November 1992
The nightmares worsen when she wakes.
They swallow her, corrupting even the deepest cells. They're in the water; the air she breathes.
And yet, sleep evades her.
Hermione curled up beside the fire, stock-still and wide-eyed. Her arms wrapped tightly around her chest, wearing an expression so vacant that an outside observer might have thought her petrified. A single word invaded every private thought; multiplying and metastasizing with each passing second.
Kill.
A cacophony of whispers.
Kill.
A symphony of screams.
Kill.
A voice magnified and vibrating through the corridors.
It's interrupted by the faint crackle of the fire. The final snap of dying embers, reduced to cool ash at half past 3 o'clock in the morning.
She startled. Alert. Vigilant. Her heart thudding against her ribs as she whipped her head around to assess the common room, but all was silent; stark and bereft of the usual chatter and rustling of parchment. And through heavily lidded eyes, it occurred to her that the world was slightly more tolerable through a hazy and distorted lens.
Her next move was instinctive. An inexplicable panic rising as she patched the floor for her flask. The vial came keenly into focus; a small, emerald bottle, reinforced with mokeskin and dragon hide, because basilisk venom was terribly hard to contain.
Just a little, she warned, Just a taste.
The caustic draught coated her tongue and eroded her senses. Nerves fraying like copper wire. Muscles splitting and rupturing. Pupils blown wide and vision variegated before going dark.
She was a falling star, buried in a dreamlike hysteria. Existing in a state of static and white noise.
And it comforted her some, but not enough to drive the vision of Colin Creevey's petrified body from her mind.
I could have killed him... S he thought – with a hint of disappointment, because she almost wished she had just finished him the fuck off. And she probably would have if Filch hadn't had such ruinous timing.
Hermione reached for her diary, inhaling a deep, cleansing breath as her fingers trailed across the gold inscription –
TOM MARVOLO RIDDLE
– She exhaled with a renewed sense of calm.
Tom… She scribbled, eyes full of wonder as the thick black ink oozed and vanished into brittle parchment.
I've done it. I opened the chamber. I spilled our blood, and now they know. There's an edge to her once fine penmanship. I want more. I hate that I want more. There's something rotten in me, isn't there?
Her eyes pricked and prodded, knuckles going white as she gripped her quill like a lifeline. He was salvation and deliverance.
Some days I swear I ought to pitch myself off the astronomy tower, or just drown myself in the black lake. I think I'm going off… I don't know what's wrong with me. I need help. Please. Please help me.
And then she waited. She waited for the answer she knew would come. Because Tom always answered her. Pressure building behind her eyes; a swell of frustration, flooding and spilling over as black letters appeared across the page.
My dearest Hermione Jean, His words caressed her, You've done so well. Rest assured, there's nothing wrong with you. And there's certainly nothing rotten. I've learned that one should never be ashamed of being truly exceptional. And you are truly exceptional. Trust me and I promise we'll get through this. Together.
She imagined him before her, speaking dulcet words in dulcet tones. Sweet and soothing; deep and melodic. Her heart skipped as the words dissolved back into parchment, evanescing like a fading chord.
She was possessed by the promise of him. Enraged knowing he was but a memory.
And how could he help her? How could anyone quiet the monster within, telling her to kill. Telling her to wrap her fingers around Justin Finn-Fletchley's smug throat and watch the life drain from his eyes. Telling her to curse every last mudblood and blood traitor roaming the corridors like they deserve to be here.
Look at what they've done to us. He continued, Muddied our blood. Forced us into hiding. We've suffered for their comfort and now, they too will know suffering. You're a bright witch, Hermione. You know what must be done.
She traced the delicate cursive, knowing only she could make him real. And she wanted him to be real.
They muddied our blood, she thought. It was an echo manifesting as a mantra.
Condemned us to silence.
Squandered the thing that makes us exceptional.
Nearly damned me to a muggle existence.
Her expression soured, muscles tight; blood curdling and clotting in her veins. The hole in her chest ached and hungered as she struggled to breathe.
Go on, He urged, Sweet blood of my blood. Don't let it go to waste.
A sinister grin spread across her features as she lifted herself from the carpet and stalked towards the dormitories.
Hermione felt around in the darkness, sidling towards the four-poster closest to the window. Finding the tattered hem of crimson drapes and pulling. Ginny slept so peacefully. Moonlight beaming down on her painfully innocent features.
"Ginny," She whispered, "Ginny, wake up."
The redhead groaned, her eyes fluttering open and settling on Hermione, her face wet with fresh tears.
"Hermione… Oh, what's wrong. Are you okay? What time is it?"
"I can't sleep Gin. I can't find my wand anywhere. I had it in Charms. I know I had it in Charms," She feigned a sob, "Can you help me look for it?"
This is too easy.
Ginny pressed the heels of her palms into her eyes, "Can't it wait until morning? McGonagall wouldn't want us wandering the halls at this hour… what with everything that's been going on."
Her eyes shut tight, suppressing an eye roll and forcing a tear to flow effortlessly down her cheek.
"Please…" She breathed.
For a moment she pitied Ginny's trusting nature. The way she looks on sadly, mirroring Hermione's wounded expression. Trusting her executioner, because trust is a temptress. And Hermione realized that this delusion would be Ginny's downfall. With a curt nod in agreement, the redhead rose from bed to attend her own slaughter.
The two Gryffindors slipped through the portrait hole and into the deserted corridors. Their careful footsteps are deafening under the cover of darkness and interminable silence. And then...
Kill , the monster hissed as they descended the second floor stairwell.
Kill , it chanted.
Hermione conjured a mirror as they rounded the corner to Myrtle's bathroom, stopping to admire the thin sliver of amber lining her dilated pupils. Bracing herself for the final act.
A scream tore from Ginny's lips. A torrent of betrayal and cruel red light. It echoed through the hall, shattering the silence, followed by the sound of her stupefied body thudding against stone.
Hermione knelt beside her, a breath from Ginny's lifeless features as she relaxed into her imminent death.
May her body rot in the Chamber forever.
She raised her flask to the greater good. And with poison on her lips, she thought that venom had never tasted so sweet.
October 1996
The sun beat down on the courtyard, busy and brimming with the last warmth of Summer. Hermione sprawled out in the shade with her fellow Gryffindors, struggling to appear interested in Quidditch and their priggish chatter. She shifted uncomfortably, twisting her lips into what resembled a smile, and inadvertently grazing Ginny's wrist. She recoiled.
Ginny's fingers still twitched every so often. All the more when Hermione shifted too quickly or hurried past in the hallway. Sometimes all she did was stretch or reposition.
An occasional flinch, borne of reflexive memory.
It's subtle. But it's there.
She must remember… Pray she doesn't remember .
But Hermione reasoned with herself. There was no way.
They awoke two weeks later, side by side in the hospital wing. Madam Pomfrey waiting on them hand and foot. Hermione's face had drained of color and her teeth chattered as Harry regaled his triumph over Tom Riddle.
His fucking triumph.
She did her best to hide her disappointment, burying it deep beneath her sickness. Her body ached and trembled. And there was a hunger in her. Something immeasurable. A bottomless pit where her lungs should be; an emptiness that had somehow expanded.
And she still needed more.
More death. More destruction. More venom.
It had been too easy to take advantage of their pity – Their trust. Poor mudblood Hermione, petrified by the basilisk. So sad. So helpless. The thought that she'd been a victim was maddening, but it worked to her advantage.
She'd made a vow.
The Dark Lord would return. Tom would rise again. She would see to it.
"Eh… Sorry Hermione. I don't know what's gotten into me!" Ginny beamed, though there was something disquieting about it. A note of unease. And she averted her eyes for the remainder of the afternoon, choosing instead to drone on about Quidditch as she so often did.
Harry listened with baited breath. Fantasizing about snogging her; fucking her, probably.
Blood traitors. Fucking blood traitors.
She heaved a breath in annoyance, turning away from their swotty display to casually review her journal. Keeping it close to her chest.
Draco hadn't written in weeks.
It wasn't terribly unusual. They often went months without seeing each other, and she'd grown used to the distance. If she were honest, it was often a welcome break; affection was not her strong suit.
But the way he'd looked at her…
Like he was biting his tongue to keep from screaming. His lips twitching and twisting into a grimace; nostrils flared. Pools of silver seeing red, before yielding to their greatest displeasure.
After all, they had a job to do.
His absence had inhabited her. Taking up space she didn't have to begin with and breeding desperation. She needed him. And the realization caught in her throat. It sickened her, because she didn't need anyone.
Relationships, in all forms and fashions, are messy. Two lives blending to create something new, like chemical reactants, and you can't be sure the product won't be toxic.
Hermione flipped through the journal in a fit, scouring the pages, but each was as blank as the next.
All this over that snotty comment?
She rolled her quill between her thumb and index finger, the smallest voice in her head imploring her to tread lightly. It pleaded with her kinder sensibilities, Just be nice. It begged. But the words are hostile as ink saturates the page; it's unfortunate how often cruelty prevails.
"The vanishing cabinet isn't going to fix itself."
She hesitated a moment too late.
Hermione searched the courtyard, eyes wide and wild as panic set in. Maybe he was nearby, having a laugh with Blaise and Theo. Enjoying the lazy afternoon. She could shoot him a sympathetic glance. Play it off as a joke.
But there's no shock of platinum. No silver eyes staring back at her. She was lost in the bustling crowd, surrounded by her smiling classmates. And she had never felt more alone.
Afternoon bled into evening, ushering in an insufferable chill, but Hermione remained in the courtyard. She turned into herself in defeat, allowing the cold to consume her. Sipping from her emerald vial until the world fell away.
Draco stopped attending meals.
"He's up to something." Harry announced, as if it hadn't been the only thing he'd talked about since the start of term, "I'm right about this! I just... I have a feeling."
Merlin, you and your fucking feelings.
Her mood was worse than usual this morning.
Draco hadn't written, and she hadn't slept.
Harry was almost as desperate to catch Malfoy as she was. He spewed his theories at anyone and everyone who would listen, and as the month slipped by, even Ron seemed tired of the obsession.
"He's been disappearing off the map for hours! It's like he's vanishing!" He continued, because he must just love the sound of his own voice.
Neville jerked slightly and turned to face them, "He's probably using the Room of Requirement then… A room like that won't show up on your map, Harry." Even Longbottom is dismissive.
The idea seduced him as his eyes flitted to the Slytherin table, confirming Malfoy's absence. His stare bore across the hall and buried itself in stone; curious daggers firing into empty space.
And for once, mirroring Harry was as easy as breathing. Hermione knew exactly what Malfoy was doing skulking around the Room of Requirement. He was working on the cabinet. And he was doing it without her.
He wouldn't dare, She sneered, struck by his rejection. Hands balled into tight fists at her sides, twisting and squeezing until her knuckles went white.
She could catch up to him after class. Hunt him down and scream at him, because he knew better than to keep her in the dark. And she would have, if Harry wasn't always a half step behind; the sanctimonious prick made it near impossible to follow Draco without arousing suspicion.
It didn't matter anymore. She had gone weeks without him— Missing him. Fucking missing him .
And then she was on her feet. Fleeing from the Great Hall as if she were being chased by a centaur. Running as fast as her legs could carry her, pushing past Justin Finn-Fletchley, who shouldn't be allowed to breath her fucking air.
A shiver crept up her spine as she slowed to catch her breath; the dungeons are cold on a good day. She stalled by the entrance to the Slytherin common room, thanking fucking Salazar that most of the Slytherins were still holed up in the Great Hall.
Twenty minutes passed before Draco appeared at the portrait hole, his expression stoic. Her blood had run ice cold.
Hermione grabbed him by his robes and hissed, "What the fuck are you playing at, Malfoy?"
"Malfoy?" He sputtered, "You're calling me Malfoy now?"
She was finally seeing him. His tailored appearance, long and lean and beautiful; his metallic gaze trained on her. The sight of him was bliss, and the anger she'd felt moments ago evaporated into remorse as she released him and shifted backwards.
"Well… I don't know." She shuffled in place, "You call me Granger sometimes."
"Yeah." He almost chuckled, "When I'm fucking pissed at you— Or we're… you know," He quirked a blonde brow, softening as he stepped into her, "You can be a real brat sometimes."
Hermione buried herself in the crook of his neck. Breathing his familiar scent. It's something of a relief .
Draco brought his palm to the nape of her neck, tangling his fingers in her hair; just holding her there against him in a soft embrace. And for the moment, it was enough.
And then the words were on her lips. Feeling foreign in her mouth; dancing on the tip of her tongue.
"I'm sor—"
"I know." He breathed, backing just out of reach. The absence of him was agony. It was blood draining from her cheeks; cold and forbidding.
"Come on," Draco extended his arm and laced his fingers innocently between hers. A small reassurance, "We can't stay here."
The Room of Hidden Things was vast and resplendent.
Hermione surveyed each object with sure fascination— Mystical mirrors, antiquated brooms and cauldrons, ornate busts of infamous witches and wizards, ratty armchairs and lounges —The history of mischief past and present. Each artifact, beautiful in its own right, forsaken and left to waste.
They crept towards the vanishing cabinet in relative silence, trembling under the weight of it all. And it's taller than she'd expected, towering over her, casting a darkness that suffocates. Hermione's pulse quickened as she basked in its stately shadow.
Draco shook as he unlocked the cabinet and peered inside, his wand slipping from his nervous grasp and clattering against the stone. She bit back the familiar feeling of resentment. Pressing her lips together in an effort to silence herself.
He's fragile… The thought saddened her; harrassed her even. Because she's never seen him so on edge.
"The Dark Lord wouldn't want you so involved…" He spoke with his back to her, focusing on the task at hand, "You know how Potter is— Me, he suspects, but if he catches you , we're way fucked."
"I'll watch." She answered quickly. "I just want to be here. I— I want to be here with you."
He craned his neck a fraction. Just enough for her to catch a flash of silver and the hint of a smile invading his overwrought expression.
Neither attended class that day, choosing instead to remain in the Room of Requirement until the sun set around the castle.
The hours slipped by with Hermione perched delicately on a velvet loveseat, ankles crossed and watching on with adoration. It was quiet, save the sparks pouring from his wand as he worked.
Draco was precise. His latin flawless; elegant and elevated by his pureblood mannerisms. It bewitched her, possessing her with more force than perhaps any spell she had known.
Maybe tonight she would tell him. She would tell him and mean it . Well, she would try to mean it.
"I think we should call it a night," Draco finally huffed as curfew approached. They'd need an ironclad excuse for their absence, but it was nothing a few carefully cast memory charms couldn't fix.
Hermione stumbled towards him, the words tumbling from her lips before she could take them back, "I— I love you, Draco." It was barely a whisper. "You know I love you."
Stripped of her cold bravado, Hermione Granger was vulnerable and paper thin.
Draco sighed, dropping his shoulders and running his fingers through his platinum locks. He hesitated, "I'm not sure you do, Granger." The words cut her.
"I think you love this, " He said, gesturing towards the cabinet. "Yeah. I think you love this more than you're ever going to love me." They stung like salt in a wound.
He dragged his teeth across his bottom lip. His eyes roved over her, "I love you too. I'd just… If you're going to say it, I'd rather you mean it."
Her lips were parted; agape and overwhelmed by his startling— and possibly correct assumption. For a while they just stared at each other, eyes locked in silent discontent.
And then without a second thought, he turned and swept from the room. His footsteps echoing and retreating; the sound of wrought iron doors materializing and vanishing into stone as night fell and the darkness swallowed her whole.