Author's Note: 12/14/2019 - Chapter is edited.
All previous chapters up through Chapter 23 have been completely edited for spelling, grammar, and continuity! (Chapter 22 has 4 typos still and needs another edit) I also added a bit of content, including SMUT! I made major changes to the Revel, too. REREAD IS NECESSARY OF CHAPTER 23!
I noticed that in chapter 1, Narcissa was going to Denmark. I forgot and made it Greece incorrectly as the story progressed. It has been changed back to Denmark! I believe I also made some age discrepancies. All characters are eighteen. Some may be nineteen, but Draco and Hermione are both eighteen
Chapter Twenty-Nine: Rainy Day
Clear the Area by Imogen Heap, Empires by Ruelle, Lista de Espera by Matt Hunter & Isabela Merced, and Technicolour Beat by Oh Wonder
Hermione POV
Staring at the scissors in her hand, Hermione contemplated cutting it all off.
It wasn't as if she cared particularly what length her hair was. It seemed that her hair had brought her nothing but trouble her entire life. It was a nightmare to brush so she simply didn't, except to run a comb through it after a shower. Malfoy hadn't been the only one to tease her about her hair when they were younger, so it wasn't like it was exactly a beacon for positivity. She had a bottle of Sleekeazy's, but to be frank, it felt like putting cooking oil in her hair and it was terrible for daily use.
She closed her eyes, trying not to remember what it felt like to have Malfoy's long fingers twisted through her hair as he dragged her along the stone floor of his Manor, and she held the scissors to a large chunk of curls by her chin. She could still feel the tenderness in her scalp, the follicles screaming in protest as he pulled and pulled and pulled. All she had to do was squeeze her hand. She could squeeze and it would all be gone. Just like that, nothing available for any man to grab.
She paused.
Hermione had no problems with her hair. She loved her curls, the gentle way they spiraled down from the top of her head and framed her body like a voluminous shower of chocolate. She loved how they grew lighter in the Summer, and she especially loved the way they frizzed up when she was upset, as if they had a life of their own. They were as much a part of her as her nose or lips or arms or spine.
Why should she have to remove something she loved about herself just to keep other people happy? Why should she have to change any part of her body just to protect herself?
At the Revel, if she'd had no hair on her head, it wouldn't have mattered. Malfoy was ordered by Greyback to drag her. He would have dragged her by the ear, or the wrist, or the throat. When she was a kid, she was teased and bullied about a lot more than just her hair. Without it, she would have just been teased about something else. It wouldn't have made a difference.
If Hermione cut her hair, she would lose something that she adored about herself, and it would be as inconsequential as a snowflake. It would change nothing except her own feelings about herself. She didn't want to give that sort of power to anyone other than herself.
And she was saying no.
She set the scissors down on her dresser. Maybe someday, she'd cut it all off. Maybe someday, she'd expose herself that now, she wanted something to be in her control. If she wanted to have long hair, then she would. Regardless of the hazards.
Hermione knew she was strong no matter what. She could have hair down to her ankles, and she would still be just as strong of a woman.
She turned and wandered across her room to the window, watching the rain fall. She felt a bit subdued, which was nice. It felt better than being scorching hot with anger, or deflated with despair. Hermione was used to having a quick temper. She'd snapped at Harry and Ron in more than a few instances over the years. Her quick temper was what had saved them many times with her ability to turn any emotions off that she needed to in the face of danger. But with Malfoy, it was like he was thundering through her heart, wrenching down her carefully-organized walls and pinning them to the ground. Her emotions were flooding every which way, spilling out all over the place and mingling in a way that confused her. She'd never felt this way before. She'd never felt so utterly overwhelmed all the time.
It was terrifying and infuriating, all at the same time.
Her hand lifted and pressed flat against the windowpane, the glass feeling icy to the touch. Her fingers were still, which brought a slight bit of comfort to her regarding her emotions. At least she had the potion Malfoy gave her. At least she had something steady to ground her when she felt like everything was spinning out of control. No matter how frenzied she felt, she could count on her cruciatus pain to be controlled. No matter how angry she was at Malfoy, she could look at the potion and remember that at one point, he'd done something selfless for her.
Hermione wondered what Malfoy was thinking, and what he was doing right at that moment. Was he sleeping off the hunger? Was he pacing his room, or staring out of his window like she was? Or was he doing something normal like homework or studying? Maybe even reading? She imagined him sprawled out on his bed, books and papers spread around him as he took notes with some sort of exorbitantly expensive feather quill, and it brought another lift to her spirits. She supposed he would be as dramatic as possible, even with his quills, and she wondered what sorts of quills he used when they were kids.
Except they still were kids, weren't they? Just because society told them they were adults, didn't mean they were. What, they were kids and then went to bed on their sixteenth birthdays, only to wake up fully grown and matured the next day? Hermione was eighteen, she'd seen war, and she'd watched a dark wizard fall, yet she still felt like a teenage girl who had a crush on someone completely emotionally unattainable. She felt immature and foolish and reckless.
Reckless. Just like he told her she was. Reckless, throwing herself in front of the metaphorical curse to make wild decisions that made sense in theory, and ending up bruised for it. She'd always been that way, but her friends had called it brave. Malfoy, a Slytherin, thought her decisions were reckless.
What was the difference? Bravery, recklessness. It all had the same outcome. Someone ended up hurt.
Hermione just always preferred that someone would be her.
She wished she understood fully why Malfoy didn't want to mate with her. Whether it had to do with her blood status or some secret desire to end his life for reasons she didn't know, she knew she did not want him to die. She didn't want it on her conscience, and she didn't want to watch it happen. She wanted him to live. She wanted to see him . . . She didn't know what sort of future he had, but she wanted him to have it. Every one of her peers. They'd all gotten stuck wearing the masks the older wizarding generations had worn. Masks of war and hate. Hermione didn't want anyone to wear those masks any longer. Atonement did not have to equal death.
But why did she care so much? They had such a volatile past. They'd had multiple heated interactions, but none had been of substance for her. It was clear that he was receiving all the benefits of their situation, and she was left in constant emotional turmoil. She thought perhaps her caring had less to do with them truly knowing each other, and more to do with solidarity in secrecy. They had created their own little world that nobody had access to. Despite Blaise and Luna now knowing what was going on, it would never be the same as what it felt like to exist in that little world knowing they had built it themselves.
Hermione was too compassionate, she knew. She cared too much about things that were of no consequence to her, and she always had. She inserted herself into situations that had nothing to do with her simply because she wanted to help and usually she knew how to help. But with Malfoy, she didn't know how to help. She only knew that she wanted to find a way. Even if he only saw her as a witch he had a physical attraction to, she'd rather be heartbroken with him alive, than heartbroken with him dead.
Hermione sighed. She wished she wasn't so stuck on this demon thing. It was borderline a waste of time, time that they could be using to focus on helping him cope with what they already knew, or to focus on how to deal with their Greyback situation. Hell, they could even spend the time figuring out who attacked her in the owlery. They could be launching a full scale investigation, complete with stake outs and questioning of the student body. He probably wasn't even dealing with anything demonic. In spite of his angry outburst where he'd nearly bitten her and had almost drained her entirely of blood, he was likely a Veela who was turned into a werewolf, and that was it. Everything could be explained away by that.
But perhaps if there were some sort of detection spell she could learn, something tucked away in a book somewhere . . .
She had the Invisibility Cloak still . . . It was only just after midday. Perhaps she could simply wander down to Hogsmeade, to the bookstore, and see what she could find. Even if Minerva found out she left, she'd probably overlook it. Not that Hermione wanted to take advantage of her relationship with the matronly Headmaster, but . . . She really needed to see what types of books Tomes and Scrolls had.
Luna had given her eight empty glass vials that she no longer needed, and Hermione had gone back to her dorm. Once there, she'd played with Pakatugg and then wrote to Mopsy to ask after Crookshanks. She thought about writing to Fleur, but once she sat down, she realized that it wasn't as easy to craft the letter as she'd originally thought it would be. She knew Fleur was part Veela, but Malfoy's fear about people knowing what he was had been nagging at her. What if even just telling Fleur he might be a Veela was too much? What if she told Bill and he, being a hotheaded Weasley, snapped and tried to use it against him?
Hermione felt terrible for thinking so low of Bill, but she had a feeling that the wizarding world would turn into a full-scale mob with pitchforks if they found out Malfoy had even the slightest form of weakness. Hermione wanted to protect him from that. Not only because she wanted to, but because she could. And she would take whatever power she had and use it, even if that meant she didn't trust Bill and Fleur.
But maybe if she just knew a little more. She just wanted to know more, and she didn't think she could wait for the rain to let up for a future Hogsmeade trip. She was going now. Today.
Hermione scrambled around the room gathering up clothes, knowing that the easy part would be actually walking to Hogsmeade. The hard part was going to be passing through the weekend-crowded common room and the possible students in the corridors to get to the courtyard. She put on a pair of tight black skinny trousers and a camisole, and then pulled the jumper she'd been wearing that morning back on. She left her curls out and wild and then slipped her feet into her boots. She pulled open her bottom dresser drawer, where the Cloak was stashed next to Malfoy's robes, and she peered down at Pakatugg.
"Don't give me that look, Paka," she said as she pulled out the Cloak. "You cannot come in this rain. You will drown."
Pakatugg blinked and chittered up at her, and when she pushed a tendril of her magic out to him, she felt a tiny wave of loneliness greet her. She felt a small amount of guilt. Pakatugg was okay most of the time, often sleeping next to her head on her pillow, but it seemed the rainy days were getting to even the familiars. Perhaps she could drop him off with Luna for the day?
The little squirrel was only too happy to climb up onto her shoulder. Hermione tossed the Cloak on the bed and left to go a few doors down to Luna's dorm. After the dreamy witch was ecstatic to spend time with Pakatugg and never even questioned why Hermione needed a sitter, Hermione went back to her room to grab her bag with her galleons and the Cloak. She shrunk the bag and put it into her pocket.
Hidden underneath the Cloak, Hermione walked carefully, being sure to stay on her toes. Hannah Abbott came skipping down the hall when Hermione was almost to the stairs, but it was easy enough to simply press herself against the wall out of her way. Hermione didn't dislike Hannah, but if there was ever a rule follower more rigid than herself, it was Hannah. She didn't need Minerva catching her before she even left. Besides, sneaking off had always given Hermione a bit of a thrill, clear back to First Year. It was better than moping in bed all day.
She made her way down the stairs quickly, scouting a path through the crowded room. Everyone seemed to be mingling or studying in random places on the floor, and as long as she tip-toed, Hermione was able to dance through until she reached the portrait. This was where she ran into a problem.
How was she supposed to open the portrait without the entire common room noticing it swinging open of its own accord? She was going to have to wait and hope someone left or returned so she could slip out. Apparently, she hadn't thought it through as well as she'd hoped.
Bollocks.
Hermione stood there for a moment, back to the wall next to the portrait, clutching the fabric tightly around her. She watched the Eighth Years wandering about, groups of friends chatting and laughing, and she felt odd. In spite of being hidden by the Invisibility Cloak, Hermione felt like even if she wasn't wearing it, she might blend into the background of everyone's days. She felt so far removed from what everyone else was doing and from Hogwarts as a whole this year that she almost didn't feel like she could fit in if she tried. She was glad they didn't hate her anymore, and that everyone had moved on past the situation with Lucius's trial, but she wondered if things would ever go back to the way they were before.
Which she was okay with them not going back, strangely. Even if it was stressful dealing with Malfoy and his situation, she was rather comfortable with things the way they were. For now, at least. It wasn't anything beyond what she could handle. Her friends were Harry, Ron, Luna, and Blaise. She was friendly with Dean and Seamus. Malfoy was . . . Well, she wasn't sure what Malfoy was to her, but she could definitely handle him. Even though she couldn't trust him, she could handle him.
But it was nice, not being the one everyone asked questions of. It was nice being able to do her homework without having to worry that someone might need to copy her notes simply because they weren't paying attention.
Glancing to her left at the armchairs in the corner, Hermione saw that they were occupied. Daphne was sitting in the chair on the right, a pair of unseeing, thoughtful eyes fixed on Harry, Ron, and Dean, who were playing a game of Exploding Snap on the floor. Pansy was in the chair to the left of her, her arms wrapped around her legs and a deep pout on her face as she complained to Daphne.
"It's not as if he doesn't know I'm waiting to hear from him. It's been weeks; why hasn't he written?"
Daphne sighed, playing with her golden blonde hair as she watched the cards on the floor between the three boys explode. They erupted into uproarious laughter; Daphne smiled absentmindedly. Hermione watched her with curiosity. She didn't think she'd ever seen Daphne look . . . Well, not bitchy. She seemed preoccupied.
It was difficult, seeing Daphne around school when Hermione knew what a piggish troll her father was. Did Daphne know he was a perverted freak? Hermione felt a sour taste in her mouth and she struggled against the onslaught of memories from the night of the Revel. She felt her hands quivering and she closed her eyes for a moment to count Snitches and try to calm down. She didn't need to think about the Revel right now. Gareth was not here, and if she could help it, the next time she saw him would be in battle. Daphne was not Gareth. She was safe.
"I'm not sure, Pansy," Daphne said to her raven-haired friend. "Perhaps he's at home at the Crabbe Manor. He's in hiding. It's not as if he can simply come back to Hogwarts. He's likely facing arrest."
"Oh, it was just some bloody Fiendfyre." Pansy scoffed. "It's not like anyone died."
Hermione frowned and tried to control her anger. It was people like Pansy who gave Slytherins a terrible name. She was so cold, so heartless, it seemed, in the way she spoke about the deadliest fire spell on record being used in a room full of children.
"You are barbaric, Pansy. D'you know that?" Daphne said, still watching the card game.
Pansy sneered and looked off to the side, her eyes seeing through the spot Hermione was standing in. Hermione held her breath for a moment, and then remembered she was invisible. Pansy was likely just throwing her gaze around the way some people did while talking.
"Better than being a smarmy, swotty whore like that Hermione Granger," she snarled out.
Hermione's heart skipped a beat at the mention of her name. She reminded herself again that she was invisible, and that Pansy likely said this stuff all the time.
"You really hate her, don't you?"
"And you don't?" Pansy scowled. "Watching her with Draco feels like taking a crucio to the head as part of my morning routine. She's not as intelligent as she makes herself out to be if she thinks he's keeping her around for anything other than a quick fuck."
"It's been three months since school started, and who knows what he got up to this Summer," Daphne said. "That's an awful long quick."
"Oh, hush, Daphne. You know what I mean." Pansy waved her hand. "What I mean is that she's not going to last. He won't keep her around forever. The moment we graduate and the real world hits us, he's going to open his eyes and realize that he cannot in good conscience destroy hundreds of years of purity for one filthy cup of muddy blood!"
"Pansy Parkinson," Daphne said in a tired voice, holding her hands up as if imagining a headline or billboard. "Right on schedule with my daily Draco Malfoy-Hermione Granger-related headache. Next on the docket: Pansy claims to have had enough, but hasn't actually, because she will complain about it to me for the rest of forever."
Pansy stared at her for a long time. "If I didn't know any better, I'd say you were defending her."
Hermione's eyes slid to Daphne, who was throwing her gaze heavenward. It did seem that way . . .
"Come off it, Pansy. I simply tire of hearing about the same things over and over, with no action. If you truly hate her that much, confront her and duel. If this is just about Malfoy, then I think it's time to let that ship sail. You're dating Crabbe now, technically, so Malfoy is in the past."
Pansy glared at her. "Daphne, I've been shagging Draco since Fourth Year, and this year, he suddenly decides Granger is shaggable? I'm with Crabbe by default, and you know it."
"Oh, Merlin, you are so dramatic." Daphne sighed and stared over at the boys again. "You told me you wanted to vent about your current boyfriend. But here we are, talking about Hermione Granger and your ex-boyfriend. Again."
"If she were here right now?" Pansy turned her face in Hermione's direction and smirked. "I'd tell her to watch out. Draco's not one to turn down a warm cunt, especially not one who knows how he likes to be ridden. If she were here, I'd tell her that I might just have to pay him a visit tonight, tomorrow, and perhaps every night until he's mine again."
How disgusting. Even Hermione knew that Malfoy wasn't like that. He'd risked his life for her in front of Greyback. Even though they were fighting and she was angry with him right now, Hermione knew that Pansy's rudimentary view of Malfoy was outdated and wrong. If Pansy showed up at his dorm, he probably wouldn't even open the door.
At least, Hermione thought, I think he wouldn't.
Hermione froze. She was invisible, she told herself again, so why did it feel like Pansy was looking right at her? She was reminded of when she and Malfoy went to the Ministry, of how Greyback had stopped by the door of Gareth's office and all but acknowledged her presence in the room. She recalled seeing that Pansy was registered with the Ministry as Other, just like Crabbe. And if Crabbe turned Malfoy, then maybe he also turned Pansy.
Maybe Pansy was looking over because she could smell Hermione.
"So how are things with you and your secret lover?" Pansy asked Daphne.
"Things aren't," Daphne said, picking at a loose thread on her uniform skirt. "He says he might be getting back together with his ex-girlfriend, the wanker. What is it with you people and your exes?"
"It's your own fault," Pansy said with a sniff, crossing her legs and leaning back in the armchair. "You were the one who insisted it be casual."
"Yeah, but could you imagine the looks on everyone's faces if we were to step out together? Walking in the Great Hall, holding hands? I insisted it be casual because that's all it could ever be. As much as I fancy him, it may just not be meant to be."
"Hm, well, you're certainly less territorial than I am." Pansy rested her chin in her hand and gave Daphne a wicked grin. "I may just decide to go to his room this evening and take back what belongs to me. There's this thing he likes me to do with my tongue; he loses his mind every time I do it. There's no way Granger knows what it is."
Suddenly, the portrait swung open. Malfoy walked in with a book open in his hand, his robes worn open over his school uniform. It was so strange to see him not wearing a suit that Hermione couldn't help but stare. He was the picture image of the way he looked during Sixth Year, hair combed aside and everything, and it almost felt nostalgic. He lingered for a moment, hand on the portrait frame.
As Hermione slunk her way past him, catching a distinct whiff of his spiced cologne, she saw him looking down at her in the air beneath the Cloak. He couldn't see her, but by the way he cocked an eyebrow, she knew he knew she was there. For a moment, she thought he might rip the Cloak off of her and ask her what she was doing, or follow her and try to stop her, and she steeled herself for a struggle.
"Oh, Draco!" she heard Pansy saying before Malfoy let go of the frame. "Come have a sit. "
The last thing Hermione saw before she was out in the hallway was Malfoy heading in Pansy and Daphne's direction. A rush of anger filled her again. Maybe she was holding Malfoy in too high of a regard. He had played the role of Death Eater and Master a little too well, and no matter how close they got, she still felt like there was something she couldn't trust about him. Maybe Pansy's viewpoint wasn't outdated. Maybe Malfoy really was using her, and maybe if Pansy showed up at his dorm, he would open the door.
She remembered their knock-down, blow-up fight the night of the Revel. She'd told him then she thought he was using her, and here she was again, thinking the same thing. Was it a red flag that she was just ignoring, come back to haunt her? Or was she just being insecure?
Halting in the empty lantern-lit corridor, she glared at the portrait of Dumbledore, which covered the entrance to the Eighth Year common room. The late Headmaster blinked down at her as though he could see her through the Hallow.
"I believe it was, 'oh, to be young and feel love's keen sting,'" Hermione said sadly, because portrait or not, he was still Dumbledore and he probably knew she was there. "Or something like that."
Dumbledore's portrait smiled, and Hermione sighed. She wished she could go to him for help. He'd know exactly what to do about the Greyback situation. He'd be able to help them with Malfoy's condition. He'd be able to fix everything. But he was gone, and Hermione was carrying everything on her shoulders.
She didn't know how much longer she could cope.
Hermione made her way down the hall and out to the courtyard, not removing the Cloak the entire way. The rain pounded down incessantly around her, the water so thick and sky so dark of a grey that she wondered what it would look like to see a random clear spot moving its way down the hill. It was cold outside, so she halted momentarily to pull out her wand and cast a quick warming charm on her body. Hopeful that Malfoy hadn't seen fit to follow her scent out of the castle, she glanced over her shoulder. No one was on the hill between here and the courtyard, so she resumed her trek to Hogsmeade.
Daphne's conversation with Pansy was interesting, but not totally eye-opening. Pansy was a bitch, to put it plainly, and she always had been. It was only a matter of time before she started talking openly about Malfoy. Everyone in the school knew she had been shagging Malfoy for years, but then again, Pansy had been shagging the entire House of Slytherin, too. It wasn't Malfoy that she wanted, of that Hermione was sure. It was the chase. The game of it.
Hermione gritted her teeth. She may have been angry with Malfoy, but there was no way in Hell she was throwing away everything between them to allow Pansy to have a go at him. Pansy would never understand Malfoy, and she would never be able to provide what he needed emotionally and mentally.
As if Hermione even knew what he needed. As if she knew what she needed. What she knew for certain was that they'd experienced trauma together that no one, especially not Pansy, would ever understand.
Angry with him or not, he was Hermione's. He was hers, and she'd hex the hair off of Pansy if she so much as knocked on his dorm room door.
Hermione's face felt like it was on fire, as though her thoughts were audible, and everyone had heard them. She stared at the wet ground as she walked. The thought of Malfoy belonging to her was absurd, and after all the arguments they'd been having lately and her inability to not be angry with him, it was laughable.
I wouldn't be surprised if he did have a romp with Pansy, Hermione thought bitterly as she walked into town. I asked him for space when we aren't even in a relationship. In the Muggle world, they call that crazy. Maybe he'd be better off, and I can just siphon out some blood for him to last him until he finds a new source, and send him on his way.
But Hermione knew that wasn't possible. Not if he was a Veela on top of everything else. He'd likely be unable to disentangle himself from her. Her becoming his mate, she feared, was no longer a matter of if, but when. She already knew she felt something for him that was irreversible. She was just sick of being used. Even now, she knew that her request for space only extended so far. He still needed to be fed. And she would rather it be her blood than some other girl's, at least right now.
She felt lost.
Hermione ducked into an alley and took the cloak off. She used her wand to shrink it down, balled it up, and then tucked it into the pocket of her trousers. The bookstore wasn't far from here, so she cast a quick water repellant charm and then made her way down the empty cobblestone street in the direction of it.
It felt like she hadn't been to Hogsmeade in ages, what with her not having gone yet this school year. Everything looked exactly the same as it always had, but it lacked the . . . Well, the magic it had once had. She remembered the first time she'd come, her first Butterbeer, her first sip of tea at Madam Puddifoot's. She even remembered her first visit to Honeydukes. She'd brought home so much candy, thinking it would be perfect to have a stash for her future monthly cycles, and ended up eating every ounce of it before the end of the week. Hermione smiled to herself at the memory.
She stood outside of Gladrags Wizardwear for a moment, gazing at the dress robes in the window fondly. She remembered her periwinkle blue dress from the Yule Ball, and how excited she'd been to try dresses on at fourteen. Then, she frowned.
She'd done that alone, even though all of her female classmates were there trying on dresses together. She hadn't been invited, but had happened to show up on her own. She'd tried her first sugar quill alone, and when she got her hair trimmed at the hairdressing salon, she had only her own reflection to show.
She'd done so many things alone, and here she was again. Going to the bookstore. Alone.
Maybe that was why she was so invested in her something with Malfoy. Because with him, she didn't feel alone. She loved Harry and Ron, but there were so many things about her friendship with them that she felt she was missing. But with Malfoy, she really felt like she could be 1,000% herself and even if she screamed at the top of her lungs at him, he wasn't going to judge her for it. He was going to fight it out until it was resolved. She felt like she could get deep with him in a way she'd never been able to with Harry or Ron or Luna or . . . Anyone.
She just wished she could trust him.
A small bell chimed above the door as Hermione entered Tomes and Scrolls. The store had been established in the 1700's, and it definitely felt like it had never left the era. The strong scent of parchment filled her nostrils and her turmoil regarding Pansy and Malfoy and her childhood simply melted away. She felt like the moment the door closed behind her, she was in the safest place in the world.
"Good afternoon, lovely. It's a horrid rainy day, but it's nice and dry in here."
Hermione glanced to her right, where behind an aged wooden counter stood an elderly woman with a gentle smile. She had impossibly long hair braided over her shoulder and wore pink dress robes.
"Hello," Hermione said brightly. She thought for a second she might ask directly if she had any books on demonology, but then she stopped herself. Demonology was forbidden content at Hogwarts for a reason. It was neither dark nor light magic. It was much worse.
"Can I help you find anything, dearie?" the woman asked, her crackled voice sounding as old as the store. Her eyes were squinting over at Hermione as though she were hard to see.
"No, thank you," Hermione said after a pause. She didn't want to alarm the woman. She'd just look for any books on the occult and if she managed to find one, she'd buy it quickly and leave.
"Take your time, then, sweetness." The woman smiled again and went back to the Daily Prophet's crossword puzzle that was lying on the counter. She was writing with a massive peacock feather quill, and Hermione had to hide a smile at that.
Hermione wandered the moderate-sized store, eyes scanning the little labels that marked the sections. They were handwritten on small bits of parchment, likely charmed in the past to last forever. She smiled, wondering briefly what things were like back then, in the 1700's and 1800's.
She hit a much-needed stroke of luck in the "Mystical Creatures" section. There were exactly three versions of the same book on the lowest shelf, with one empty spot beside them, and when Hermione pulled one out, it was clear that they were not sought-after books. It was printed on parchment paper and bound in the style that she'd seen many books from the early 1800's in. When she opened it, a small cloud of dust rose to greet her, forcing her to cough a bit as she crouched on the hardwood floor.
The book, simply titled Demonology and Rituals, was not very large, but after flipping through a couple of the pages, she saw that it was exactly what they needed to take the next step in their quest for knowledge. The information was more informative in terms of historical importance rather than a step-by-step, but Hermione knew how helpful it could be to know the origin of something before fully delving into the study of it. She skimmed a page that talked of a town that supposedly worshiped a demon with a ritual of Spring flowers, and even though it didn't tell what exactly that ritual entailed or why, it did have a rather detailed picture of the demon. It looked like a flower faerie, to be frank, but Hermione knew it was probably just an artist's rendition from the Victorian era.
This is the only thing we have to go with right now, Hermione thought, heading towards the front. I'll study it back to front, and when we go to my cottage before Denmark, we'll go to Muggle London and see what other books we can find.
She nearly halted. If they went to Denmark. She had no idea what was going on between them right now, and she didn't know if the plans for the holiday were still going ahead. She'd have to revisit that one.
"I'm ready," Hermione said politely, gingerly setting the book on the counter. She held her breath as the elderly store worker glanced at the title. She felt like she was going to have the Aurors notified on her for buying the damn book.
"Interesting choice," the elderly woman said as she prepared the wrapping paper, sounding intrigued. "I haven't seen anyone studying this topic in years. That will be 1 galleon and 3 knuts, dear."
"I'm sure you don't get many customers interested in it," Hermione said with a breathy laugh as she reached into her pocket for the money. She set the coins onto the counter and watched the clerk prepare the purchase.
"Hmm . . . What was that young man's name? It was . . ." She slowly folded the paper around Hermione's parcel. Then, she gasped a bit and smiled. "Oh, yes. Tom Ribble. He was such a handsome gentleman. I do hope time has found him well."
Hermione stared at her in shock. "Do you mean . . . Tom Riddle?"
"Yes, that was his name!" The elderly woman handed her the wrapped parcel. "He was a student up the hill at Hogwarts. A charming fellow. He said he was interested in the subject for an assignment, and he bought one of the other copies of this very book. What about it interests you?"
"I just have a . . . Personal interest in it," Hermione whispered, clutching the book close as her mind spun. "Anyway, thank you."
"You're most welcome, lovely. Have a glorious rainy day."
Hermione smiled weakly at her and then walked out into the rain. She stood there for a moment, withdrawing her wand to cast her water repellant charm, and then she hugged the book against her chest. It felt eerie and sobering to be holding a book that Voldemort himself had also chosen.
If Tom Riddle had been interested in demonology, then who was to say he hadn't succeeded in summoning a demon?
If he had, then what did he do with it?
Hermione practically ran back to the edge of town, throwing surreptitious glances around her to ensure she was alone before pulling the Cloak back out. She enlarged it and threw it over her body, walking as fast as she could back up the hill. She wanted to start reading immediately.
A young Voldemort studying demons changed so much. It raised so many questions. If he had summoned it, did he use it for something? Did he need to ask it a question, or did he need it to do something for him? Did he use it to do some sort of dark bidding for him? Did he manage to summon it as a teenager, or later as Voldemort? Or was it just personal interest for him, too? She didn't know what age Voldemort was when he bought the book, but she knew that it seemed awfully coincidental that Tom Riddle went to Tomes and Scrolls and bought the same book as she did. And from how desperate he'd been to live as long as possible, it was safe to hypothesize that he wanted a demon's help with something.
A series of thoughts popped into her mind. The Other classification at the Ministry. Crabbe, Pansy, and Malfoy. Greyback's increased size as a werewolf and his strange choices. The missing and dead magical creatures. The corruption of the Ministry.
What if demons were involved in all of it?
Hermione needed to get back to her room and make a list. She needed to know some very important things: where demons came from, how one summoned them, who had managed to successfully summon one, and what, if any, warnings there were. She knew she wouldn't be able to find all of the answers in this particular book, but she knew that it was the best start she had.
When she got up to the courtyard, she felt her heartbeat stutter in her chest.
"Why am I not surprised?" she muttered under her breath.
Malfoy was standing in the entrance to the castle, arms crossed over his chest as he waited for her. Because she knew that was why he was there. He'd scented her in the common room, and she should have known that if he didn't follow her to Hogsmeade, he would definitely be there when she got back.
"Take off the Cloak," he said as she tried to walk past him. "Take it off, and tell me what you were doing."
Hermione ripped it off of her, her hair fluffing up a bit as the fabric slid across her head. She fixed him with a tight-lipped frown and glowered up at him. She was angry with him all over again, and she wished he understood that when a girl asked for space, it didn't mean accost her in the entryway of the school.
"I went to -"
"Hogsmeade, yes." His arms remained crossed and his eyes were bright as he glared right back at her. "Why?"
"Why's it your business?" She hugged the book tighter. She knew she'd eventually share it with him, but she was still frustrated and was being intentionally petty.
"Everything to do with you is my business, Granger." He leaned forward a bit, and Hermione forced herself not to take a step back. "It's not safe for you to just leave the castle like that."
"To go to Hogsmeade?" She scoffed. "It's perfectly safe. It's just as safe as Hogwarts."
"No it's not. The school grounds' wards don't extend that far, and you know it. And it's a wizarding town, open to everything. What if Enicto had been there? Demetri? Any of the wolves in the pack?"
The sounds of their names were harsh against her ears and she flinched. She didn't want to be reminded of them. She didn't want to think about the fact that they were out there and as far as they knew, she was Malfoy's Mudblood slave. If she encountered them, she was as good as prey.
"I'm not safe anywhere," she said in a bitter voice. "I was attacked multiple times in the castle, and now you're telling me I'm not even safe in Hogsmeade. What about Muggle towns and cities? Are they going to track me there? If I portkey to Hawaii, will Demetri brave the sun and find me in Waikiki?"
"Don't be cheeky," he scolded, his eyes scanning her face. "But you asked for your bloody space, so I'll give it to you. When it comes to where you go, just do as I say. Next time you fancy a trip to town, I'll go with you."
As he turned to go, Hermione's irritation boiled over and she clutched her parcel so tightly that her knuckles went white from the force of it.
"Have a nice chat with Pansy?" she called out when he was about six feet away.
He stopped and turned to look at her over his shoulder. He narrowed his eyes. Hermione stood there, staring at him, hoping he understood how much she didn't trust him. That she trusted him so little that she thought he'd actually be intimate with Pansy again. She called out again.
"What's the thing you like with the tongue?"
"What?" His eyes flashed, dangerous and offended.
"Pansy says there's something she does that makes you lose your mind," Hermione said with a shrug. "I assume you know what that is."
He started back toward her. "And am I meant to also assume that you're thinking that because we're having a row, I'm going to fuck Pansy to, what? Get my fill because I'm an animal who can't function when my witch is put out by me?"
"We're not having a row." Hermione was fuming. He was obviously finding some sort of humor in this. He had to know it wasn't as simple as them having a row.
"Yes, we are having a row," he said as he stood in front of her, close enough to force her head to tilt back. "And what is it that you're actually angry about? The fact that Pansy thinks she can shag me whenever she likes, or the fact that she knows what I like and you don't?"
Hermione's fingers began to tingle. She wanted to slap him, but she refrained. "I'm angry because I don't trust you. If you shagged Pansy again, I wouldn't be as surprised as you think I would be. And the only reason why I don't know what you like is because we haven't gotten anywhere near that point."
"So we're a we, are we?"
"Wipe that look off your face before I pull out my wand and jinx it off," Hermione bit out through clenched teeth. "We're not an anything."
Malfoy rolled his eyes. "Trust me, Granger. You'll figure out what you'd like me to do with my tongue long before you discover what I want you to do with yours."
Hermione had nothing more to say. She wasn't interested in joking and bantering with him. She'd asked for space, and she'd meant it. She shoved past him, tilting her nose up and preparing to stomp all the way back to the common room.
Suddenly, his arm shot out and she felt his hand curling around the side of her throat, his fingers pressing behind her ear. He spun to face her as he dragged her against him, and then his lips were upon hers. He kissed her fiercely, and even though she tried to fight it, there was no way in Hell she could win.
Hermione melted against him and parted her lips. Draco's tongue delved deep into her mouth and his other hand came up to hook around the left side of her jaw, anchoring her against his mouth on both sides so she could understand exactly who was in control. She felt the hardness of the demonology book between them, and she almost wanted to drop it and throw her arms around his neck.
The rain was loud outside the castle entrance, calming in the incessant way it spattered against the ground, and Hermione thought that kissing him beside the rain was probably just as good as kissing him in it, and right now, she couldn't remember why she was angry with him.
Draco tilted his head to the left and then the right as he explored her mouth, their tongues stroking against one another's with an almost sensual caress. He completely dominated the kiss, snogging her in a way that told her that even when she was angry with him, he was in complete control of their something. They were a "we" because he said they were.
Hermione's stomach twisted and danced, and she pushed against the ground with her feet, trying to get as close to him as possible. He growled in his chest, his teeth nibbling at her lower lip, and then he pulled his head back. He kept a firm hold on her jaw with both hands, his eyes drilling directly into the heart of her.
"We're a we, Granger."
Hermione pulled her face out of his grasp and turned her face away. "I wish I could believe that."
He frowned and when she looked up at him again, he appeared angry. "What exactly have I done that makes you not able to believe it? Was it the fact that I almost got myself killed by Greyback for you? Or was it the fact that I dueled one of my best friends, destroyed my friendship with him, and it got me turned into a fucking werewolf for you? Wait. I know what it is." He breathed a derisive laugh. "It must be the fact that I keep begging you to let me wither so you don't have to cut your bloody body open to feed me. But no. It's more convenient for you to claim I don't care about you because it fits your little Gryffindor martyrdom narrative."
"Gryffindor martyrdom?" Hermione felt like her head was going to explode. "Everything I've done, with you and for you - everything they did to me - and you reduce it to Gryffindor martyrdom?"
Malfoy sneered down at her and when he spoke next, it sounded like the Malfoy of their childhood. Not the one she'd grown to care for more than she could bear.
"You're the one who does whatever the fuck I tell you to, Granger. I didn't ask for you to throw yourself before the wand for me, and I certainly didn't ask you to stay for the fucking dinner party with Greyback. You did that all on your own."
At this, she did slap him. She slapped him because he didn't get it. He didn't understand what it meant for her to be doing what she was doing for him. The blood, the Revel, risking her friendships. She slapped him because he either didn't understand that she felt used, or because he was intentionally using her and he just didn't care. She slapped him because she was a bloody fool. She held the book in one arm and slapped him hard, and then she screamed at him.
"If it means that little to you, Draco, then fuck you! No, fuck you! If me giving you my body means nothing to you, then you can starve!"
She turned tail and ran all the way back to the common room, ignoring Harry's cheerful greeting by the fireplace, and stormed up the stairs before anyone could see her crying.
She had nightmares about the Revel that night, full of Demetri's fangs, the feeling of him tearing her knickers down her thighs, and the sound of Orchid's screams.
She woke at 1:00am, grabbed the scissors, hacked at her hair in the dark.