WARNING: This chapter contains descriptions of sexual situations. If that type of content potentially bothers you, then I recommend you read the sanitized version or skip this chapter altogether. Feel free to reach out to me for a sanitized chapter, or visit my website at c0nfiguration dot space to find the sanitized version of the chapter on my website.
Lucid dreaming was an activity Hermione had enjoyed for as long as she could remember. Amidst the exhilarating dreams she'd have as a child of rollercoasters, fantastic sci-fi adventures, and flying, she would also have dreams in which she could wield conscious control over her surroundings, and even over the dream itself.
Playing within these lucid dreams had been a favorite pastime of hers, back before she'd been properly introduced to magic, and long before her life had taken multiple morbid detours. Although Hermione had dreamt lucidly a handful of times throughout the years since she'd become a student at Hogwarts and learned to control her magic, they were nowhere near as frequent as when she'd been much younger. Some part of her had missed them, but she'd had little time to think on the loss amidst the chaos her life had grown into over the past few years.
It was only this prior knowledge that prepared Hermione for the dream she found herself within on this night. And it was a dream, could only be a dream. The preternaturally hazy edges, shimmering soft atmosphere, and heady anticipation were indications enough that something was off. No, this was definitely not waking reality. In fact, she'd just been transported into a naked version of herself who seemed to be at the height of arousal.
That was of course most likely due to the long fingers that were gently caressing the sides of her arms, then making their way up her shoulders, tickling up her neck, and then trailing languidly all the way back, leaving gooseflesh in their wake. Hermione didn't know when or where the fire burning brightly in her core had been lit, but those careful hands ignited sparks of lust that were fizzing along her skin, leaving her aching for more kindling.
With a half-lidded gaze she watched those nimble hands journey up and down her body from her relaxed position on a large, plush bed amidst a tangle of sheets and pillows. She already knew who those hands belonged to although she had yet to see his face in this astral realm. She'd recognize those pale fingers anywhere.
The last time she'd awoken to Malfoy's gentle caresses in their common room, she'd felt nothing but fear and dread at his ministrations—for good reason. This time, those negative feelings were nowhere to be found, her waking responses obfuscated by the mechanics of dreams. Paradoxically, the hands of the wizard who'd given her hell for so many years made her feel safe in this ephemeral time and place. Desire and arousal were the only feelings she had room for presently, and they were both coursing like electricity up and down her spine, spilling over her limbs only to coalesce in a pool of molten heat low in her belly.
A tousled head of platinum blonde hair moved into her line of sight, the silken strands hanging down to conceal all but a pair of firm lips Hermione had never before had good reason to appreciate. Her breath hitched when that soft pair of lips began to drop featherlight kisses on her left breast. When they began to suckle on its peak she lifted one hand to cradle Draco's head there, cognizant of only one thing—she wanted more, past history be damned.
She would never admit it to anyone, but some part of her had been intrigued by Malfoy throughout the years. Hers had been less of a romantic curiosity, and more of the magnetic intrigue that dark and terrible things inspire, simply for being aberrations. At one point in his life, Malfoy had been both of those things—unapologetically dark, and vindictively terrible. But in this dream, and even in waking life, she could reaffirm that she no longer thought of him in that way... for the most part. All that remained of her intrigue in this dream was a desire to know him better.
Deciding to explore in this astral realm what she didn't think had a doxy's chance in hell of happening in real life, Hermione arched into Draco's touch, allowing the arousal swirling in her limbs to take over all rational thought. She focused on the wet swirling of his tongue, on the whispering caresses against her flanks that promised higher peaks of pleasure as she writhed on the sheets beneath him.
At length, he pulled his lips away, moving to her other breast to kiss and lick at it while gently teasing the other with deft fingers. Hermione moaned at the change in tactics, her body undulating in response to the electric sensations his touch awoke in her. By now she was massaging and pulling at his hair in desperation, mewling at every flick of his tongue and fingers.
He began to work his way lower down her body, licking and kissing his way down her heaving torso, leaving a trail of sparks in his wake as his hair tickled her skin in the most delicious way. By the time he made his way down to her hips, Hermione was lost to the promise of pleasure in Draco's soft touch, spreading her legs wider in invitation. At this, he paused to glance up at her with a satisfied smirk, his disheveled blonde locks doing nothing to conceal the anticipation and hunger in his gaze.
The message in his expression was clear.
I could devour you.
His hands slid down from her hips, thumbs caressing her golden skin in lazy circles until they reached the soft planes of her inner thighs. They paused to tickle the skin there before his palms flattened to push her legs open wider.
Their eye contact was broken as he dove down to kiss her stomach, trailing his lips lower until they'd progressed to her glistening center. Hermione bucked under his touch as brief licks and kisses turned into gentle sucking motions. Draco teased her there for a few moments, driving her crazy until she was bucking and whimpering at every puff of breath along her sensitive skin.
"Mhmmm... Dra–" she whimpered, cutting off abruptly with a long moan when he dragged his tongue up her slit, stopping to swirl it lazily around her nub in tight little circles until she lost herself in the the way his mouth spoke to her.
Some remote part of her marveled at the surreal scene before her, dream or not. Her former bully kneeling before her sprawled form, worshipping and voraciously tasting her as she squirmed beneath him with utter abandon. It should have disconcerted her, but something about the thought of a reformed Malfoy only spurred her to further heights of desire.
That she could even imagine this about a wizard once so hopelessly entrenched in darkness could only mean that even the deeper parts of her psyche had begun to consider that he wasn't a complete threat to her anymore. And that she could even allow herself to imagine it in the first place meant that some part of her was well and truly warming up to him despite it all.
Merlin help me.
He raised his head languidly after a minute or two, licking his glistening lips open in a smug grin and meeting her heated gaze with molten silver eyes. His thumbs resumed tracing their languorous patterns along the sensitized skin of her inner thighs.
"D–don't stop, gods please don't stop," she pleaded, pushing her hips up towards him in a wanton display of longing, uncaring of how desperate it may have seemed.
His self-satisfied grin widened as his gaze darkened further and he brushed his hair aside, "Ask and you shall receive, love. Eyes on me."
This time when his tongue traced her core, his gaze remained locked on hers as she struggled to keep her eyes open amidst the flood of pleasure he was unleashing upon her. As if knowing how difficult it was for her to maintain eye contact amidst his ministrations, Draco worked his way back up to her nub and began to suckle on it in earnest.
Hermione nearly screamed at the onslaught of pleasure this caused. She pushed her hips towards him and ground her core against his questing mouth, her hand snaking down towards the nape of his neck to tangle in his hair and urge him ever closer. Less than a minute later she was on the edge of a precipice of pleasure the likes of which she'd never experienced before. Drunk with lust and struggling to hold his gaze, she pleaded with him to make her come undone.
His gaze dark with arousal, Draco obliged, snaking a single long digit into her core as he continued suckling on her nub. He pumped his finger a few times as he worshipped her with his tongue, and that was all it took to make Hermione's world explode with a burst of energy that swept away all thought in an intense wash of burning pleasure.
She cried out in ecstasy, and it was all he could do to steady her trembling body as she rode wave after sweet wave of pleasure. Her vision went white with information overload, and after a few seconds the sultry scene along with the feeling of Draco all around her disappeared in a nebulous haze.
In a disorienting change of scenery, she awoke in her bed at Hogwarts with the ghost of pleasure coursing through her body and slick wetness coating her inner thighs. Still on the cusp of sleep and wakefulness, Hermione reached down and slipped her hand past her nightwear, imagining she was back in that surreal dream with Malfoy as he whetted his appetite with the proof of her pleasure.
It took less than a minute. For the second time that morning, Hermione came undone at the thought of Draco's hooded grey eyes boring into her own, imagining his lips slick with her cream the way they'd been only moments before in her dreams.
She lay in a daze processing what she'd woken up to. It was the most unusual thing her mind had concocted lately, but she wasn't exactly complaining. The lingering pleasure still coursing through her system was proof enough that there were benefits to waking up like this. The aches and twitches that had settled in over the past week had given way to a languid relaxation that left her feeling boneless amidst the tangle of her sheets and books this morning.
She'd fallen asleep last night while reading her Transfiguration textbook, and had forgotten to take her dose of Dreamless Sleep. It was Thursday now, and in the days since Healer Donovan had revised her potions regimen yet again at their most recent appointment, Hermione had certainly noticed an improvement compared to the previous three or four weeks. If she'd had nightmares at all last night, she couldn't remember any of them. She supposed there were worse ways to awaken than a lucid, consensual sexual dream encounter, all things considered.
Still, some part of her wanted to feel disgusted, not only with the contents of the dream, but with herself for desiring Malfoy in that capacity. Just what kind of pathetic witch was she anyway, to be lusting after someone who'd been so terrible to her for so long?
He may have turned over a new leaf, but he was still leagues away from being someone she would ever consider completely reformed, much less someone worthy of her sexual desire or affection. Not that she could exactly control those desires, as last night's dream had shown her—nor did it seem that she wanted to at some subconscious level.
As she lounged in bed watching the pre-dawn darkness recede across the still waking landscape, the indignant and suspicious parts of her debated with her forgiving and caring predispositions. Sure, she'd defended Malfoy—spoken up for him at a time when few magical folk would, and probably saved his life from being totally ruined. But that didn't mean she wanted to run off and marry the bloke! One act of kindness didn't equate to a declaration of love for Merlin's sake!
And while she could objectively acknowledge that Malfoy possessed a cold, sharp beauty that intimidated as much as it attracted, he wasn't her type, or at least she hadn't thought so. There were plenty kinds of beauty out there, and until last night, she hadn't thought Malfoy's flavor of physical attractiveness and personality would ever appeal to her. Hermione was warmth and light, love and caring, and she'd only ever been looking for reciprocal qualities in potential suitors and bedmates.
Malfoy is the antithesis of everything I'm attracted to, Hermione thought to herself resolutely. I can want to be his friend and colleague without wanting to get into his pants!
With that resolution made, and prepared to put her heady yet disconcerting dream behind her, Hermione dragged herself out of bed and headed to her bathroom to prepare for the school day ahead, all the while trying to push thoughts of Malfoy and his sinful mouth firmly to the back of her mind. Hogwarts was now in its seventh week in session, and despite the extremely rough start to the year, she was beginning to find some semblance of a tenuous daily rhythm again.
Finished with her daily morning routine in the bathroom, she pulled her hair into a messy topknot and donned her uniform. She emerged from her quarters in a distracted flurry only to stop short at the sight of Malfoy passed out on the sofa in their common room. Crookshanks was snoring softly from his position curled on the sleeping wizard's stomach.
Malfoy must have fallen asleep in front of the fire again last night. I'm surprised Crooks kept him company the whole time.
She was momentarily distracted by the sight of Malfoy looking so utterly vulnerable and relaxed after the dream she'd awoken from just a few minutes ago. Juxtaposed with the sultry version of him she'd seen overnight, it was difficult in that moment to remember that he was someone who'd committed fearsome acts, someone she would do well to remain cautious around.
And yet seeing him like this, with his unguarded sleeping visage illuminated only by the spreading pre-dawn light, she couldn't help but find him handsome. The wariness, the resentment, and the anger towards him were still there, lurking somewhere in her psyche, pulsing at the edges of her mind with a dull roar. But in this moment, they'd been muted by the version of Malfoy that lay before her. It felt as if this was her first time laying eyes on him again.
Can't say I mind the view, she mused absentmindedly as a wave of honeyed heat surged through her.
Shaking herself out of such a dangerous train of thought, she shifted her attention to note the drool that had collected by Crookshanks' mouth, clearly visible against Malfoy's white shirt. She snorted quietly. It wasn't the first time Malfoy had fallen asleep like this, but it was certainly the first time Crookshanks had been brave enough to think he could get away with using the notoriously churlish wizard as his personal cushion. Apparently her pet had been right this time.
Not wanting to wake them, and hoping Malfoy had had the presence of mind to set an alarm of some sort for himself, Hermione tiptoed past the sleeping pair and went about quietly pouring Crookshanks his breakfast. Quite honestly, she was floored that the soft tinkling of food hitting his food bowl hadn't been enough to wake the slumbering beast. Usually the promise of food was all it took for Crooks to become wide awake and alert.
Finished with her morning tasks, she made her way into the corridor outside their quarters, all the while trying to make the least amount of noise possible. She paused before closing the portrait behind her, smiling softly at the picture both wizard and feline painted in their slumber.
Malfoy would befriend my cat after spending weeks complaining about him, she mused as she made her way down to the Great Hall.
Her walk to breakfast was uneventful, which was to be expected at 7 in the morning, a time when most other students would rather still be in bed. It was precisely why she liked this time of day. There were fewer prying eyes watching her, waiting to see if she'd stumble or break under the weight of her circumstances. She also felt less vulnerable while roaming the halls alone during the early morning hours compared to late at night.
It was all to be expected, but Hermione was tired of the attention. It had been bad enough when she'd first arrived at school, but now every glance and whisper about her was tinged with something worse—pity. She loathed the thought of others feeling sorry for her, and wished she could show them just how much of a force to be reckoned with she was.
Selwyn and Mulciber certainly won't forget anytime soon, she thought with grim satisfaction.
She made her way to the Gryffindor table, where only two of her fellow upperclassmen were quietly reading the morning paper while breaking their fast. Thankfully they left her to her own devices, and she was once again reminded of why she preferred taking the early bird approach to her days—people left her alone.
It was while she was focusing on finishing her bowl of oatmeal and catching up on some reading that the letter came. It was unusual enough to receive one so early in the morning before the usual mass delivery of Hogwarts mail, but it was the wax crest on the message that caught her eye. The hardened emerald green seal of glittering wax featured a script version of the letter 'P' intertwined with a serpent eating its own tail—an Ouroboros.
Intrigued, Hermione scanned the parchment with her wand for any malicious surprises, and upon finding none, she carefully rolled it open to read its contents. To say she was surprised at the perfectly written calligraphic words she found within would be an understatement.
"I know something you don't know! Your fellow Head Boy is up to something, but is it naughty or nice? Meet me at the boathouses today during second hour to find out." — Pansy
Hermione stared at the message in disbelief for a few seconds before she rolled it up carefully and set it down next to her bowl.
What in Merlin's name does Parkinson think she's pulling? Did Pansy even send this?
Feeling completely thrown, Hermione stared down at her half-eaten breakfast, lost in thought as she ran through the various reasons why Parkinson (or someone impersonating her) might have sent it.
Well, it isn't outright insulting. That's a first for her, she mused, wondering if she'd ever had an interaction with Pansy that hadn't involved denigration of some sort. That alone was cause for alarm. The notorious Slytherin clearly must want something from her, but could she be trying to lure her into another trap? Could someone else be doing it in her stead? So soon after the first attack?
She considered simply ignoring the message, but her sense of curiosity was far too strong to be overruled this time. What if Malfoy was up to something? She thought back to his sleeping visage from just a few minutes ago. Whether it was nefarious or altruistic, it could still potentially land him in Azkaban.
Is that idiot trying to throw his life away?! Hermione fumed to herself, And if so, why the bloody hell do I care?! I'm not his keeper.
Driven by her frustration and curiosity, yet unwilling to put herself in such a risky situation on her own, she mulled over what to do as she aimlessly stirred her oatmeal and stared off into space. The sound of cutlery against plates and sparse conversation around her faded into the background. While it would be ludicrous of her to consider going to meet Pansy by herself, she wasn't sure whose help to seek.
A majority of her fellow 8th years had a free period during second hour, but being a 7th year and a Quidditch captain, Ginny had a slightly different schedule. Hermione didn't want to ask her friend to skip class just to satisfy a spot of curiosity, nor did she want to worry Ginny if Pansy's taunting letter amounted to nothing.
She was pulled from her thoughts when Neville sat down across from her, smiling and greeting her with, "Morning, Hermione. It's not often we catch each other during breakfast. How are you?"
Blinking a few times to let her thoughts catch up with external reality, Hermione smiled slowly as she returned his greeting and cocked her head to the side, giving him a thoughtful look, "Morning Neville, good to see you. I'm doing fine this morning. How about you?"
Of course! Neville might be able to help me! He's more than capable considering what he did during the war. I would trust him with my life...
For the first time this year she was thankful someone had approached her during her early morning breakfast ritual after all.
Neville replied to her greeting while heaping eggs, sausage and toast onto his plate, "Can't complain, we're one day closer to the weekend! I'm looking forward to finally getting Doris Lapham's latest delivered in the mail tomorrow. I pre-ordered it ages ago from Flourish & Blotts."
His smile turned quizzical after a few silent seconds during which Hermione continued to stare at him, clearly not having paid complete attention to what he said.
"Erm, is there something on your mind?"
"As a matter of fact, there is," Hermione responded slowly, the thoughtful expression still on her face.
She looked around to make sure no one was close enough to hear her before she leaned forward and said quietly, "You see Neville, I find myself in a bit of a predicament, one in which I'd appreciate having some backup—the type Dumbledore's Army once provided."
Neville looked utterly intrigued and leaned in, "Go on."
She wordlessly handed the small scroll of parchment to him, and watched as he unrolled it and read its contents. His hazel eyes narrowed briefly, his index finger tapping lightly against the table as he processed what he'd read.
Raising his eyes, he asked, "I'm sure you've already considered this could be a trap... is this worth that potential outcome?"
He gestured at the note as he spoke.
Hermione sighed, and looked down briefly before meeting his gaze again, "What I went through... the people who did it... it was the tip of the iceberg, Neville. I'd be stupid to think that very same hatred doesn't go any deeper than a surface level at Hogwarts. Something—"
She struggled to speak for a moment, a well of unexpectedly strong emotion crawling up her throat at the reminder. Neville remained silent, waiting for her to finish.
After a few moments, she continued, "Something tells me this might help me begin to tease the answer out, or at least part of it. Whether Parkinson's hostile or cordial, aggressive or pacified, entreating or warning today... she clearly wants to communicate something to me, and I'm curious enough to hear what it is. If it even is Pansy who's behind that message. **It's a chance I'm willing to take, but only if I have help, and only because it's happening in broad daylight."
She gave him a meaningful look, "So what do you think?"
Neville was quiet for a few moments, taking a few bites of food as he considered her proposition. At length, he answered, "I'm suppose I'm in, but I have questions."
She let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding, and gave him a relieved smile. It wasn't just that he'd accepted her request for help—something she still found hard to ask for. It also just felt good to have someone in her corner like this. She wasn't sure how she'd forgotten the feeling so quickly after the war, but the special camaraderie she felt in this moment added to the warmth that her dream had already suffused her day with.
It was only now that the full effects of Harry's and Ron's absence this year became apparent to her. She missed them so much. Her eyes became misty as she remembered the time they'd spend together during her recovery last week. Some part of her admitted that she could be doing this to chase the memory of that friendship, but she shook it off. Even if it were true, she was still motivated by a higher purpose—a desire for justice.
Realistically, she doubted she'd be able to trust a single word Pansy planned to tell her during their meeting, but Hermione didn't intend to take any of what she said at face value. She was more interested in seeing just how Parkinson planned to manipulate her into doing what she wanted. Hermione didn't exactly have a high regard for Pansy's intellectual faculties, and perhaps arrogantly felt she'd be able to handle whatever mind games the Slytherin might try to play.
The two Gryffindors finished their breakfast while discussing Neville's questions, along with the finer details and plan for their upcoming rendezvous. They made their way to their first class of the day, and all the while Hermione buzzed with a confluence of trepidation and curiosity tickling her insides at the thought that she might finally begin to get answers to questions she hadn't even realized she wanted to ask.
It was more difficult than ever to concentrate in Muggle Studies during first hour, and Hermione briefly wished she'd opted out of taking the class. However, she knew this was only her impatience and anticipation speaking. For her, Muggle Studies was more a class about how wizards tended to perceive muggles, rather than a class about muggles per se. Having felt like an observer and an outsider in magical society for so long, it was a subject she found fascinating because paradoxically, it did more to help her learn about the mindset of many magical folk than it taught her about muggles.
Today however, she had no room in her mind for her usual amusement and interest in this class. All she could think about was the stupidity of what she intended to do this morning. And it was stupid. At this rate, she might as well paint a target on herself for all the care she seemed to be taking to ensure her safety, even with Neville's help. But the desire to do more than act like a sitting duck was too strong of a compulsion.
Hermione knew there had to be an investigation underway into the attack by the Sons of Salazar. Yet aside from the night when she'd arrived and spoken with the Headmistress, there had been no updates forthcoming from the Ministry, nor from McGonagall about the status of the investigation.
She supposed it made sense—as someone who'd been attacked, she was probably one of the last people the Ministry and McGonagall would want to place the burden of an investigation upon now that they had her official statement and memories. Although it irked to be viewed as fragile in that way, it was probably a good thing that she hadn't been automatically expected to help, but it didn't mean she didn't want to.
She should be spending her time recovering by relaxing and focusing on graduation while letting other people do the dirty work. Yet the thought continued to nag her, and it wasn't like she didn't have a colorful history of occasionally misplaced restlessness and heroism to draw from. Despite how dangerous she knew her involvement in any investigation could be, it stung to know she wasn't a part of any of it, especially considering her potential utility in this situation.
I'm as good as bait now, Hermione thought to herself morbidly. If the Ministry won't take advantage of that, then I might as well use it to draw some roaches out from the shadows myself.
At fifteen to the hour, Professor Weatherly released the 7th and 8th year Gryffindor and Hufflepuff students in Hermione's class for second period. Rigidly, she rose from her seat, gathered her things while bidding Ginny a stiff goodbye, and made her way out of the classroom and into the nearest bathroom to collect herself before she embarked on what could potentially be a terrible idea.
She and Neville had agreed that they wouldn't walk down to the boathouses together. In fact, based on the plan they'd cobbled together during breakfast, right about now he should be making his way across the castle and down to the courtyard to hide by the stairs that led to the dock. He'd suggested it as his starting position to ensure Hermione wasn't being followed as she made her way down to meet Pansy—or whoever had thought to impersonate her.
After taking a moment to splash some water onto her face and dry herself off, Hermione steeled herself and slowly began to make her way across the castle towards the Great Hall and the courtyard that faced the docks from on high. A few minutes later she was staring at the first of a few sets of wooden staircases that led down to the docks. No one seemed to be in her general vicinity, which was just as well because it had to mean Neville had found a good spot from which to observe and follow at a distance, undetected.
Carefully, she made her way down the steps at a sedate pace while her stomach twisted into knots of anxiety, senses on high alert for anything out of the ordinary, for any hint that she should signal to Neville that she needed his help. So far so good, but experience had now shown her it never paid to let down one's guard. Constant vigilance indeed. She kept her wand gripped tightly at the ready in her right hand, the slender piece of vine wood concealed under the sleeve of her robes.
It wasn't until she reached the second to last set of steps that she saw the figure cast in shadow standing at the far end of the boathouse. Hermione hesitated for a split-second, momentarily overtaken by the very real fear that she could be stupidly walking into something she and Neville were wholly unprepared to handle. Briefly, she flashed back to being sprawled on the ground, gazing fearfully up at the faces of four wizards who wanted nothing more than to make her suffer, and shuddered.
Am I so daft that I'd put myself in danger of experiencing that again? What is wrong with me?!
And yet, she knew what it was that was motivating her to behave so recklessly. A perfect storm of restlessness, helplessness, frustration and anger had coalesced into a raging tempest within her over the past few days—one that was only further fueled by her desire to ensure that whatever presence the Sons of Salazar had claimed at Hogwarts would be wiped away for good. Although some small part of her could also admit that she was driven by a desire for vindication, she mostly wanted to make sure no one else at Hogwarts would have to experience what she and Draco had faced a few weeks ago, an what she and other muggleborns had faced for many years.
This reminder strengthened her resolve to push ahead despite her moment of hesitation, and so she treaded lightly down the remaining few steps, her attention split between her surroundings and the figure that had indeed begun to resemble Parkinson the closer she got.
The gentle sound of waves lapping against the dock added a deceptively calming dimension to what was otherwise a tense moment. As Hermione stepped into the boathouse, one of the floorboards squeaked, and she saw Pansy's head snap towards her.
The Slytherin's eyes narrowed upon noticing her approach, and Pansy called out with a taunt, "I'm surprised to see you here, Granger, didn't think you'd have it in you to show up. Thought maybe you'd be too busy reveling in your victimhood to make time for little old me."
Hermione ground her teeth in a brief burst of frustration, but quickly moved past it when a feeling of relief doused a good portion of the anxiety that had curled in her gut. This was the Pansy she'd been expecting—the nasty spoiled brat who couldn't go a few minutes without insulting someone. She knew she couldn't let her guard down, but this she knew how to handle.
Rolling her eyes, Hermione decided to get straight to the point as she came to a stop a few feet away from her schoolmate after scanning the interior of the boathouse for any unwelcome surprises. She made sure to keep a wall behind her so as not to be caught unawares.
"Sticks and stones, Parkinson. You should see what happened to the last few idiots who thought to cross me. What is this all about?"
Pansy sneered, "You act so high and mighty, but those idiots made you grovel after all, didn't they? You may have one-upped them, but it was only after they'd taken their pound of flesh from you—isn't that right, mudblood?"
Hermione's senses were overloaded by the conflagration of rage that tore through her body from one second to the next. Just how much did Pansy know about what had happened to her that night? Had Nott retreated to the Slytherin common room to gloat after all had been said and done, before he'd been apprehended? Did everyone in Slytherin know the gory details about what had been done to her, and what she'd done to fight back? The thought sickened her, but she bit down on the vitriol that threatened to pour out of her mouth, and instead honed the brightest parts of her anger into something useful.
Her gaze became heated with the bright glint of that fire, and in a steely voice she said, "I suppose that's a foreign concept for a coward like you who's never lifted a finger nor sacrificed a thing to stand up for what you believe in either way. Isn't that right, Parkinson?"
Pansy's nostrils flared in anger, and Hermione felt pleased to know her words had struck a chord. She briskly interrupted whatever cutting response the Slytherin had begun to formulate, "Now tell me what the hell you want before I decide you're not worth my time."
Clearly wanting to have the last word before moving on, Pansy muttered, "That's rich coming from a mudblood bitch like you."
Hermione remained silent, not interested in taking the admittedly weak bait only to extend the amount of time she'd have to spend in Parkinson's presence. The Slytherin seemed to lose a modicum of her bravado when Hermione chose not to respond, and with a sigh, she looked down at the dark, gently lapping water that filled the center of the boathouse.
"For reasons I cannot even begin to fathom, you've shown that in some way, you seem to care about what happens to Draco," Pansy ground out, sounding bothered by the prospect.
She paused to see if Hermione would react, but the Gryffindor's face remained impassive, so she continued, "If that's true in any way, then you should care about what he's been spending his nights doing lately."
Hermione's brows rose, "Why in Merlin's name would I care about what Malfoy gets up to in his free time?"
Pansy's response held a warning edge, "Because if he's not careful, he's going to end up in the same bloody situation you just fished him out of. Or worse."
Worry began to creep past the periphery of Hermione's emotions. She was reminded of his warning from a few nights ago, when he'd offered to walk her back to their quarters after dinner.
What has that idiot gone and done now? And once again, why should any of this be my problem?!
Amidst the worry, a question occurred to Hermione, "Be that as it may—why don't you confront him about it then? Why should I do your dirty work for you? He's your friend, not mine."
She'd expected a sneer at the very least, but Pansy's reaction surprised her. The Slytherin's aquamarine gaze cut down to the water's edge once again, and she seemed to deflate a little further.
"I—suffice it to say that I just can't right now. And even if I could, Draco won't believe a word that comes out of my mouth these days," she responded sullenly.
Hermione considered Pansy's words, evaluated what the Slytherin was and wasn't saying, and realized just how vulnerable her classmate was making herself right now. It could be a ruse, part of a greater manipulation, but even so Hermione detected sincerity in Pansy's words.
After a long pause, Pansy added, "Besides, you're Head Girl, not me—I'm not even a Prefect this year. It's your bloody duty to care about things like this, Granger. So do your fucking job."
Hermione rolled her eyes, something she found herself doing a lot in this witch's presence, "Then give me more to work with than a vague warning, Parkinson."
Seeming to have come to a decision, Pansy squared her shoulders and raised her gaze to Hermione's, "I can't tell you how I know this, but tonight some of my housemates plan to make Draco pay for... for his betrayal."
These arseholes just don't know when to stop, do they? Hermione thought with dark foreboding.
"He's been sneaking around where he shouldn't, and it's caught the wrong people's attention. If you care at all about his safety, then help me save him from himself."
Taken aback, Hermione wondered just when and how Malfoy had become the common ground upon which she and Pansy could stand. It was a jarring departure from pre-war Hogwarts, and the surreal realization that Pansy Parkinson was truly asking for her help left her feeling as if she were standing on unstable ground.
Some part of her was relieved to know that Malfoy hadn't been getting up to something worse. In fact, it sounded like he was in the process of scratching the very same itch that had brought her here to meet with Pansy in the first place. Could it be that they had similar goals? Hermione was thrown by the prospect.
Realizing she had yet to respond to Pansy, she refocused on the situation at hand, "How do I know you're not leading me into a trap yourself?"
Seeing that she'd piqued Hermione's curiosity, the characteristic sneer reappeared on Pansy's face, "This meeting would have been a perfect opportunity for me to do that, don't you think?"
She had a point, but one could never lose sight of a Slytherin's capacity to deceive and manipulate. She decided to humor Pansy.
"So what, you expect me to pass this message on to Malfoy? Is that it?"
Pansy's expression tightened, "Do not, under any circumstances tell him it was me who warned you. You got that, Granger? Under no circumstances."
Hermione's gaze wavered with confusion, "Just what are you playing at, Parkinson?"
Pansy shook her head with a dark laugh, "Wouldn't you like to know."
With a growing sense of trepidation, Hermione relented, "I'll speak to him. Merlin knows why you think I was the best person to come to about any of this."
Rolling her eyes, the Slytherin turned and began making her way around the U-shaped dock towards the boathouse exit. After a few steps, she turned to Hermione and said flippantly, "You said it yourself. If you can hold your own against two grown Death Eaters, this should be a piece of cake, right?"
Hermione wasn't sure who believed it less—her, or the Slytherin who'd clearly just lied out of her teeth in a cloying attempt at flattery. At least Pansy was easy to read right now compared to some of her other Slytherin housemates.
With one last warning not to "fuck it up," Pansy disappeared from view completely, and Hermione was left to wonder if she'd just bitten off more than she could chew. Still keeping an eye on her surroundings, she made her way out of the boathouse and walked towards the rendezvous point she'd agreed upon with Neville during breakfast. They had a lot to discuss.
Since when does Draco bloody Malfoy occupy so much of my time?