As she often did when she wanted something, the sharp-jawed woman coyly twirled her espresso hair around her long, elegant forefinger. Like the rest of her fingers, it was a rich sepia, stacked with costly gold and silver rings and manicured with a faux square nail. Unexpectedly, it was painted maroon. She usually chose a plainer look.
"Well now, you look a picture, don't you?" she purred, batting her full, black lashes. Shaded by them, her twinkling eyes were evergreen.
"I do not," Ronald Weasley replied, bashfully. "These robes make me look a right git."
The woman raked her long fingernails along his navy collar. With a trace of a playful smile, she said, "I beg to differ."
She seized the fabric and dragged him down towards her to press her nude lips to his. Then, their undeniable spark burst aflame. Ron drank her in like fine wine, fisting her dark hair to bring her closer to him, earning a small, quivering moan from the depths of her throat. Those feminine fingers of hers clawed at his robes, desperate to remove the cloth barrier, desperate to feel his snowy skin. Her mouth moved to his neck and then—
Suddenly, he pulled away. Resting his forehead against hers, he whispered, "I have to get to work."
"Oh, but we were just starting to have fun."
Ron's laugh was deep and hearty as he took her slight hands in his and kissed her knuckles. "I know what you mean, darling. I really do have to go in, though. There have been reports of Dark Magic near Omagh."
"Can't Harry take care of it?" she groused. "He defeated You-Know-Who, didn't he?"
"Only with my help!" Ron exclaimed, releasing her hands only to throw his own in the air. "He never would've beat him if it weren't for me—or Neville, or Hermione, or Luna... Loads of people helped, really..."
"Hermione," the woman repeated, acidly. "I thought we agreed you wouldn't talk about her."
"We did—I mean, I won't. I mean—" He sighed. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean anything by it. She was just—she was there is all."
"I don't care where she was. As far as you're concerned, she doesn't exist." The woman crossed her arms. "Unless you'd rather go running off to her."
Ron paled. "Of course not! You're—you're gorgeous. Hermione, I mean, she's okay, but she's nothing special..."
"That's what I thought." She tapped him on the nose and gave him one more chaste kiss. "Well, you best get going, I suppose. Wouldn't want to keep the Ministry waiting."
"Right," Ron agreed with a nod. He started towards the dead fireplace, though each step seemed more and more reluctant. "I'll be back for dinner."
"Yes, dinner, of course... Oh, and Ronald?"
He whipped back around, but what he saw was not the pleading pout he expected. Instead, right at the bridge of his nose, was the tip of his lover's familiar aspen wand.
"Avada Kedavra!"
Hermione woke with a start.
The terrible dream meant something, and for the first time in Hermione's curious life, she did not care to know what it was.
With a groan, she reached under her pillow, retrieved her wand, and murmured, "Lumos."
Blinking away the stars of newfound light, she raised the lit tip of her wand to her loose wristwatch. The hour hand was parked halfway between two bold Roman numerals: V and VI.
Doubting that she would get any more sleep, she lay on her back and stared at the stone ceiling, trying to decide whether or not she dared join her schoolmates for breakfast. Avoiding Ginny was difficult enough, but avoiding the gossip of the entire student body was impossible—a suspicion of hers that Monday morning had confirmed.
The jeers replayed over and over again.
"Good morning, traitor."
"Wonder what Harry Potter thinks of her."
"She's always been a bit of a slag, though, hasn't she? In my first year, she was all over Viktor Krum."
Hermione, too exhausted to listen to more insults, decided to skip Tuesday breakfast.
Even Professor Slughorn had heard some version of the rumors—at least that was what Hermione had deduced. As students shuffled into the room, she watched the teacher's eyes dart from her to Malfoy and back again—back and forth, back and forth. It was rather like he was trying to solve a particularly difficult equation and Malfoy was one factor while she was the other.
Positively scarlet, she sunk into her seat.
"Shouldn't the happy couple be sitting together?" said Pansy Parkinson's redheaded friend. She smirked, baring her crooked teeth which glinted menacingly under the soft dungeon candlelight. "I don't know why everyone's so shocked. Evil and ugly go together like firewhisky and pumpkin juice, don't you think, Pans?"
Pansy glanced at Malfoy and mumbled something under her breath. Hermione was surprised that the Slytherin girl had not taken the opportunity to bully her two favorite targets, but no matter the reason, she figured it was best to accept her small victory. It was, after all, the first one she'd had since Saturday.
The bell sounded and the last handful of students scrambled to their seats. Still, the classroom remained abuzz, and while Hermione could not hear everything that was being said, she was certain her name was on more tongues than she would have liked.
"Yes, yes, I know you're all still a bit riled up over the Hogsmeade weekend," Professor Slughorn said, waving his hands, "but we're back in class now, so let's settle down, yes?"
The requested descrescendo commenced, though Hermione heard a few more whispers of her and Malfoy's surnames.
Slughorn, who did not seem bothered at all by the simmering voices, jabbed a stubby finger at the blackboard right as a charmed piece of chalk fell to the floor. Written in his magical script were three words: Toe-Growing Potion.
The lack of notes told Hermione that he was too distracted to charm the copy onto the board, and while it seemed typical of a lazy man like Horace Slughorn, she could hardly judge him. She was rather distracted herself.
"Toe-Growing Potion," he read loudly, emphasizing each word with a tap of the board. "Can any of you imagine why someone may want to grow their toes?"
Hermione's hand shot upward instinctively, though she regretted it as soon as she, once again, drew unwanted attention from her pointing and snickering classmates. It was like she was in primary school all over again, with fearful Muggles that gossiped about her bizarre fits that led to flaming swingsets and exploding peas. Somehow, primary school seemed preferable.
Professor Slughorn still seemed wholly unaware of his students' immature behavior as he raised his bushy brows and said, "Yes? Miss Granger?"
"W-well," she stammered, all too aware of the many eyes that were glued to her, "I've never seen anyone use it, but I've read about the Toe-Shrinking Hex."
"Oho! Very good, Miss Granger, very good indeed. A little-known hex nowadays, though it was quite popular when I first started teaching here... Had to grow many a shrunken toe back then... A good potion to know in case it ever makes a comeback!"
The disinterested grumble from the class suggested that the hex was unlikely to become popular again any time soon.
Once Slughorn finally finished his slow introduction, the class crowded the ingredient cupboard, elbowing one another and swearing as they worked against the ticking clock. The clamor even led to a shriek that Hermione recognized as Pansy Parkinson's.
"How dare you! I'll have you know: this bracelet is worth more than you and your entire family!"
Hermione, unwilling to subject herself to any more ridicule or an angry Pansy Parkinson, decided to wait until everyone returned to their tables. Apparently, Malfoy had the same idea that she did, because he stayed in his seat, his arms crossed and a scowl on his face.
Eventually, students started slinking back from the ingredient cupboard, their hands full and, in the case of Pansy Parkinson and her friend, their eyes wild. Hermione moved to retrieve her ingredients, but just as she did, Melvin Biddlesby knocked her textbook onto the floor.
"Sorry about that," he said with a smirk.
Hermione nearly raised her wand to the haughty boy. Alas, he was not worth the argument, so she picked up her book, set it on her table, and followed Malfoy to the ingredient cupboard instead.
It was there that she awkwardly watched his robes crease with each movement he made. Rather than passing her the ingredients, he reshelved them, leaving her to summon some of the items that were on high shelves that even he could barely reach. An inexplicable stroke of sadness swept over her.
If Malfoy, the boy who had spouted his hatred towards her for years, could act as though she didn't exist, did she really exist at all? Had she already lived out her purpose, left only in the world to be collected by the likes of Horace Slughorn?
As she chopped the six required salamander tails, it felt like she was not chopping them at all—almost as though her hands belonged to a phantom, but certainly not her phantom.
The phantom hands moved deftly. The cauldron hissed as the tails hit the copper bottom.
She crushed the beetles with the side of her knife. Harry had taught her that once, or rather, the Half-Blood Prince had. The man taught her more than she gave him credit for, and he died for the very cause the Malfoys fought.
Her mind was everywhere but on the snoutweed she was slicing.
Slice.
Death.
Slice.
Bellatrix.
Slice.
Fred.
Slice.
Malfoy.
Then, there was blood—a lot of blood. Crimson streams pooled around her cutting board, staining the deep green snoutweed an awful shade of inky black. Breathing carefully, she pointed her wand at the wound and attempted to heal it. There was only one problem.
"Professor!"
Jezebel Twitt had stopped in front of Hermione's lonely table with an empty flagon in her grasp and terror in her honey eyes.
Desperate to be released from another terrible meeting in the Forbidden Forest, Hermione silently willed her magic to close the gash. The edges slowly began to close, only to stop and split open again.
"Yes, Miss Twitt? What is it?" Slughorn asked, waddling down the aisle.
Hermione tried the spell again, to no avail. More blood gushed from the deep cut, and all she could do was fall back upon Muggle methods. She applied pressure with the fabric of her robes and waited for Slughorn to, once again, send her to the hospital wing.
"It's Granger's finger. She—"
"Oh my!" Slughorn gasped. "All from a finger, you say? Please do let me get a good look, Miss Granger... That's quite a lot of blood..." He gasped again when she reluctantly removed the gathered fabric. "Merlin's beard! Another trip to the hospital wing is in order, I'm afraid... Quite dangerous to have an open wound in such close proximity to snoutweed... And to think I just sent the last of my dittany down to Madam Pomfrey! Terrible timing on my part, terrible timing indeed... Miss Twitt, will you please accompany her? Be sure to mention the snoutweed... She'll need a few extra potions for that..."
Jezebel gave him a withering look before grumbling, "Yeah, alright. Come on, Granger."
Cradling her hand, Hermione followed Jezebel out of the classroom. Rarely had a single week brought her so much shame.
"You've been skipping meals again, Miss Granger," Madam Pomfrey tutted, "and you do not seem very well-rested either. Are you sleeping at night?"
The healer was applying dittany to Hermione's careless wound.
"Sometimes," the war heroine muttered, trying not to look at the ugly gash she had given herself.
"Nightmares, I presume?"
Hermione was silent. The mediwitch was astute enough to understand the meaning.
"No need to worry, dear. I'll send you off with a few vials of Dreamless Sleep—charmed, of course, to avoid overuse." Madam Pomfrey applied the fourth salve to the wound—a pale yellow paste that Hermione did not recognize. "No offense to you, of course, Miss Granger. Dreamless Sleep can be dangerously addictive even in the most responsible of hands."
"So I've read."
"You're familiar then," the healer noted. "Watch this salve for any bubbling and pop any that form. I'll be back in a blink."
She scurried to the back of the wing, leaving Hermione to pop three small yellow bubbles.
It was not long before the healer returned with several vials in her hand. Some were deep purple, while others were the familiar shade that Hermione associated with Gorge Potion.
"And do me a favor, Miss Granger?"
Hermione cocked her head in wonder.
"Do try and take care of yourself. Even your friend Mr. Potter never visited this often in a year."
