Harry was waiting for them in the common room when Ron and Hermione walked through the portrait hole. They'd spent nearly an hour sitting in silence, watching the slow and steady rise and fall of the lake's waves.
Harry mumbled an apology into her hair while hugging her; she accepted it as always. Ron patted Harry on the back. This reconciliation seemed routine to Ron, like he was just going through the motions.
She was so oblivious. How had she not realized Harry was struggling this much. She was so selfish, expecting Ron to be his sole supporter. Hermione wondered if she should skip the ski trip her parents planned for winter break to make up for her absence with Harry and Ron.
She desperately missed her parents, but it didn't feel right. The guilt would eat her alive.
Conflicted, Hermione decided to go to bed early and skip dinner. A headache throbbed at the base of her skull. She avoided looking in the mirror while brushing her teeth, there would be nothing good to say about what she saw.
...
"Entertaining game yesterday, was it not?"
Hermione's hand clenched around the stiff parchment of the list of magical plants to collect. She had decided to give Malfoy the silent treatment as punishment for what he did to Ron and Harry.
It wasn't the most eloquent and mature response, but it was the most satisfying.
Except he hadn't taken the hint. It had been thirty minutes and he wouldn't shut up. He switched between topics of books he'd read, gossip from school, and himself (of course). But he must've finally hit his breaking point because he finally switched from monologuing to taunting her.
Still, she held strong and remained silent.
"Why the fuck are you ignoring me, Granger?" He snapped, his taunting grin dropped to a frown.
She stayed silent.
Suddenly, a kick to the back of her knee sent her crashing to the ground. Her puffy winter jacket cushioned her fall, but she was still annoyed and startled.
"Did you just kick me?" Hermione asked in disbelief, her voice rising with each word until she was on the verge of shrieking. She blew a curl out of her face and wiped the dirt off of her hands on her jeans. She felt a slight sting on her palm and looked down to see a thin, scraggly red line emerging out of the brown stains on her hands.
He was unbelievably annoying.
She sighed in exasperation and headed for the small creek she spied between the trees on Malfoy's left. As soon as she passed him he grabbed her wrist.
"Get off of me. I have to wash this out or it will get infected," she said through gritted teeth, fury blooming into hot fiery balloons inside her chest. Her heart was racing, and her uncut hand was clenched into a fist. He had a natural talent for provoking her; no one ever antagonizes her as successfully as him.
A stream of ruby trickled down her arm and hit the ground as Malfoy's hand held her wrist up. He flipped her hand over and laid it flat in his palm. He then held his wand over the cut and whispered scourgify.
The blood and dirt disappeared from her skin. He then muttered episkey, the cut on her hand sealed itself closed. The pink irritated skin faded back to its normal color.
She looked up at him. Golden strands of hair fell over his forehead. Hermione almost wanted to reach up and see if it was as soft as it looked.
His opal gray eyes flickered across her face, his features once furrowed in concentration now relaxed into a lazy, leisurely scan of her face. Sunlight filtered through the dark green foliage, rays of liquid gold streaking across his face like streams of water from a faucet.
Then, he dropped her hand, breaking whatever third spell he must've cast on her.
"You're completely helpless. You do realize you have magic to fix problems like this," he smirked at her. Even when he was eleven, his voice always had a posh and arrogant chime to it. It bordered between elegance and snobbery.
"You do realize there wouldn't be a problem like this to fix if you hadn't attacked me." She said in an equally posh accent, mocking his aristocratic manner of speaking. He scowled back at her in response.
"I'll push you over again," he threatened, a dark look in his eyes similar to the one she saw that night on the astronomy tower.
They collected Gurdyroots in silence. The setting sun left a parting gift in the form of a golden hue. The early winter frost sucked the life from the flowers of the forest like a dementor's kiss. It was quieter than usual, many animals had gone into hibernation or migrated in preparation.
When they began walking back, she couldn't stop herself from saying, "Sometimes I forget I can use magic for simple tasks like that. It doesn't matter how many spells I study, I still don't have an instinctual magical response."
The words slipped out like a bottle of wine; she prayed she didn't spill as she poured scarlet liquid, damning herself to a crimson stain over her pounding heart. She probably shouldn't share things like that with her mortal enemy.
"Well… that would make sense for you. You didn't grow up with it." Pale opal eyes sparkled back at her. If she laid her hand against his cheek, thumb atop his biting cheekbone and fingers loosely grasping his sharp jaw, she knew her cold hand and his freezing face would warm each other. Ivory skin fought against the red flush powdering across his cheeks from the sharp chill to the air. When he caught her staring at him, the rose rouge triumphed.
God, he was so tall and handsome.
No.
Absolutely not.
She can't go there.
He raised a hand to drag against a gray-brown tree trunk. A silver sparkle on his index finger caught her attention. The disgustingly proud 'M' glared at her from its sterling perch on Malfoy's hand.
Everything about him was golden, except that ring. And... maybe his eyes. But at some point in time, she separated the silver of the Malfoy heirloom and the moonlight glow of his eyes.
"I wasn't entertained by the Quidditch game yesterday," she said, finally answering the question before it went stale.
It was a cold bucket of water poured over the sun-kissed warmth of silence.
"Oh," his jaw clenched and he scowled at the path ahead of them, "Not interested in seeing your boyfriend emasculated like that? Don't worry he probably wasn't even aware of what was going on; straight elevator music in that carrot head." He suddenly ripped a piece of bark off a tree trunk his fingertips had danced over moments before.
"No," she ground out, aware she was talking to the human equivalent of a brick wall, " I don't like seeing my friend humiliated. He didn't do anything to you."
"But you have to admit the song was clever. I spent hours looking into rhyme schemes and what words—"
"Malfoy!" She nearly shrieked, heat swirling around her face as she interrupted their walk and turned to him. "It is not impressive to be sadistic. You think you're superior like you're the only one brave enough to act that way. It's a choice everyone makes and you are the only one weak enough to succumb to apathy."
He flinched when she said weak.
"Besides, even if I wasn't friends with Ron, did you seriously think I would enjoy watching that? Not too long ago you would have done the same to me. I'm unsure whether you still would now."
It was an uncomfortable thing to admit, and it felt wrong in the wake of their fragile companionship. But it soothed the ache in her gut, one brought on by guilt, round glasses, and ginger hair. She wasn't sure if she wanted this ...companionship? She wasn't even sure of what to call it, but she didn't want it if it couldn't survive this conversation.
He looked thoroughly confused and aggravated as he said, "I wouldn't have done that to you."
"But you did things like that. It doesn't matter if they were slightly different," she whispered. Hermione was ready to be back in the Gryffindor common room. This conversation was terrifying and draining. She knew she would over-analyze every second of it before she fell asleep; she'd wonder if she had spoken too harshly or too weakly.
"But it never affected you!" He insisted in a tone much louder than her whisper, "You were fine with your exclusive trio of martyrs, going off on all of your adventures. You've been first in our class every year. You were obviously unphased."
"Do you have a bag of hair for a brain," she was bewildered, "How does any of that equate to mental well being?"
Both of them were breathing heavily at this point. Static tension filled the air, making the hair on her arms stand up in anticipation. He looked at the ground in frustrated defeat.
"Look at me," she whispered. His mouth was twisted like he'd tasted something rotten, and his expression was the panicked realization he'd poisoned himself.
"I didn't deserve any of what you did. The fact that I managed to overcome every obstacle you and every other blood purist set for me does not invalidate the fact that there were still obstacles." She knew her face conveyed desperation for him...for someone to finally understand that.
"I'd like to do better, be better," he stammered, overwhelmed. "Tell me how to make this better." They'd stopped walking at some point during this conversation. Her shoulders slumped in defeat.
"Tell me!" Malfoy insisted, stepping closer to her.
"I don't know," she sighed.
"I'd like you to know," he paused, "that I didn't—don't really think like that... anymore." The words were delicate, like fine china sitting in a tornadoes path. The impending dread of telling him that didn't make up for the damage he'd inflicted added ten brutal pounds to Atlas's shoulders as the Titan held up all of humanity.
He offered her unprecedented vulnerability, but she couldn't forgive him just because of that.
"I'm surprised to hear that," she finally stammered. She didn't want to praise him for doing the bare minimum after years of being a monster.
He turned forward and they started walking again. She thought that meant their conversation was done until he said, "I'll make it up to you, I promise." His gray eyes once stagnant moonlight, transformed into two hurricanes. A promise of delivery from an unstoppable force of nature.
Accio Walkman, he said. The plastic rectangle flew out of her pocket.
"Hey!" She started, jerking towards him to pry it out of his greedy, entitled hands.
"Shut up," he muttered absentmindedly, fending her off with one arm. His other hand pressed the start button and pocketed the box. He then pulled the earphones out and put one in his ear.
His pale hand reached towards her, the other earphone rested on his outstretched palm.
She put it in. Hermione had no idea he knew how to work it, or that he was even keeping track of how she used it.
They both jumped at the sudden screaming of a guitar in their ears. He quickly turned the volume down, swearing under his breath.
The earphones kept falling out. One of them would take a step slightly to the side, and they would slide right out of their ears.
The fourth time this happened, Malfoy huffed in exasperation and aggressively grabbed her hand and yanked her in line next to him.
Neither of them said anything about it.
Despite the December chill, both of their hands were bare. Any gloves they wore would be stained by soil and plants.
His hand was cold, but the silver ring on his index finger was warm. Their fingers weren't linked, she briefly wondered how he would react if she wove hers through his. His slender fingers wrapped around the edge of her palm; the groves of his palm fit like a puzzle piece against hers.
Her heart accelerated and her face heated.
Hermione's shoulder brushed against his arm as they walked. His cologne, an aroma of green apples and mint lifted off his robes and floated towards her.
She'd never been around a boy that smelled like that.
Or as good as he did.
….
Her hands clasped over her chest about the covers. Hermione scooped the hair up and away from the back of her neck, she could never sleep with it brushing against her skin.
One of her roommates turned the lights out and whispered goodnight. The familiarity in the slight crackle in Crookshank's snore soothed her to sleep; the weight of him curled in a ball warmed her feet beneath the covers.
Just before she succumbed to Hypnos call, she thought about how she might like to hold his hand again.
She might want to hold his hand again. She wasn't sure.
And that he smelled very good.
…..
The weeks of December passed quickly; anticipation for the winter break grew. Their list of ingredients to collect in the forest shortened as many plants died off from the winter cold.
Every time they turned around to walk back to Hogwarts, he'd grab her hand and they'd split the earphones.
She tried to not overanalyze it, tried not to make much of it.
One morning she woke to see Ginny's bed empty. Ron and Harry were missing from breakfast too. The Gryffindor common room was quiet without the Weasley twins ruckus.
Neville told her that had been attacked, his soft brown eyes turned somber. And that Harry had a vision of it happening.
Her stomach dropped.
"Oh, 's alright though, he's at 's being treated."
She suppressed a glare of exasperation and excused herself to go to the Owlery.
Hermione wrote to Harry and Ron, her sloppy handwriting indicated her urgency. She naturally had very a very messy cursive, one of her only academic flaws. She almost always rewrote everything.
She told them that if they needed her, she would come. She sealed the letter with a spare wax stamp and sent it off with an owl.
Cold stone bricks bit into her palm as she gripped the wall beside her; her forehead pressed into the stone arch bordering the open window.
It was hard to suppress the sour taste of exclusion, logically she knew it was ridiculous to be bitter. But with all of her friends fleeing together, she felt like an afterthought. Hermione wondered how long it would take for them to remember she was left behind.
She supposed this is what she gets for spending so much time away from them. She just had to work harder, she was careless before. Her friendships were slipping because she'd been distracted.
She took an unconventional route from the Owlery to the library, distracted by mentally reviewing her schedule and what changes could be made. The corridors grew more desolate and dark as she continued her winding path.
If Harry was looking on his map, her footsteps would be a chaotic mix of circles and abrupt turns. There was little rhyme and reason to her wandering.
It was a little disheartening to realize that although she and Harry had a very similar start in the wizarding world, he couldn't relate to her experience. Neither had any knowledge of magic before arriving, they learned together. But quite quickly, he was swept along a path she could not follow.
The Weasley's treated Harry like one of their own. They invited him to the burrow and Ron treated him like a brother. He fit right in, but she had obligations to her parents that prevented her from freefalling into the wizarding community. She had obligations to her blood status that barred her from passively perusing friend groups and wizarding communities.
And so when was attacked, Harry was essential to their support system.
But she wasn't.
Harry fit like a missing puzzle piece into Wizarding society. He fit everywhere she didn't and did it effortlessly.
She accepted in neither the Muggle world nor the Wizard world.
Sometimes it was difficult to see the glaring differences between her and her best friends, and not resent them for their ignorance of how they affect her experience. Especially the times when Harry and Ron ignored her off to talk about Quidditch, or when they didn't take her anger seriously.
She wasn't in a position to hold what little friends she could make accountable, and so this anger built every day until it formed a tower in her mind with an impending, uncertain collapse.
She looked around to realize while lost in thought (and emotions), she'd wandered into a random part of the castle. The fast click of heels rang through the hallway intersecting hers. She jerked back against the wall, not desiring a confrontation with Umbridge.
"Your father," a prim and nasally snarl sounded. A squeak only the uniform required Oxfords could make made her ears cringe. Umbridge must be yelling at one of the female students.
"Your father told me about the disgusting, impure acts you were involved in before I arrived. And yet, I was still willing to take you under my wing," Hermione had only ever heard Umbridge this angry when Harry yelled at her.
"I appointed you onto the Inquisitorial squad, let you make something of yourself," a young and feminine snort echoed followed by the ring of a sharp slap, Hermione, stifled a gasp. Her hand tightened around her wand, ready to step out if need be, even if the sarcastic snort came from an intolerable witch.
"Only to find out you were still whoring yourself around!" Hermione had never heard Umbridge a shriek so rageful, the hair on her arms stood up.
"You…" she breathed heavily, "... you will not take this away from me because you can't control your disgusting temptations. If I ever catch you again…" another squeak of an oxford.
"Do you understand me?" The words were slow and sharp, Umbridge had reeled herself back into the posh, stiff persona she wore like a glove. But Hermione had heard her unravel.
"Yes," Pansy Parkinson gritted out.
…
Hermione poked her head around the corner after the sharp click of heels on stone faded into silence. A tall feminine figure stood with her forehead against the wall. Her chin-length midnight black bob curtained her face from view. But Hermione knew if she could see her face, it would be scarlet red lips, round green eyes, and probably a swelling cheek.
On paper, she could have been Theo's sister except his skin had a honey glow while hers was all-porcelain and pink flushes. His features were sharp and statuesque, and her's were soft and innocent. She had the complexion of Snow White but the disposition of the Evil Queen. That was until she discovered makeup last year painted her face in beautiful eyeshadows and bright lipsticks. Her youthful face was aged by product and contour.
Suddenly, the Slytherin girl swung and punched the wall.
The pain must've been immense, she screamed in a glass-shattering pitch. Hermione ran over to her after only a moment's hesitation.
"Try and calm down, let me see your hand," Hermione braced herself, knowing the prejudiced and egotistical girl would not easily accept help.
"Get the fuck away from me," she panted, tears sliding down her flushed cheeks, her upturned nose separated the tearful onslaught into two distinct rainfalls. She looked like rage and grief, "How much of that did you hear?"
"I didn't mean to, I was on my way to the library," Hermione promised, staring at the wall near Pansy's head instead of her calculating eyes and wet cheeks.
"FUCK!" She shrieked, grabbing her hair and ducking her head down. She made to kick the stone wall before stopping herself, clearly remembering the epic tragedy of her hand moments prior. She took a deep breath, "You cannot tell anyone about this Granger."
"Nobody cares about it, Parkinson. I just came over to check on your hand and…" she paused, knowing this would not be received well, "and to tell you that Umbridge can't hit you. You should tell Professor Snape."
Pansy laughed, a sound hollow and mocking. "Don't worry about it Granger, just don't tell anyone about what you heard." A sympathetic twitch of scarlet lips left Hermione baffled.
"I could… I could take a look at your hand if you want." The suggestion came out as a question. Hermione suspected she wouldn't be heading over to Madame Pomfrey later.
Pansy looked skeptical; her knuckles were swollen and Hermione knew the bruises would be severe. Finally, after offensively long hesitation, she relented and held her hand out.
Hermione held it flat and cast a spell to see if any of the knuckles or fingers were broken. Pansy must've known how to throw a punch because they weren't even fractured. She whispered Ferula and wrapped the bandages around her knuckles. She then conjured an ice pack, "For your face," she gave Pansy a quick closed-mouth smile.
She set Pansy's hand down by her side and noticed her other hand was clenched in a fist. She was gripping something like her life depended on it; between the gaps of her fingers, Hermione could see something small and red. When she noticed Hermione looking at it, she shoved whatever it was in her robe pocket.
"Thanks, Granger," she gave a small smile and then turned on her heel abruptly and marched out of sight.
Weird, Hermione shrugged.