the last time," she tells him as he sets her on the lone desk. The door, closed and warded, shuts on the possibility of her going back.
"Yeah," he agrees, popping the buttons on her blouse, his lips shining and her lip-gloss smeared across her cheek. "Yeah, definitely."