Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. The plot is from Disney's version of Beauty and the Beast and any other things specified, and I'm not making any profits from this fic. Similarly, none of the song lyrics posted here are my own, and have received proper credit at the beginning of each respective chapter.
Author's Notes: 4/1/12. It's a real update-not an April Fools' joke! (Although I did fall victim to a particularly clever one this morning, courtesy of a very sneaky friend.) As some of you may know, my academic semester is coming to an end... which means more writing opportunities! I'm still working full-time and I'll be preparing for my month-long trip to Spain set for July, but my growing schedule availability will allow me to aim for a chapter update every two weeks instead of every month. Also, I keep playing with the number of chapters that this fic will wind up having (it's pre-planned for 32-33 at the moment), but my goal is to have everything completely finished by this coming December.
Let's see if I can do it!
Fuel the Fire
Come on, come on
Put your hands into the fire.
Explain, explain
As I turn and meet the power.
This time, This time
Turning white and sense dire.
Pull up, pull up
From one extreme to another.
"Into the Fire" - The Thirteen Senses
A moment of pause followed as Hermione regained her bearings.
"I beg your pardon?" Hermione enunciated slowly, eyes sharpening through her indignation. "And just who might you be?"
The woman merely offered a slight upward tilt of the lips, and Hermione's chin rose instinctively. The aura surrounding the mirror was permeated with magic, and she could sense the life within the glass like a resounding buzzat her senses. This, coupled with the undeniable tension sharpening the young woman's gaze, had the rolling waves of uncertainty practically hissing about Hermione's ears. Who on earth is she? Why isn't she like the others? So much about her was already screaming different.
"Look, I apologize if I intruded. It won't happen again," Hermione said crisply. When the woman's only response was an amused raising of her brow, Hermione's impatience flared. "If you have business with me, I suggest you make it known."
"Calm your horses," the woman drawled. "There's no need to be catty."
Anger and surprise trembled through her veins, and a thousand sharp words begged to be released from the tip of her tongue, but instead she settled for: "I don't know who you are, or who you think you are, but—"
"The name is Pansy," she interrupted smoothly, her pretty expression wiped off cleanly and replaced by what Hermione realized was a shockingly familiar scowl. "And I'm here to help you."
Hermione's trail of thought was immediately shattered by her own waspish scoff. "Indeed," she laughed darkly, and turned on her heel.
"You really think you can do it alone?" Pansy's assured voice carried across the room, and the tiny hairs along Hermione's arm stiffened. "That a few trinkets and a book of days will help you escape?"
She spun around, curls flinging wildly about in her haste to face the smugness of the woman in the mirror, and suddenly the hissing about her ears became the heavy drum of her heart. The woman saw Hermione's expression and laughed.
"I've watched your little collection grow, you know. An unidentified key here, a few lines on some little scrap of map there... What do you think you'll be able to do with such tools, really? Especially considering how well your first attempt went."
"How did you...?"
"It's part of the package," Pansy said lowly as she made a vague gesture to her cage, and it was here that the first thread of bitterness unwound itself before Hermione. "As you've no doubt seen, the curse treated us all differently. We each have been granted different strengths and weaknesses. And here is mine." Perplexed, alarmed, and irrationally intrigued, Hermione felt something twisting her gut and couldn't help but think, What has happened to these people? What has this curse really turned them into?
"How does it work?" she whispered, wondering at possible laws of social etiquette and personally invasive questions about magical side effects. Admittedly, she might have felt more inclined to maintain a level of tact had it not been for Pansy's own rudeness—two wrongs don't make a right, Hermione!—and if not for her creeping terror: What else could this woman know? What if this woman had seen more? Could she know about the diary?
"It doesn't matter," Pansy sneered and crossed her arms, staring at some far-away thing beyond Hermione's shoulder. "It's magic. The point is that there is no science behind it. All that matters is that my abilities place me in the perfect position to be... a resource. Consider me henceforth as your guide toward freedom."
"First and foremost, I know nothing about you, nor any position that you may hold. I've never even heard a thing about you."
"As I said, my abilities allow for many an untraditional task."
"Meaning?"
"My work about the castle is often much less... visible; such is often the case for those with hands covered in dirt, is it not?"
A spy? Hermione wondered. A suggestive sneer cracked through Pansy's smirk, and any budding thoughts of sympathy were instantly squashed. She enjoys this!
"Then all the more reason for suspicion! What reasons have I to trust you?" Hermione spat. "For all I know, this could be nothing more than a trap set by the Prince himself, some test that I'm bound to fail so that he will finally have reason to finish me off once and for all."
"Isn't that what you want? To be gone from this place?" The woman smiled, but it was saccharine sweet, like the cool kiss of a knife before the plunge.
"I want to take back my life, not end it."
"And people tell me I'm melodramatic," Pansy laughed, and the tinkling sound grated over Hermione's senses.
"You have still not given me any reason to offer your words even a shred of consideration. Why would you be willing to help me escape?"
"And here Weasley told me you would be easy to reason with… so much for your logicality."
Hermione was overcome; the shock of feeling her heart being torn in such completely different directions—toward her throat, into her stomach, out the door, toward the mirror—kept her feet glued to the floor and her questioning eyes open wide.
"You can't mean—"
"Yes," Pansy stated, as patiently as she could. "I've been keeping watch over all three of your little friends, but I've been communicating mainly with Ronald Weasley."
"Ron," she breathed.
Pansy rolled her eyes, noting the newfound flush tinting the other woman's cheeks, but Hermione ignored the spiteful gesture in honor of more important matters. "They know where I am?" Hermione pushed on. "That I'm safe? They're not going to try to come and rescue me, are they? They'll only get themselves—"
"Are you going to listen or not?" Pansy snapped impatiently. "Neither the little fireball nor the scarred boyfriend know about any of this. Only Weasley knows the truth and as a result of my initiative, we've established a mutually beneficial partnership."
"What kind of partnership? And what do you mean by the 'truth'? He can't... he couldn't possibly understand..."
"You're not the only one who thinks you don't belong here," Pansy sneered distastefully, and Hermione's curiosity grew... but her attention was quickly called elsewhere. "Let's just say that a certain letter of yours caught wind and alerted your little Ginger lover boy to the particulars of your situation. Considering his penchant for impulsivity, I haven't confirmed your exact whereabouts. And that was incredibly stupid of you, you know."
The light blush that had spread over Hermione's cheeks at the inappropriate lover comment deepened as another bout of anger flowed to the surface. "I did what I thought was best. I don't regret sending it."
"Regardless, if he'd never seen the letter from that professor, he might have never learned the true nature of Draco's curse. But now that he has, we'll have to push things along a little more quickly."
Draco?
Hermione shook her head slightly, trying to clear away the cloud of confusion that had swooped into her thoughts. "I still haven't agreed to anything."
"But indeed you have," Pansy smirked.
"Pushing will get you nowhere."
"All right, fine. The redhead said that you might need a little convincing, anyway..."
Before she knew it, Hermione was watching Pansy retreat within, her mind expanding outward in a silent summons. The sight of such an animated frame so still, so lost in focus, was an incredibly eerie experience, and Hermione forced herself to move one step closer to counter the urge to move backwards. Suddenly, a familiar call quietly sounded from beyond the window, and the next moment had Hedwig swooping through the room. She was gone again, back through the window in a matter of seconds, but not before dropping something to the floor between them. It landed against the stone with a muffled thud against Hermione's pounding ears, and fell open face up like an invitation.
"This is..."
Gingerly reaching for the familiar pages as if they might suddenly disappear, Hermione picked up the small, red book with careful fingers. When Pansy offered no further clue into this strange new development, Hermione slowly opened the cover of her favorite novel, and saw the hasty scrawl etched into the page.
.
.
.
Hermione,
Stay where you are and stay safe. As soon as I receive the signal, I'll come for you.
If you ever lose confidence, just remember your promise.
I'll be here, waiting.
- Ron
.
.
.
Pansy kept still, allowing her to finish rereading the note with a tangible air of impatient expectation, but even after looking at it several times over, Hermione still couldn't believe her eyes. Ron, her mind called out, and her fingers trailed over the worn pages like they were the sole connection to her only lifeline; in a very real way, she supposed they were. A deep breath parted her lips as a troublesome realization came over her.
"My promise?"
Pansy shrugged indifferently. "He said you would understand." But the confusion only increased, and as if reading the aching question in Hermione's mind, Pansy released a heavy sigh, and offered her something of an explanation. "He's been carrying that thing with him everywhere. I didn't see the point, but the dumbstruck look on your face certainly explains a lot."
Hermione paused her perusing of her dearly missed treasure to send a nasty glare at the woman in the mirror. "I can only imagine the quality of your partnership," she commented dryly. "And you still have not mentioned what you'd be getting out of any of this."
"If you want my help, you're going to learn to stop talking so much," Pansy snapped tetchily, and Hermione's eyes narrowed into infuriated slits. "And I'm sure you'll be happy to know that while he wasn't exactly quick to warm to the idea either, he and I have a rather useful working relationship... I am, above all else, a very unique resource."
Unable to remove the searing glare from her eyes, Hermione clutched the book in her hand more tightly and cocked her head to the side in critical calculation. "There is no question in my mind regarding the underhandedness of your actions; what I question is why I should trust you when you so easily betray the trust of others? For what purpose could you aim in aiding my escape? Are you not loyal to the Master or to your kingdom?"
"How dare you," Pansy spat, her voice rising with the heat. "My kingdom is my first priority, and my kingdom and my King are one in the same. There is not a soul living or dead, in this world or any other, that is more loyal to Draco than I."
Hermione felt something twistinside her as she was once again caught off guard by the unfamiliar name; had she ever heard Sir Snape or Madam McGonagall refer to the Master so familiarly? This, along with the gruesome sneer that contorted the girl's handsome features, only heightened Hermione's skepticism. Any questions regarding her alliances were put to rest, but Hermione's rising hope for reliability and motive continued to spiral out of her reach. Who is this girl? And what kind of connection might she have to the Master?
What kind of power?
Hermione grit her teeth and glared on, keeping her gaze steady through the unexpected outburst, and strained for control. Too many questions, not enough options, absolutely no trust.
She was beginning to see a pattern.
"Then tell me why."
"He has made it clear, you fool," Pansy hissed through her teeth. "You are not wanted here."
"You would go against his direct orders?"
"For the sake of his wellbeing," she said venomously. "Your being here brings nothing but trouble, and I have taken it upon myself to do the honor of removing you for him."
Hermione searched the cutting angles of Pansy'sfury, reading the creases and lines of the obvious dislike etched into her features as if they were a manual, and finally knew with a strange sense of intuition that Pansy's offer was not a trap.
Unknown ulterior motives or not, Hermione concluded with a jolt of anticipation. She will do all that she can to get me as far away from here as possible.
"And you expect him to reward you for your efforts?" she asked, and not kindly; the idea made her feel strangely sick.
"I wouldn't expect you to understand."
Hermione sighed, suddenly feeling lightheaded and a little dizzy. Of course she wouldn't understand. I don't want to, she reminded herself. But then a conversation came floating back to her, a talk through long empty corridors about languages and walking too slowly and what might have been important once but was no longer so and—I don't want to understand anymore. I don't.
Right?
"He won't trust me to keep quiet," Hermione pointed out reasonably, feeling herself being drawn in against all of her better instincts. "How do I know he just won't come chasing after me once I'm gone?"
The ugly expression quickly faded from Pansy's face, and a gratified smirk wound itself into her lips once more. "Just leave that to me. I'll get you out, and he won't ever consider looking for you again."
Hermione chewed the inside of her cheek thoughtfully; what other options did she have?
You could be free, her mind whispered temptingly.
"What do I have to do?" she asked, and there was already a fire of excitement and a cannonball of dread hardening in her core.
"For now, you will act as if nothing has changed. The timing will have to be perfect, and unfortunately it will be some number of weeks before we will have an opportunity. Draco will soon need to travel farther away to find game without arising suspicion in the neighboring villages, and when that time comes, we will make our move. In the meantime, Draco will be leaving on another local hunt in the next few days, and it is then that I will take you through some of the Marauders' secret passageways to learn your way around."
Hermione blinked, her mind already glazing over the unfamiliar names as a more pressing concern arose. "I am not a liar," she insisted seriously. "I've realized this about myself during my stay here; I may conjure adequate lies while under extreme pressure, when necessary… but I don't do things like this."
When Pansy smiled, it was genuine. A strange feeling of anticipation came over Hermione, and the blazing fire of readiness, as well as the ball of dread, threatened to explode.
Pansy seemed to notice this, and with a devious smirk, she reassured her, "That's why you have me."
Hermione allowed herself a small smirk in return.
Her thoughts were still maniacally whirling the next morning, however, and Hermione was so out of touch with her surroundings on her way down to breakfast that she actually crashed into them on at least three occasions. One particular tumble down a set of stone steps had her favoring a sore knee the next two floors down, and by the second stumble, more curses were unleashed in those few minutes alone than had ever been uttered in the entirety of her previous existence. All of this was precisely why she didn't notice the huge, hunkering, hovering form of the Master on the nearby railing until he was right beside her and—
"Morning, Granger."
—more importantly, why she inevitably let out a sharp, piercing, echoing shriek.
"Woman, you need not scream," the Master hissed angrily as Hermione covered her frantic heart. "I had assumed you understood the meaning of acute hearing."
"Well, you should know better than to greet someone in such a way," she retorted through sporadic breaths, holding onto the banister with both hands; it was a great support beam for her suddenly weakknees, but it had a devastating effect on the credibility of her glare. "Suddenly appearing by a drop-invisit in the most literal sense is sure to make even the strongest of souls flinch. Not everyone is equipped with such effective sensory abilities as you are, you know."
"All too well," he said levelly, though his lip curled with strain. "You seem on edge, Granger. A rough start to your day, I presume? Or perhaps your distress began even earlier? Say… last night?"
"What an eerie thing to say," Hermione eyed him critically, hoping beyond hope that her fingers weren't shaking in paranoia. He couldn't possibly know! You are safe—as long as you don't ruin it! She clutched the banister tighter, gathered her wits about her, and asked, "I'm assuming you have something further to discuss, and that you did not make an insinuating comment simply for the sake of making an insinuation?"
"Let's just say that a little bucket on the sixth floor told me you came looking for me late yesterday evening."
Hermione's stomach flopped, and—relief—vexation erupted within her. Damn.
"Acute hearing, Granger," he smirked, eyes alight with amusement.
I hadn't meant to say that aloud! She crossed her arms defensively, mind reeling with poisonous barbs while she fumed in silent mortification. This is why you vowed not to curse, Hermione! Once the dam breaks, it's nearly impossible to rebuild! That Blaise and Seamus and Lee and their pernicious influence! Get a grip before you lose sight of the plan!
"Don't look so complacent," she snapped, resuming her steady pace down the corridor. "You know it's perfectly perfunctory that we meet somewhere between the third and fifth floors each afternoon—I was merely looking to see why you had broken the routine, and to ensure that I would not be found at fault for it."
"It's interesting that you should mention our routine," he said offhandedly, and the perseverance of his strange, warped sense of merriment did nothing to soothe the tenderness of her ego. Or her paranoia. "As it's actually the reason I sought you out this early morning."
"Afraid that I will treat you to your own medicine with my absence in return?" she replied irritably, and she grew even more spiteful because that cannot be bitterness in my voice!
"As if you could," he taunted with a haughty smirk. Despite her menacing glance, Hermione could find it within herself to objectively note that his tone was far less I am all powerful; hear me roar!, and much more I am a prat, listen to me prattle, which might have been considered a marked improvement had she not been so annoyed.
On second thought, perhaps it was not so objective, after all.
"It's true that our afternoons usually consist of a stroll about the castle, but… today I have something a little different in mind."
"You know, it's so very unsurprising that you make all of the arrangements regarding when I might anticipate seeing you, while I have no say whatsoever."
"You anticipate seeing me?" he asked curiously.
"You are missing the point."
"You didn't deny it."
"Because it's true," she stated plainly, halting her steps. The Master's bewilderment registered clearly in his own faltered strides as he came to a pause beside her, and he looked at her in expectation, obviously waiting for elaboration. She sighed, renewed her pace with a roll of her eyes, and reminded him, "If not for freedom, then what else may a captive wait for?"
He expected her to finish, and thus said nothing as he matched her pace; the irony was not lost on Hermione.
"Only her captor," she said with a resigned shrug.
They walked for some minutes then, weaving in and around the inner structure of the castle in something close-to-but-not-quite companionable silence. As she berated herself for allowing the conversation to trail down darker paths, Hermione wondered at the sight they must have made; she with her hand clasped loosely around her forearm behind her back and he at her side, creeping on all monstrous fours along the balustrade. The fantastic idea that this could all be merely a bizarre dream struck through her in a bolt of denial, and she would have laughed at the absurdity of it all—the prison, the lies, the plans—had the laugh not come out as a sigh.
As they neared the final staircase that would lead her to the kitchens, the Master sat back on the balls of his feet, and regarded her with his elbows atop his knees. She tried not to be impressed by his rather impressive balance, but her thoughts weren't allowed to dwell on it for very long.
"You'll want to remember your cloak this afternoon," he stated casually, though it was clear to Hermione that the liveliness had returned to his eyes. "There is a rare bout of sunshine today, but there will be snowfall as soon as sunset."
Hermione contemplated his words with a skeptical brow. "For a near-winter day, it's gorgeous outside… How can you be so sure?"
"The air," he smirked. When her dubious look only grew more dubious, he clarified, "Its scent tells me that tonight there will be snow, and so there will be snow."
"You're awfully animated this morning," she groused. "What has you in such a state?"
"Don't tell me you can't appreciate a bit of novelty, Granger."
"It depends on the nature of the novelty," she responded guardedly. "Is the novelty in question related to your strange, upward mood shift, or the undertaking that I am to experience this evening?"
"Have you not considered that it might relate to both?"
"Are you implying that you are excited by the prospect of tonight, your highness?"
"Don't get carried away," he warned seriously. "Simply think of it as an experiment."
"I am confused," Hermione stated, thoroughly irked. "I was under the impression that I am being kept here on account of my supposedly improvable trustworthiness, yet your words imply that I am some horrific cross between a game and an enterprise."
"Think what you will," the Master smirked again. "But do try and remember your cloak—I know common sense can sometimes be a bit difficult for you."
"No more than idle torture is for you," she muttered airily, sliding her elbows to rest against the banister and her cheek against her knuckles.
"I shall be seeing you, Granger," said the Master as he flashed a gleaming fang, and leapt upward onto the open railing of the floor above.
"Show off," she whispered, fully aware that he'd probably heard her. Let him hear, she thought, rolling her eyes for good measure.
But as she turned to make her way toward the smell of warm cinnamon porridge and freshly cooked eggs, she couldn't ignore the nervous energy that was still flowing through her system or her heart's whisper of caution about the flutterysensation within her...
Or, more importantly, the fleeting notion that these feelings might not actually have quite as much to do with lying and secret-keeping and betrayal and imprisonment as she'd like to believe.
Stupid instincts, Draco glowered an hour or so later. They're not worth a damn.
He'd been there for less than quarter of an hour, but it was already clear to him that this trip was unnecessary. In the short time since his arrival to the well-hidden alcove along one of the highest shelves—far beyond the scope of typical mortal sight—he had heard nothing but insipid chatter amongst the servants whom were supposedly his most reasonable, and an only occasional comment from Granger whenever she deemed the conversation to be more important than her reading... a hobby which appeared rather extensive. From what he could see, she'd gone through a stack of what must have been at least twenty books. She would start one, read partly through, and then discard it before reaching the halfway mark, at which point she would start the process anew; it was clear that she was looking for something in particular, and he was almost hit with a small wave of envy—she at least knew what she was looking for.
It had been many days since he had last bothered to keep such a watchful eye on her, and something within him told him that he needed to be within range today... But his mind and his instincts were miles apart. He did not doubt that she still harbored every intention of escaping, and he frequently wondered if her newfound compliance was merely a devious—futile—strategy to mislead him, but this logic stillpresented no direct explanation as to what could be making him feel so strongly about coming this close.
There are much better things I could be doing with my time. For example, he needed to ensure that all preparations for later that afternoon were moving according to plan... Not to mention the meeting he needed to call in order to check-in with Snape and McGonagall, both of whom had been acting rather suspiciously as of late. Quite simply, all of this sitting and waiting—both in the immediate sense and in the grander scheme of things—was making him restless. I should visit Pansy, he decided.
Just as one foot slipped over the edge, however, a stray piece of conversation floated past his ears that put those thoughts to rest.
"It's no use, Hermione," said one of the servants from below: Thompson, maybe? "All official records of the Sorting process were destroyed. All we have is what we found yesterday, and we all know that blunder was nothing short of a scholarly prank."
"Unbelievable. An archive of thousandsof books, and we can't find a single decent account of what determined placement in any of the four Hogwarts Houses? Aren't we inside Hogwarts?"
"What used to be Hogwarts, love." Draco would recognize thatvoice anywhere, and his brows slanted in sneerful recognition; since when was Zabini quite this familiar with their guest of honor?
"This is absurd... How am I supposed to trust the two cents provided by a student's plaything?"
"You know, I've been thinking about all of this really seriously, and I have to say that... well, actually, I do believe that the Sorting Hat could be... rather accurate," said the artist.
"I agree," said the Loony-who's-it girl. "I think we fit quite nicely into each of the Houses it assigned to us. While Neville would have been happy to have been a part of Hufflepuff—"
"While I can't complain about my placement, I still say this was rigged! There is no way Longbottom is in Gryffindor!"
"Lay off, Blaise!" Neville cried weakly, and then considered him more fully. "There is nothing wrong with Hufflepuff! But I guess I could only expect such intolerance as this from a Slytherin like you."
"Why, you little—"
Blundering idiots, Draco's mind raged. What do they think they're doing? His gut was thoroughly unsettled by the thought of Granger being associated with any of the Houses; weren't there enough obstacles in his path already? It would be too much to hope that she would be ever granted entrance into the once-treasured domain of his forefathers, but if she were actually placed in an unthinkable House...? However stupid and wildly inaccurate the piece of rubbish that deemed it so?
Unthinkable, a thousand voices whispered. Blood traitor, filthy, scum-
"Enough, you two," said that other one, the artist or whoever. "Just because we have a bunch of new labels, it doesn't mean that we have to start reliving the rivalry."
"Oh, whatever, Gryffindor. You just want to avoid the truth behind which House is best!"
"Which is clearly not Slytherin," Neville muttered peevishly.
"Blaise. Neville," Hermione said softly, clearly attempting to be the voice of reason. "Don't you think that perhaps you're being a bit sensitive? I mean, neither Luna nor I are getting all out of sorts about our Houses."
Which is it? Draco desperately wondered, begging beyond belief—beyond religion, beyond magic, beyond Salazar—that she was nota part of that House. For her to be deemedSlytherin would mean a level of redemption for their coming union, however slight, but it was nothing more than a foolish pipe dream; Ravenclaw would be still be tolerable, though it would not appeal to the hundreds of generations of expectation and tradition; Hufflepuff would be an embarrassment, would make him the disgrace and laughingstock of his ancestors' spirits for ages, though it would not be wholly unmanageable... But if she were even remotely associated with that House?
"Anywhere but there," Draco whispered aloud from high above, unable to contain his dread.
"She's right," said the Loony girl. "I was rather hoping to be with the loyal troop, but I'm just as content to be Ravenclaw." Zabini coughed, but only Draco's ears were keen enough to catch the harsh sounds of "rigged" beneath his breath.
"And I was rather drawn to Ravenclaw myself," said Hermione, who was obviously still a little disappointed with the outcome, despite her efforts to be a decent role model for his hopeless servants.
What are you?
And yet... Somehow he already knew, had already known all along; he could already feel his father thrashing in his grave.
"But you are the picture of Gryffindor, Hermione!" contested the paintbrush, and Draco's stomach tightened considerably. "I mean, I certainly had my bets on Ravenclaw at first as well, but really, you exemplify all that is good and Gryffindor!"
"I would watch your tongue if I were you, Thomas," said Zabini sourly.
"At least mine isn't split," the artist jabbed.
"Better split than splintered."
"Too far, Blaise. You take that back!"
"I don't even understand what any of this means," Hermione sighed.
"Well, since Dean is made almost entirely of wood—"
"No," Hermione persisted, leveling the others with a serious glance. This Gryffindor thing. I was so curious about the castle and its history, but now I regret ever finding this stupid parchment scroll. What do these Houses have to do with anything? I understand that they represent the four founders, yes, but all of these students attended the same school, didn't they? Why create divisions that would just encourage alienation or hostility? Who says we can't have traces of each House in our personalities?"
"And that," said Blaise, as he and the others sat in a silent kind of awe. "Is precisely why you're in Gryffindor."
"But I still don't even know what that means!" Hermione snapped. There was an awkward moment of jumbled voices as the servants attempted to reassure her, but after a deep breath, Hermione had collected her thoughts and regained enough composure to hint at what had really been bothering her about her placement. "I mean...especially with everything that's been happening as of late, I certainly don't feel verybrave."
"Hermione..." the little pot began, but he was unable to finish.
"Maybe it would help if you were to try Sorting your friends from back home," said the little blue book. "It might help you put it all back into perspective—this can be a lot to take in, after all." Draco's eyes narrowed at her choice of words; did she always speak with such vagueness?
But Hermione merely breathed a short, hollow laugh. "Is it any surprise that I would immediately place them in mine, regardless of where they might otherwise be suited?"
"Perhaps you all belong in Gryffindor regardless of your prior connections," Neville suggested. "But it wouldn't really matter, since you all would still be friends no matter what your Houses were."
"Perhaps," Granger said softly, but her eyes were already trailing patterns along the lacy wisps of frost at the window's corners.
"Well, go on then," Zabini encouraged her, his previous argument almost entirely forgotten. "What about our gin-tolerating yet not gin-loving Ginny?"
Draco saw Granger turn to the candlestick with a trace of a smile then, and his eyes narrowed further of their own accord. "You are positively ridiculous," she told Zabini, but there was something like gratitude shining in her eyes.
"Don't avoid the question," Zabini lightly scolded, smile patient but gaze stern.
Granger released another scoff and a shrug, and Draco could see that she was considering it, although it was obviously in spite of her better judgment. After a long pause and a heavy swallow, Granger relented. "How is it even possible to describe them?" she laughed nervously, and her voice rang with hesitation. However, much to Draco's surprise, and perhaps to hers as well, once she began... She couldn't find it within herself to stop.
"Ginny... Well, Ginny is everything you could ask for in a friend, and then some things that you wouldn't think to ask for. She's funny and caring and beautiful, which is why the world loves her, but she's smart and patient and open-minded and accepting, which is all the more reason why I love her. She's tough and direct and unyielding at times, but not enough to let herself forget that... That family is one of the most important things to hold onto in this world, and she doesn't often let others forget it either. She's got a wicked right hook that I was secretly coached on while we were younger—so many times that I've lost count—but she has a natural strength and fire that I'll never find so easily... I was always thought to have quite the temper by those who knew me best, but against her endless stubbornness, I seem like a right pushover... She would defend me to the death, even if she knew I was dead-wrong. She could easily be in any of them—but I would bet my horse on Hufflepuff or, of course, Gryffindor.
"Harry is Gryffindor, without a doubt; he so embodies what Gryffindor claims to be that I couldn't imagine a better example anywhere of anyone fitting so perfectly into such a noble family. He has suffered, but he has lived, and he has taught me how to try to do the same. He is tall and awkward in all of the ways that lanky young men are, and through all of that lingering, buried pain is an underlying sense of bitterness and anger that sometimes threatens to tear him apart, but never apart from us... Harry is always reminding us of how precious we are to him, through whatever means, and there is no question in my mind as to what lengths he would be willing to go—to what extent he would be willing to sacrifice his own preciousness—to protect and to keep safe the remaining loved ones around him. He is often terrified, absolutely mad with grief over a thousand or other things, but he knows that, with us, he is unstoppable... And being so close to him makes others believe that they can achieve greatness, too." She paused then, overcome by the warmth of a smile and a welcome epiphany. "If I ever doubt again what it means to be in this House, I will only have to take one look at Harry's passion, to see his determination, and I will know what it means to be in Gryffindor."
He could hear a shaky exhale, and it was another moment before she could continue. "And then there's Ron," she sighed. "Who may be the most difficult to describe of them all."
When the pause had stretched on long enough, and Zabini could see that she was indeed at a loss for words, he could not he could not help but ask, "Our gin-loving friend? I think he might honestly be a favorite."
Hermione laughed a pure, genuine laugh, but it was laced with all the misery of a confused and conflicted child. "But he's so much more than that," she promised them through a watery smile. "Sure, all I've mostly done for the last decade or so has been to yell at him or scold him or boss him around... And most of the time, he's had the right sense to follow my lead." She laughed again, caught up in one or maybe one hundred memories as she rested her temple against the glass, and Draco wondered at the awful sensation worming itself through his gut. "But he always tries so hard... And it's impossible not to be in total awe when he actually sets his mind to something and applies himself. Whereas Harry makes me feel like I want to make myself stronger, Ron makes me feel like... Like I am strong, so long as I remember that I am. With Harry, we all know that together, as a collective unit, as a trio, our friendship makes us unbreakable... But Ron also reminds me that not everythingshould always be left to strength in numbers, or to fate, you know? Things always seem to come naturally to Harry, but never so simply for Ron... His perseverance reminds me that, sometimes, it's more about how you've fought rather than what you've conquered. And then he is so single-minded that sometimes the only way I can cope is to envision him trapped inside some soundless cage," she shook her head, clearing away her private images. "But he is just as steadfast in holding true to what's most important, and he is so... persistent." Her voice grew soft. "And... You know that you can always rely on him... To stay true to his word because..."
Because...?
"Because he doesn't give up."
It was a long, heavy moment before Draco realized that each of them were scarcely breathing; he was only able to release a shallow exhale when Lovegood inevitably carried the conversation onward, though the tension did not yet leave his broad boulders.
"You miss them terribly," the book stated simply, though it was no simple sentiment to convey.
"So much it hurts," Granger whispered, and Draco had the strangest feeling that perhaps she was not referring merely to the three she had just described. "Most days it's like a physical ache that weighs me down, and I can't yet decide if the passage of time is causing the muscles to atrophy, or to strengthen."
"You don't always have to carry the burden alone... But we understand that sometimes such a journey is best traveled in solitude," Luna said enigmatically, her gaze as glassy and unfocused as ever. The words seemed to bring some comfort to Granger, however, because she turned to the little book then, and pinned her with one of the most curious stares—as if everything she had ever known about the crazy little creature up until that point had suddenly shifted.
And rather abruptly, it was as if a switch had been pulled, and Granger came to. She glanced around at the worried stares of her acquaintances, peered about in various places among her vast surroundings, and blinked away the thoughts that had clouded her awareness. She laughed, though it wasn't clear at what, and she apologized for being so out of sorts. "I suppose this exam took a lot more out of me than I expected."
"It happens to the best of us, my dear," said the ever-obnoxious Zabini. "But we'll have you perked up again in no time! Why don't we try something a little more energizing this afternoon?"
"Energizing?" asked a wary Thomas—Thomas, yes, that's the bloody name—who seemed to be in need of a little more recovery time than what Zabini or Lovegood had required after such a draining discussion.
"Why don't we—" attempted Neville, but Blaise had already cut right back in.
"I've got a jolly good idea. What would you say to playing a prank on McGoogle, eh? Granted it won't be like the good old days of shoving crickets down the back of her dress trail while we were apprentices, but we can at least try, right?"
"Blaise!"
"I've got it! We'll make her the Sorting Hat! Get it? Let's take this exam and shove it—"
"Blaise! Zabini!" Hermione's near-shriek grated so ferociously against Draco's senses that his eyesight actually grew blurry. "Do not finish that sentence! I can't believe you would even—just think about what you're—I can't even—absolutely appalled!"
"But, Hermione, it's all in harmless, good old—"
"Better to quit while ahead, Blaise," Thomas whispered a warning as Hermione continued to rant to a sympathetic, nodding Neville about the disrespectfulness of it all. "Face it, my friend... Your puppy dog eyes haven't worked on her yet, and they're not going to start working now. You're out of luck."
"Stupid, unreliable wax," Zabini muttered under his breath. "But are you still in?"
Dean glanced surreptitiously to an otherwise preoccupied Granger; Neville's eyes had grown wide and fearful at the forcefulness of her speech. "I don't want to leave her just yet, not when she's just started opening up so fully... But maybe she could use some time to herself, no? Ah, what the hell—grab Seamus for luck and I'll meet you downstairs in quarter of an hour. You get us caught and I'll deny that it ever even crossed my mind."
"How very Slytherin of you, my friend!" Blaise noted appreciatively.
"Whatever. Just keep moving!"
And as Granger raged out through the library doors, no doubt to warn his stewardess of the unimaginable horrors awaiting her, his servants trailed after her with all of the self-determination of an imprinted duckling. Resetting his priorities in proper order, he dropped the thirty or so feet to the ground, and landed softly against the expensive padding of plush carpet, releasing an aggravated huff as the pads of his fingers melted into the thread work. With a scowl set firmly in place, Draco slowly stalked his way through the odd stacks of encyclopedias and tomes, tapping his fingers over the lacquered tabletops as he passed. When he allowed a claw to drag along the cover of a dusty grey atlas at the corner of the girl's worktable, he enjoyed the way the sliced fabric released and curled in on itself.
He inspected the titles with barely a passing glance—What could she possibly hope to gain from annotating Hogwarts: A History?—and flipped through the pages of her notes with only mild interest. Aside from the fact that even a sea lion could surely best her in handwriting, there was nothing much to be learned about the scatterbrained girl through her mad peasant scrawl. Eventually, Draco's gaze settled on what his servants had called The Sorting Hat.
His scowl deepened.
"Misses them terribly?" he muttered darkly with a scoff, snatching a fraying novel from the nearest pile and absentmindedly thumbing through the yellowed pages. He tossed it over his shoulder, and soon his fingers were already picking at another. This time, however, his carelessness resulted in half of the pages being shorn from an accidental swipe of his claws, and soon this book was sent flying much farther than the first.
Pansy will know more about these farmhands, he thought, feeling his skin crawl beneath his fur. I will visit her and get to the bottom of this, he decided, mind stiff with certainty... yet he did not move. His body's instincts were once again betraying the higher order of rational thought and in the space of indecision between this form and his reasoning, his system was already pumping with adrenaline. Heaving chest, bursting heart, rumbling throat, burning blood—always, always the same.
Releasing a snarl in frustration, his arm flew out to the side, sending a nearby tower of books every which way. He breathed deeply again and again, willing his lungs to open and his body to calm, and after some minutes, he finally felt himself return to a much more manageable state. Throat rasping as he struggled to choke down air, he gave a shake of his clouded mind, and stormed out the doors. When he came to the secret passageway that would allow him to access a much quicker route to the upper floors than the roundabout corridors, he hesitated. To Pansy, his reminded himself in aggravation. I will not allow myself to remain ignorant of her village idiots any longer. I am going to Pansy so that I may be rid of these nuisances here and now.
Yet with another snarl, he continued onward, bypassing the shortcut without a second glance. He roamed the halls until he came across a wing that been closed off completely, having been abandoned when it became clear that maintenance would be impossible, and Draco allowed himself to pace the empty stretch of fallen timber and dusty cobwebs in the dark. He needed to get his thoughts in order before initiating any further moves, he reasoned; if he wanted to be of any use, he needed to get himself under control, and he knew by now that Pansy would only fuel the fire.
The memory of Granger smiling in remembrance flashed before his eyes, and his frame jerked as if wanting to rid of itself of an unmistakable itch. He wasn't an idiot; he knew that she had other obligations, other people, another life. He certainly hadn't cared about such things before. In the beginning, that she had mourned the loss of her freedom had been nothing but a thorn in his side, and since their arrangement, he'd had no reason to think of it again. The guilt he had felt upon seeing her tears in the library were already mistakes that he had dealt with, and for a short moment Draco wondered if the tightness of his skin might be the same breed of guilt and shame that he had felt that day. But that couldn't be it; though confusion was indeed present, this anger was not inspired by cognitive dissonance nor a sense of moral failure... Then what was the problem? The problem was that Draco understood perfectly what was driving him into fury, but not why. The problem was that his anger shouldn't have been an actual issue, that it should have been much more of an irritant, but instead, it was driving him past the point of reason regardless of its shape. And through it all, its source was very clear.
I feel as though I have hated them my whole life.
Draco had never been known for warmth or an amicable personality; in fact, he'd had no trouble acquiring an impressive list of enemies during the short years of his previous existence-though I certainly had help, didn't I?-and further, had not been known for forgiveness... But Draco knew that one simply did not enter a library without mortal enemies and leave thirty minutes later feeling as though he was being blindsided by all the bitterness and spite and hatred of lifelong rivals.
He tore at the wall with his claws, leaving deep, screaming gashes in its midst. His temperament had certainly never hinted at patience, and he had been known to be a rather... ambitious child, one who often employed cunning schemes and replaceablepawns to acquire what he wanted, but the level of animosity between he and any of his rivals had always been of the professional sort. But this?
These inbred hicks... Obviously, they posed no serious threat to his plans, especially not when they were so far from learning the truth of her whereabouts, so his hatred was not borne from paranoia; they had not offended him in any way, other than the indirect annoyances they presented by merely existing; they were inferior in so many different lights, so below him from every angle, that he couldn't possibly think of them in competitive terms, or desire anything in their possession-the word jealousy passed through his mind like a flying gnat, and he barked aloud in laughter.
But he recalled the way she had spoken of them, lauded them not only with language but also in tone and expression. Was this merely a matter of respect then? That her drastic change in demeanor, the pleasure with which she remembered and shared her memories, had offered a blow to his pride? That can't be all. Was it that she shared so much of herself with his servants, but still withheld so much from himself? The Master's steps slowly came to a stop.
Then why do I feel such animosity for them?
A hot puff of air escaped his nostrils, and he stalked down the hallway, pacing the stones with heavy as he was to admit it, the conversation with Snape and McGonagall from the day before had been eating away at him all through the hunt, so much that he'd barely found anything of substance to quench his cravings... As he had always been blessed with the good sense and wherewithal in ways of circumventing unfortunate endings, he had not shared their debilitating fear of time. After all, at one point not so long ago, his strongest concern was whether or not he would be capable of withstanding her presence without growing physically ill. Yet while the desperation that so obviously held his servants in an iron grip was not yet forcing its hold over his own thinking, he couldn't deny that even as the rapport between he and Granger developed, other challenges continued to arise, and time was quickly becoming a much more pressing issue.
And now it seemed that the thickest thorn in his side had been joined by three new ones.
Draco was suddenly hit with a memory of the day before the hunt, in which he'd made a rather mocking comment on the balcony about many young farm boys pursuing her... He snapped his head to the side in a quick jerk of irritation, and vowed to stop allowing such foolish, pointless considerations any room in his mind. He had a scheme to fulfill and a castle to oversee, and he would not waste any further time on those so far beneath him.
Besides, he had plans with Granger that needed attending to.
End Note: I'd originally planned to finally reveal Draco's plans in this chapter, but I'm trying to stay true to my vow of shorter installments. On the bright side, the next part is 98% done and should be out by next weekend. (FOR REAL, I PROMISE.) What does this mean for you? Almost 8,000 words of legitimate, uninterrupted Dramione interaction. Ta-da! Any guesses as to what his plans might be? Share your predictions with me in the meantime!
Next Chapter Preview:
"An important lesson for you, Granger," he said as he... [See Chapter 22] "You should be very careful about what you say around me." He turned back to her then, with a strange yet not entirely unfamiliar intensity to his eyes, and Hermione felt herself go still. There was no threat, but her breath mysteriously abandoned her anyway.
"Right," she whispered.
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