Trigger warnings: Misogyny. Abuse. I made Sinistra a male teacher.

Also, yes-this is a unique take on a werewolf story. This is about werewolves who are not actually werewolves :)

Ombré de la Lune

Chapter Two

This year is going to be grey.

That's not the weather's fault, of course—it's the school's. Something happened during the final battle, a reaction to the Death Eaters' attempts to take the castle wards down. Now, it's always raining inside the perimeter. Whether day or night, the clouds are thick and dark and the rain pours down from them in heavy torrents. Hogsmeade could be sweltering hot with the sun beating skin to a crisp and one step inside the circle of the wards, it's raining and cold. It's not a permanent problem, according to Headmistress McGonagall at the opening ceremony, but it's going to be raining for a while.

Apparently, it can be a bad thing to have ward magic that's tied to the foundational stones of Hogwarts.

Rita Skeeter did an article on it in July and to be frank, Hermione doesn't think it was her worst work. Honestly, if Rita spent more time studying magical anomalies and less time ruining people's lives with gossip, then Hermione might have contemplated subscribing to her writing.

The weather's going to cause her severe hair trauma this year and she knows it so Hermione spends the first weekend at the school putting her hair into fifty or so box braids. They fall to her waist, lightweight and a rather nice shade of umber brown. They're easy to manage and it won't be such a big deal if they get wet.

But even the nice, new hairstyle isn't enough to pervade the bleak loneliness that the perpetual rain causes.

Hermione's not sure if she feels alone because everyone gives her a wide berth, or if it's because she misses Harry and Ron. She knows it can't be both. She doesn't have the emotional capacity to deal with both. At this point in her life, her heart is a forest thick with apathetic trees.

Perhaps she's just depressed.

"I do like that the moon comes out," Hermione overhears a Seventh Year named Riley Kerrigan saying to someone at the breakfast table one October morning. "I hate the sun anyway. It's nice that at least we get to see the moon at night."

"Yeah," replies Ginny Weasley, who oddly never seems to look in Hermione's direction anymore. She supposes its because not every girl wants to be friends with their boyfriend's best friend, and that's okay. "At least we're not going to drown. I think it's weird that the clouds seem to bugger off only at night, though. Every Quidditch game this year is going to be a nightmare. We tried practicing during the day and it was like we were all by ourselves out there. I couldn't see a lick of distance ahead of me."

"I guess it is good the clouds dissipate at night, then," Riley answers. She's tucking into a hearty breakfast of foods that Hermione doesn't care to inspect. "You can practice at night and brave the rain during game days only."

"Except if we don't practice in the rain, it's gonna be a series of boring games. Plus, it's so dark at night that it's hard to see the Bludgers. The Snitch is practically invisible."

"True, true."

Ginny pauses, tapping her fork against the side of her plate. "It couldn't hurt to practice on nights when the moon is biggest, though. I'll talk to Madam Hooch about it—see if we can get clearance for special night practices during the week the moon is getting full."

"Good, maybe we can steal one of those days and use it to get drunk in the locker room. They're always open, you know."

"I love the way you think, Riley. I really do."

The two girls fall about in giggles.

There's two kinds of laughter. There's the kind that sits on the surface, the kind that doesn't require a particularly good mood to find a way out of your mouth. Then there's the kind that's real, visceral in the way it infects you and forces a full-body reaction. That's the kind she used to do with Harry, Ron, and anyone else she'd called a friend from her year before the war.

Hermione feels strangely about it—almost like it's something that she'll never experience again. She used to the think the concept of growing distant from your peers after graduation was specific to Muggle culture, but now? Now, she sees it's a fact of life.

She isn't sure how the Quidditch audience is supposed to be able to see through the thick rainfall, either, but then again, she's not going to the Quidditch field at all this year. With Harry and Ron gone, there's no point. She doesn't like Quidditch and never has. And all the students who play are people she doesn't know. Not even Malfoy is playing this year. His name wasn't on the sign-up sheets in the corridor outside the Potions classroom.

The Slytherin activities board has been posted outside Potions class since First Year and every year, she's glanced at it and seen his name on the Quidditch sheet. She wonders if maybe he's of the same sentiment as she is.

Maybe he's apathetic, too.

Hermione drags her gaze up from her berries and porridge, feeling as though her eyes weigh ten tons. She expends only enough energy to chew, take breaths, and cast looks across the room. Her gaze floats over the bright smiles and affections of Hufflepuff and past the conversing Ravenclaws poring over their books with enthusiasm, where it seeps into the oppressive, quiet atmosphere of Slytherin table. Every face at that table seems to have been forced to choose between two emotions that morning: Shrewd or hubristic. Everyone's wearing their version of a smirk.

And then there's Malfoy.

He's at the very end of the Slytherin table, his back to the window. Outside the criss-cross latticework that covers the glass, Hermione can see the rain is so thick that it looks like grey haze. When Malfoy sits up straighter to roll his shoulders and stretch them, Hermione thinks his equally-grey eyes seem to glow because of it. The expression on his face, the way he's sitting so far apart from everyone else, the fact that he's not wearing his robes… He doesn't look like he's in the right school at all. Neither Hufflepuff, nor Ravenclaw, nor Gryffindor, and certainly not Slytherin can host someone who looks so...

Angry.

Now, Draco Malfoy angry isn't something that a lot of people can discern, Hermione feels like she knows this. He isn't the type to show it the way most would. There's no furrow to his brow, no pursing of his lips, no negative or forced fluctuation in his face at all. Instead, he simply… Is. She doesn't have a better way to describe it.

She saw it when Sinistra reprimanded him for being late to class the first day in Astronomy—he'd walked in with a bit of light to his eyes, like he wasn't aware of the time at all. And yet when Sinistra had reminded him with the added unnecessary, "You may have been allowed to roam these halls like a god when the Dark Lord was alive, but he's gone now and you are a student. A child. This is my classroom. Be on time."

And Malfoy's face had fallen. The light, gone instantly.

To some, it might look like sadness. Perhaps chagrin. But Hermione could see it—he was vexed. He'd spent the duration of the time they spent going over the class syllabus sitting low in his seat. Hermione had looked behind her to see him with his hands relaxed in his lap and one leg outstretched. His gaze had remained trained on the table, pale lashes obscuring his eyes, occasionally rubbing the blond stubble on his chin with the forefingers of one hand. When Sinistra asked them to introduce themselves to the class from their seats, he spoke without looking up, his low voice as scratchy and rough as gravel.

Malfoy wore his anger like indifference. But when he did look up at Professor Sinistra, Hermione saw something unraveling in his eyes. Like plucking petals off of a stem. Malfoy's foundation—the stem that held his petals—was rage. It burned like Fiendfyre, shifting and moving with the tide of his ire.

She'd never seen that look before. It doesn't seem like him and yet… How is she to know what he should seem like? Whoever he used to be is gone, eradicated with the war. The person she questioned in Azkaban was sarcastic and the person she spoke to on the train was inquisitive, but this person? This person with who seems to tread water in a furious sea?

Who is Draco Malfoy?

Hermione has exactly four classes this term and one of them—Astronomy—is with him. She isn't sure what he plans to do after Hogwarts but she has to admit she's curious. After all, that's why McGonagall suggested allowing there to be a special Eighth Year for the students who wanted it. So students could get necessary requirements completed for future employment. Many people, including Harry, were able to secure employ without a Hogwarts diploma but Hermione doesn't want to leave anything to chance.

Malfoy's been to Azkaban. He's the son of Lucius Malfoy. He's a former Death Eater. If there's anyone who needs to graduate to get the best chance, it's him. What job can he be interested in that requires Astronomy?

Oh.

He's looking at her.

Or is he? She's not sure. There's a possibility that she's imagining it. He's always staring out across the Great Hall—most people at Slytherin do that. They're not as talkative as the other Houses.

But if that's true, why isn't his gaze drifting to the side? Why does it feel like he's looking right at her? She sort-of wants to turn around and see if there's a portrait behind her, or perhaps one of the castle ghosts.

She stares back, wondering if this is noticeable to anyone else or if all of this is in her head.

Hermione lowers her gaze back to her porridge. It's gone cold but honestly, she's not that hungry anyway. She pushes the bowl away from herself and stands up. The brunette girl to her left—a Fifth Year she doesn't recognize—gasps and jerks away from her when Hermione's arm brushes hers.

"I'm so sorry, Miss Granger," she says, staring up at Hermione as though she's caught holy fire and wears a halo. "I should have given you more room."

Hermione stares down at her for a long moment before saying, "You have the loveliest set of green eyes."

"Th-Thank you. I really like your braids. They're so cool."

"Thank you," Hermione says, smiling. "I hope you have a good day."

"Oh… Um, yes, you too!"

As she trudges away, her arms crossed over her chest while her satchel swings at her side, Hermione can hear the girl excitedly stage-whispering to her friends.

"Did you hear that? She said I have lovely eyes! The Hermione Granger said my eyes were lovely! Gods, she's such a nice person."

Astronomy is a nighttime class.

That's what makes the most sense to Hermione, since it is the study of the stars. They can't exactly use the telescopes during the day and that's got nothing to do with the castle's rainfall issue. It's always been a night class. This year, the course starts at eleven at night and ends at midnight on Tuesdays.

She took Astronomy once when she was younger, which is where her love of stars began, and now she's taking it again for a specific reason.

If she takes it and passes with an O, it'll help her in her bid for employ in the Department of Mysteries. She's done plenty of reading and though there isn't much publicly known about the department, it's common knowledge that there's a subdivision within it that studies other dimensions. The opportunity to interact with beings from other places, to go to other dimensions and see what else is out there? If taking this class again is her best shot, horrid professor and all, then she's taking it.

And Professor Sinistra is horrid.

She studies him now as she arrives to class ten minutes early. She's the first student to show up. The moon is waxing, growing larger on its way to the full moon, and it illuminates the classroom with a bluish pallor. The clouds are sparse and though the windows are open, it's mysteriously warm.

Professor Sinistra is standing at the front of the room, cleaning the dust from a large telescope with a kerchief. He's wearing robes that look to be made of velvet charcoal and his jet-black hair is perfectly slicked back into a pompadour. It looks a lot like the way Malfoy used to wear his hair but with a side part that lengthens his face and makes his cheekbones appear sharper. He's tall, though not as tall as Malfoy and Ron are, and he's got a bit of a stocky build.

Coupled with a set of ice-blue eyes that look like pieces of the sky, a black goatee, and a square jaw, she might even think him handsome if his personality weren't something she was so abject to. When she was a First Year, he looked so old to her and now, at nineteen, she can really see how young he actually is. He's got to be no more than twenty-nine.

"Evening, Miss Granger," he says after the third time she glances up from writing some notes down on parchment from her previous class. "I assume you're being as studious as ever."

"Good evening, sir," she says. It feels like the hinges of her jaw are rusted over—she hasn't spoken a word aloud since complimenting the brunette girl at breakfast. "Just finishing up some notes from Professor Binns' class."

"Ah, History of Magic? What other classes are you taking?"

"This term, I'm only taking History of Magic, Occlumency with Professor Kawamura, and your class, sir."

"No need to call me by honorifics. Class hasn't started yet," he says, his lips twitching up into a smile that doesn't travel further than his mouth. It disappears as quick as a shooting star. He never turns the lights on, preferring the natural light from the stars, and from his place at the front of the room, the waxing moon only casts light across part of his body. "Interesting roster of classes, though. I know you're an Eighth Year student. I surmise you're aiming for a career in multi-dimensional exploration at the Department of Mysteries. Is that correct?"

"Yes, actually." Hermione sets her quill down, folding her arms on the table before her. The dark room is large and their voices seem muted, swallowed by the open windows and high ceilings. "I find myself fascinated by the concept of life in other parts of the universe."

"Ah, you're setting your sights high. That's typically a career that male wizards dominate." His gaze washes over her, almost like he's sizing her up. "No doubt nothing you can't handle, being the Witch Who Won the War, and all."

Hermione tries not to let her lip curl in distaste at the sound of Rita Skeeter's imbecilic nickname for her in the press.

"I wouldn't say male wizards dominate," she said. "Perhaps there is a high rate of male wizards in employ but to use the word dominate insinuates there's an hierarchy. And a predator-and-prey aspect has no place in wizarding society. That's not how the Ministry runs."

"Huh. It's just I've never seen a female Unspeakable." Professor Sinistra appears amused as he perches on the edge of his desk. He sets the dusting kerchief down beside his thigh and crosses his arms over his broad chest. He's not simply looking at her—he's inspecting her. "That's admirable, going into a field of study that's so complicated. Multiple dimensions can be hard to conceptualize, given the sheer size of the universe and how many stars exist within each galaxy. Each of those stars have their own planets, each galaxy exists on multiple planes with countless dimensions. It can be overwhelming for those who lack the ability to set aside the need for tangibility."

And just like that, he ruins yet another simple conversation with misogyny.

"In my research, I did not find any difference in gender across the department. There's never been any instances where a magical person was turned away from employment based purely upon their gender. Blood status, yes. But not gender." Hermione picks her quill up again, hoping he gets the hint. "As for my need for tangibility, I grew up Catholic."

Professor Sinistra barks out a laugh. "Yes, I do suppose that faith would prime you for acceptance of extraterrestrial life. I only meant to suggest that the small-minded can find it difficult to comprehend what they're looking at when they come in contact with a life form from another dimension. I've met with wizards from that department and they say it can be quite unsettling. It can cause hysteria."

Small-minded?

Hysteria?

"Yes, well." Hermione wants to snap her quill in half. She can feel it bending a bit from how hard she's gripping it. "I'm sure you know that small-minded isn't a word I or anyone else—including the other professors at this school—would use to describe me, professor."

Something cools in his eyes, making the blues seem almost clear, and he takes a step toward her. Hermione's back straightens, a perturbed expression flashing across her face as her fingers get the familiar itch to touch her wand. He's a professor—one who's been at Hogwarts for almost a decade—but the way he's talking to her makes her feel as though he dislikes her.

And Hermione has dueled plenty of older wizards.

"My apologies. I did not intend to insinuate that you were unintelligent. I suppose I can admit my knowledge regarding the Department of Mysteries may be incomplete or outdated. I'm sure you're correct, that there's no gender discrepancies amongst departments at the Ministry. I don't think you'll have any issues obtaining employment in the career of your choice. In fact, being who you are and knowing from the very Golden summer the tabloids presented us with, I'd say you could pick any occupation you want and be hired on the spot. Miss Granger."

For a moment, Hermione forgets that she's a student. She forgets that the war is over and that she's not on the Hunt with Harry and Ron. She forgets that she's not staring down the length of her wand at a Death Eater. She forgets that she's depressed and her mind is heavy and she spends most of her days alone. She forgets it all.

Right now, she's ready to battle her Astronomy professor.

"No, you may not have intended it, but the outcome of your verbiage had that effect, Professor. My ability to obtain employment would not and shall not be impacted by my successes during the war. If that were the case—if I wanted to be hired on the spot—then I certainly wouldn't be here in your class. After all, when it comes to the level of intelligence and complication the multi-dimensional subdivision requires, the Hogwarts Astronomy curriculum is severely lacking. Sir."

Sinistra looks at her, his expression contemplative for a moment before he stands up and, arms remaining crossed, comes to stand in front of her table. He leans down close to her, his face less than a foot away from her own. She remains unmoving, her eyes as hard as flint in spite of the wild way her heart is beating. She's been in this situation before, but never with a professor. Not even with Snape.

She feels threatened.

"Mind your tone, Miss Granger," he says, his voice a near-hiss, "or you'll be spending time with me outside of class. In detention."

She gives him a polite smile right as the door opens and, like a wave, multiple students enter the classroom in a talkative throng. He moves back from her table, returning to his telescope and dusting kerchief.

Class rolls on as normal but Hermione never does quite feel settled. She feels watched and scrutinized. Uncomfortable. She regrets choosing to sit at the very front of the class. Sinistra doesn't let his gaze linger on her too long but Hermione is unable to keep herself from averting her own to her parchment notes when he does glance in her direction. As he stands before the class and shows everyone the parts of a telescope so they'll know how to use it when they start charting stars, she has to keep reminding herself that she's in this class because she wants to be.

It's not as if she hasn't had a teacher dislike her before. Professor Snape wasn't her biggest fan by any stretch of the imagination and she was able to accept that. Perhaps she just needs to accept that Sinistra has some reason for detesting her and sit towards the back of the room next time. The second seat at Malfoy's table in the back is always open—nobody ever wants to sit beside him.

Halfway through the class, as Sinistra is wandering the aisles, explaining the reasons why they use Muggle telescopes in the class, there's a noise. A noise that Hermione thinks sounds like a slap.

When she turns to look behind her, she looks past the middle three rows, to the back. There is Malfoy with his head bowed and his hair looking messier than before. Sinistra is standing beside his chair, his hand still raised.

"And next time you come to my class with your hair an improper mess and without your robes, Mr. Malfoy, I'll file an insubordination report with the Headmistress. This is still a class and you are expected to follow the same rules as you would during the day. Wizarding robes. Hair kept. Back straight. Taking meticulous notes. Is that understood?"

Malfoy says nothing.

Sinistra brandishes his hand again and then swings his arm, rapid and with tremendous force. He strikes the back of Malfoy's head so hard that he lurches forward against the table, the edge of it digging into his abdomen.

Hermione's hand flies to her mouth to cover her gasp, as do many of the other students in the room. She doesn't know if it's the sheer unfairness of it or if she's just not used to seeing anyone strike Draco Malfoy on his person, but she feels sick to her stomach. A revolted emotion churns in her belly and she swallows against it.

The rules put in place during Fifth Year, after Umbridge's reign of terror, never stopped Snape from giving Harry or Ron a solid backhand, so what can she really do? She could go to McGonagall but all that would do is cause more problems. For her grade, for Malfoy's, for future students. She really doesn't know what to do. The rest of the class doesn't seem to know, either—they keep exchanging helpless, worried glances.

"Is that understood?" Sinistra repeats.

"Yeah," Malfoy says, his tone a scratchy drawl. "I get it."

"Sit up and pay attention, Mr. Malfoy, or the next disciplinary action you receive will not be on the back of your head."

And when Malfoy finally looks up, his gaze catches on Hermione's. There it is—what she saw there at breakfast in the Great Hall. That blazing, scorching hot fire. The sort that burns so hot it's pale. He doesn't respond to the Professor's final words, nor does he acknowledge any of the shocked students staring at him. All he does is reach up to run his fingers through his hair, making it look even messier than before, and hold Hermione's gaze.

He's livid.

"Now," Sinistra says loudly as he starts ambling up the center aisle again, "there are many stars that your telescope will be able to pick up with magical enhancement, but there's…"

Hermione tunes him out. She's so indignant about what's just transpired that she doesn't even want to give the professor the respect of listening to him. He doesn't deserve it. He's worse than horrid. He's monstrous.

Malfoy leans back in his chair, forearm on the table while he rolls his quill between his forefinger and thumb. One hand is not visible, resting on his lap in some way and his chin is tilted down far enough for his hair to fall forward into his face. He looks at her through his fringe, showing nothing on his face but the uniquely-calm way he has of indicating he's furious.

She wants to ask him if he's all right but knows that that would be strange. They aren't friends. They aren't even acquaintances. She went to his Azkaban holding cell to ask him questions about his choices during the war to determine whether or not she wanted to speak on his behalf. He was the one who entered her train compartment and talked to her. Those are the only two direct interactions they've had since she nearly ran into him at Slughorn's Christmas party Sixth Year.

But something about the way he's looking at her makes her feel like he doesn't feel the same way. Something in the intensity of his gaze tells her that he does see them as something like acquaintances. It's like he's Harry or Ron. As though they're at a stuffy press conference, and he's looking to her because she's the only person in the room he knows.

It definitely can't just be his personality. Malfoy isn't an intense person—he's never been deeper than surface level. The more she thinks about it, she probably wasn't scared of him in the train compartment. It was more likely that she was confused and unable to predict what he was going to do. Unpredictability begets confusion, which can be mistaken for fear.

She turns back around, realizing that now that the ordeal is over, everyone's facing the front again.

There's still a tiny part of her that hopes he's okay.