"Closeted Skeletons," Chapter Nine

"This is crucial for you and I."

These words, this sentence, was the one thing Hermione found herself thinking about, possibly all the time. It bothered her, irked her because she couldn't understand, couldn't quite comprehend. It had negative undertones and she wanted to know why. She knew it wasn't her business, shouldn't be meddling with it but it intrigued her, distracted her. She hadn't gotten night terrors since.

She found herself rationalizing these words when she woke up, in potions class where she wasn't trying her hardest due to Harry and his secret advantage, at dinner, and right before she went to bed. And now, she even found herself repeating the sentence to herself, out loud. It had been going on for a few days.

"What'd you say?"

Hermione looked up to see Harry with a bewitched expression, staring at her. In his hands, was a tiny capsule of Felix Felicis, luck potion. He'd been playing with the bottle ever since Professor Slughorn had awarded him with it for brewing an "exceptional" Draught of Living Death potion.

Stupid graffited book.

"I haven't said a word." Terrible lie, but she hadn't felt like coming up with a better one.

"You've said something." He put the bottle down, lacing his fingers.

"Perhaps you're starting to hear things," she responded, a little louder than a murmur.

Harry shifted in his seat and looked away. They were at dinner, she didn't feel hungry. She couldn't eat when she felt a sense of worry. Worried Harry might suspect her of something, like meddling in Malfoy's affairs without him. Worried Malfoy might notice she has his letter, his letter from his mother. The letter his mother wrote that was intended for Malfoy, not her. Words she was trying to figure out.

She couldn't eat, much less digest food. So instead, she watched Ron move onto his third plate of food while she picked at her cuticles.

Ron was swallowing his last bite of food when his eyes widened, almost choked.

"Stan Shunpike has been taken into custody," Ron exclaimed, trying to recover his breath. He was vigorously shaking the Daily Prophet in his hands.

"That Knight Bus conductor?" Harry's gaze averted from his plate to Ron, taking the newspaper from him. His focus strained on the headline.

"I believe so! What'd the bloke do?" Ron questioned while grabbing pumpkin pastries.

Hermione snatched the parchment paper from Harry's hand. She pointed her finger below the headline, trailing down to a box containing more information, reading, 'Mr. Shunpike is suspected of practicing the Dark Arts.' She looked back up at Harry and Ron, expression unclear.

"He's suspected of being a Death Eater."

The next morning, Hermione was headed to the Quidditch pitch. Surprisingly, when she woke up, her first thought wasn't the letter. No, it was Ron and his Quidditch try-outs. This made her feel at ease, no worry. At least, not this morning.

She had never liked Quidditch, wasn't her favorite, but they were having Gryffindor try-outs and Ron was trying out. She should be there for Ron, cheer him on.

She soon found out, though, she shouldn't have bothered coming. There was someone else doing her job for her, Lavender Brown. And the shouting coming from her mouth was endless, making Hermione's ears bleed.

Cormac Mcglaggen was sure to beat Ron. Ron, on his wit's end, almost slipping off his broom. Lavender, and her insufferable chanting that was of no aid. Harry, running his hands through his hair, nervous of what the outcome was going to be. Mclaggen as keeper instead of Ron.

So, she did something she wasn't supposed to. Something out of character, like she'd been doing since the start of her 6th year.

"Confundus," Hermione whispered below her hands, casting a wandless spell on Mclaggen. Ron had won his position as keeper and hadn't even noticed until Lavender Brown's shrill screams filled the air.

Sure, it was unfair but she felt good about it.

She slipped away from the seats in the Quidditch towers and made her way down, behind them. She'd congratulate Ron later, without Lavender hovering. She closed her eyes and took a breath, images of Ron and Lavender disappearing when she heard a snarl.

"Unbelievable."

Hermione opened her eyes, only to find grey eyes glaring at her, piercing holes into her face. Malfoy was leaning against a pole, arms crossed, his left leg wrapped around his right.

"Sorry?" Hermione straightened her posture, lifting up her invisible walls, can never be too comfortable around him.

"Naughty trick you played out there," Draco scoffed out, slipping his hands into his trousers.

"A trick?" Hermione voiced her confusion, wondering what he was playing at.

"Anything for your blood traitor boyfriend, yeah?" He clicked his tongue, looking to the side.

And then it sunk in. Gryffindor try-outs. Ron vs. Mclaggen. Ron, about to lose to Mclaggen terribly until she stepped in with wandless magic. Someone had noticed and it was Malfoy.

"You were watching me?" Hermione asked, eyes wide.

"I was observing the try-outs, wanted to see the new players I'd be up against. Child's play, by the way," he responded, sighed.

"Child's play? Show me your Slytherin Quidditch cup." Her chest was swelling with a sense of adrenaline. She shouldn't be adding fuel to the fire, but she did.

Malfoy snapped his line of sight towards her, his teeth beginning to grit. Hermione was waiting for him to start listing a number of reasons why he deserved the Quidditch cup, but he didn't. Or perhaps, a number of reasons why what she did was a foul play, messing up the integrity of future games. But he didn't.

This wasn't about Quidditch.

"I was having a grand time watching Weaselbee lose to Mcglaggen but then I noticed you," he averted his glare from her to his left hand he took out, playing with his ring. Twisting and turning it around his slender finger.

This was about her.

There was silence. Hermione swore she could hear her own nerves. Why wouldn't she just walk away? Damned solace.

"You. You, on your way to ruin everything," Draco suddenly sneered, his eyes finding her suddenly, his head still angled downwards.

"What I've done is nothing that should be concerning you," she cautioned, taking a step backwards.

"A bit fucking rich coming from you. You've always got your nose in affairs that don't belong to you," he refuted, instantly, catching her off-guard.

And she couldn't possibly think of what to say. If she were to say something, she'd be a sputtering mess because he was right. He was. And the evidence was under her pillow, written in Narcissa Malfoy's fine, black ink.

"And you want to know what bothers me most? Guess, go on. Give it a try," he sneered, taunt after taunt.

He stood straight, teeth grinding, jaw clenched. She didn't want to give it a go, not knowing what he was referring to. Better to stay quiet than to be wrong.

"No guesses? I'll do you the favor of telling you, just this once." He clasped both his hands together. She held her chin high.

"What bothers me most about you is that everything you do for show, it's all part of an act. You're a liar and everyone seems to fall for it. You haven't got one negative trace on you," he breathed out, directly staring at her, a stare that lacked warmth.

Hermione's expressionless face turned into a pinched expression, her lips presiding into a thin, white, slash.

"You're not really righteous, truthful, or virtuous. That's what they view you as, expect you to be. That's not you." His lip curled, swallowing hard. "You're not anything anyone expects you to be, you just let them believe that. You want them to believe that."

Her breathing had begun to sound noisily, hitching, sharp intakes. The air around them shifted.

"No, you're just a girl who likes to break the rules, play dirty, matching your true blood status," Malfoy spat.

Color drained from Hermione's face.

"And you manage to get away with it. You always fucking do," he added with distate dripping from his tongue.

His fingers retracted, recoiled.

"Yet, I'm not like everyone else. I don't fall for your stupid righteous act. I know. I saw it, just witnessed it with my very eyes."

Hermione's jaw went slack.

She felt like she was shrinking, she felt small. Smaller than she had ever felt before. And she hated herself for staying. Hated herself for listening to him. Hated herself for not fighting back. She feared that if she did, she would ruin Ron's celebratory day.

The tension hung in the air, like a ghost, swirling around them. She could feel it but she didn't dare act upon it. Instead, she was thankful. Thankful when she heard Ron's excitement coming her way. Thankful that Malfoy noticed and took a hint and turned the corner, leaving.

Before leaving Malfoy uttered, "don't worry. There won't be any little birdies tweeting your filthy secrets. At least, not anytime soon."

And then, Ron appeared where Malfoy was gone.

"Hermione! I'm Gryffindor's keeper! To be frank, I don't–"

Ron's words faded, drowned, being overtaken by the lingering skeletons in closed closets. A paradox Malfoy had voiced, uncovered.

And all she could say was, "congratulations Ronald. You deserved it."

Around five o'clock that evening, she had gotten an invitation to dinner with Professor Slughorn. She'd been invited to join the Slug Club, along with Harry, Ginny, and Neville. No Ron, much to his disdain.

Miss Hermione Granger,

You have been cordially invited to join the Slug Club administered by Horace Slughorn. We'd love to have you for dinner this evening along with other Slug Club members.

Thank you.
Approved by Professor H. Slughorn.

If she were to be truthful, she didn't want to attend, didn't feel like showing up. But Harry's pleas were endless. She went.

They were sat down around a circular table and Slughorn was an unbearable chatterbox. He seemed to love the topic about his past days as a Hogwarts student, talking about all his accomplishments as a Slytherin.

To be frank, she didn't care. Her mind was elsewhere, eyes boring into her ice cream, melting and swirling. A daze.

And then suddenly, it was all too much. Slughorn's chitter-chatter that made no sense at all. Neville and his endless questions to Slughorn. Ginny and Dean's public displays of affection that were quite unflattering. Harry and his jealousy towards them radiating. Zabini and his eerie presage. Mclaggen and his wandering eyes that always landed on Hermione.

It was too much.

"Professor, if you'll excuse me, I need to leave," she abruptly said, without thinking.

"Oh, why–," Slughorn furrowed his eyebrows before being interrupted by Hermione.

"Now."

Slughorn gave a weary nod and she stood, chair scratching the floor as it skidded. She left everyone befuddled.

She walked out of his office, paced her footsteps quickly. And then, everything she was wearing began to itch. Stinging, pricking her skin. She clawed at her sweater, raising it up towards her elbows. Clawed at her skirt, ruffling it. Clawed at her knee-high socks, pulling them down. She was dismantled.

And then when things couldn't possibly get any worse, she saw a flash of white hair down the corridor. And that was the real itch, itching at her skull, infecting her brain, intoxicating her thoughts. Malfoy was the itch she wanted to be rid of.

She began to pace faster, catching up with him, until he was within earshot.

"You."

"Me?"

"You intolerable git. What are you playing at?" She knew Malfoy was evidently scheming something. She was beginning to see him everywhere.

"Evening strolls are prohibited?"

"Stop answering my questions with even more questions. It's insufferable. Stay out of my way Malfoy. I mean it," she spat out, tone of voice pierced.

"Still upset about what I said earlier?"

"You know nothing about me and you'll never come close to it," she snapped

Hermione spun around on her heel, wanting to end it there, wanting to leave. But it was never that easy, simple. It never was when it came to Malfoy. His next words proving just that.

"I do know you're a poor little mudblood who'll do anything for the validation you crave," he said cooly from behind her. The hairs on her neck standing up, fists clenching. She faced him again.

And absolutely nothing could stop her from responding, spiteful words pouring out like an open faucet.

"And I know you're a slimy git. You bring others down just to raise yourself up but it'll never work. You'll never amount to anything else in your life besides being a failure. You're a lost cause," she lashed out, her words jumping down his throat making him scowl.

He steadied, she inched closer.

"You're weak," she continued, forcing herself to continue. She wanted to make him feel as bad as he had made her feel. It was her turn to reveal who he was, what he had kept under wraps.

Adding...

"Fuck you–" He was clenching fists, his jaw next.

Fuel...

"You're a tosser with no life." She knew where she was going with this.

To...

"Shut the fuck up–" He looked about ready to eat her alive, hurt her.

The..

"You're a coward." She had an idea of what the outcome would be.

Fire.

"Fucking stop talking already–" He was seething with rage, scratching at his ears.

And yet, she made no intent on stopping.

"You're just like your father."

And it finally blew up.

His hands were on her, pushing her against the wall with force. Force she didn't know he had, wasn't capable of. One hand slammed against the wall, mere inches away from her head. Veins popping, strained, drooling. His other hand was wrapped around his wand, gripping it. She felt the tip of his wand press into her neck, deeper and deeper with every harsh breath Malfoy took.

"Don't you ever fucking mention my father again or I'll have you in pieces," he hissed through barred teeth. His breath misted, ghosted over her face. She was breathing yet she felt like she was suffocating, not enough air circulating.

He was towering over her, but his head angled downwards towards hers, close in proximity.

Even with a wand to her throat, she wouldn't let herself get intimidated by him. Not now. So, she matched his vexation.

"Swear by it," she uttered, breath strained.

His eyes flickered, eyebrows furrowed. He lowered his wand and stepped back. Air began to circulate once again. He shifted, didn't say a word, neither did she.

The dead silence echoed screams.

She left him there, his feet glued to the floor.

As she made her way to the Gryffindor common room, she thought back to what happened on the Quidditch pitch, to what happened a few minutes ago.

The hidden skeletons in closed closets.

Maybe this was Malfoy's way of tormenting her, spewing out abominations he knew was sure to bother her. Maybe this was Malfoy's way of threatening her, her friendships, her reputation, her life. Maybe, it was the truth. A truth no one dared to tell her, that she was a cheap liar, a hypocrite at times. A reality check no one had given her, instead, they walked on eggshells around her. He didn't, he didn't at all. So, maybe, what he said was a truth she needed to hear.

Or, maybe, that's why she kept coming back, staying. There was no tiptoeing when it came to him, no doubts.

It was just a common garden of dead roses, something she was used to.

She didn't know which 'maybe' to choose from.

Because, actually, it was all of the above.