This story has a Youtube playlist that can be found on my website :)
This story was also supposed to be part of a fest, but I decided not to do the fest, because I want to post the chapters up over time. I currently have 3 chapters pre-written, and this story will have 6-7 chapters total.
Trigger warnings: The theme in this story mentions a lot of Hermione wanting to feel "weightless and small," but it is not intended to be eating disordered. It is in reference to height. However, the way I wrote it could be comparable to ED thinking, so it may trigger you in that sense. If you are recovered or recovering or disordered, please read with caution for unintentional triggers.
Small
Chapter One - Ice
O
October 1998
Hermione was afraid of feeling small.
She feared the bottomless pit that lay somewhere between the beginning of the war and the end of it. She feared the straying too close to the middle, lest she fall and continue to fall forever into the nothingness. Until all that was left of her accomplishments was the tiniest glimmer of a memory, faint in the back of the wizarding world's collective mind.
Hermione Granger, the Brightest Witch of Her Age.
Her age.
Her age, because every decade eventually dwindled down until the next one began, and the next, and the next. And every decade that went by became the start of the possibility of a new Hermione Granger being born into the world.
She didn't want to be forgotten.
Or maybe it was just because she was so short. Maybe she was so short that if she didn't insert herself into time and make her mark, she would be crushed beneath the weight of eternity. Perhaps it was dramatic, but maybe she was just tired of being overlooked. Literally. Over the top of her head.
And so Hermione began her Eighth Year with the determination of making her mark on history with the highest marks she could possibly achieve. Not just her classes. No, she wanted every professor to remember her. She wanted to be inside of every aspect of the restoration of Hogwarts castle that she was at the top of the list of Students Who Shall Be Named Helpful. She wanted a wall of achievements, engraved in stone, with her name at the top of each and every one.
She just wasn't prepared for how it would feel to float somewhere in the middle.
"This just isn't correct," she said, tossing her brown curls over her shoulder. "The list is incorrect. You'll have to take it down."
"Eh?" Mr. Filch turned to look over one frail shoulder at her. He squinted down at her, as though she were difficult to see, and she hated it.
She wasn't invisible.
Hermione drew her shoulders back and stood to her full 160cm height. "I said, this isn't correct. It can't be."
"Ehh, I don't make the rules, girl," Mr. Filch said in his harsh, grating voice. He waved his hammer at her. "If you didn't make the top of the list, maybe you need to try harder!"
Hermione's indignation wrenched her jaw open. She gazed up at him in horror.
"The insinuation -" she said, mind boggled. "The insinuation that I haven't done my absolute best is - why, it's -"
Someone cut her off.
"The lists are written by Headmistress McGonagall herself, Hermione."
Hermione turned at the sound of the newcomer. It was Hannah Abbot. She held a shiny, red apple in one hand and her Potions textbook in the other. She offered Hermione a small smile.
"She probably wrote the names at random, " Hannah went on, peering at the lists on the wall outside the Great Hall. "I'm sure she knows that -"
"No," Hermione spluttered up at her, feeling the panic expanding like a bubble in the cage of her chest. "Headmistress McGonagall knows that I have been the head of the Hogwarts Restoration Committee since the beginning of the year. If it weren't for me, the Hufflepuff dorms would still be inhabitable. I -"
"I'm sure she knows that," Hannah said in a gentle tone, cutting her off. "I'm fairly certain she didn't think there needed to be any sort of order. It's just recognition lists for a job well done."
Hermione's brows met in a troubled expression as she turned back to face the wall. The other achievement and recognition lists stretched up as high as she could see - which wasn't very far - and her name was at the top of each one.
The Heroic Acts in the Face of Danger list, where her name was above both Harry's and Ron's because everyone knew who was behind Harry's good fortune at the Battle of Hogwarts. The Compassionate Acts of Magical Compassion list, where her name was sitting pretty atop a number of Seventh Years for helping reintroduce lost fae to the Forbidden Forest after they were displaced during the war. Her name was even the very first one on the Most Studious Students list.
Granted, Hermione's was the only name on the list, but that was unimportant.
What mattered was that she was the number one witch on all lists except for the Hogwarts Restoration Recognition list.
On this list, Hermione was number two. Right beneath Pansy Parkinson, who'd done nothing except throw parties for "progress celebration" every fortnight since October. If anyone belonged on the top of that list, it was Hermione. Hermione, who had spent every moment of her free time organizing, overseeing, and participating in the restoration efforts since September the 3rd.
She was going to have to work harder.
"It's that Pansy Parkinson," Hermione said, muttering under her breath and tapping her chin. "Everyone loves a party."
"Headmistress McGonagall?" Hannah said with a laugh around a bite of her apple. Her eyes sparkled with mirth beneath her blonde hair. "I highly doubt she has any interest in the parties."
Hermione crossed her arms over her chest, feeling a strange desperation at the sight of Filch toddling off with his hammer. She almost wanted to chase after him and demand he pull the real list out of his pockets.
"Then everyone's voting for her," she said, whirling around in a flurry of robes and curls. "They must be!"
Hannah continued to laugh down in her direction, high-pitched giggles of incredulity falling from her lips like a song of amusement. "Hermione! They aren't polls or contests. They're just recognition lists. Anyone who helps gets their name put up. We aren't voting."
Hermione didn't believe her.
"Well, perhaps I just need to increase my exposure to the students," she said with a sniff. "I need to take on more roles. Merlin knows most of the students on this list don't actually care about recognition. They just want the extra points Headmistress McGonagall offered to help with the restoration this year. I, however, truly care about this school."
Hannah was still giggling, even as Hermione stomped away.
O
November 1998
She inserted herself in every part of the HRC.
It didn't matter what the task was. If it needed group members or assistance, Hermione joined it even though she was the head of the committee. She signed up to help with the Slytherin dungeons, the courtyard, the bridge, Hagrid's Hut, the greenhouse, the bottom floors, and the moving staircases.
Technically, as head, she was supposed to ensure that no one signed up for more than one section since there were so many volunteers. However, if she didn't start getting so involved that McGonagall saw her everywhere, she might keep putting her below the top of the lists.
It was in the Eighth Year common room, when Hermione was looking over the sign-up sheets for the sections, that she noticed there was one section with a name crossed out. The library. Since there had only been two people in that section in the first place, that left only one person working on the clean-up.
Draco Malfoy.
She frowned. Well, now that just wouldn't do. Malfoy was on parole and was not allowed to use his wand unless he was in class. That was common knowledge all over the school. If he was working on the library by himself, that meant he was putting the books back on the shelves by hand. And how was he supposed to put the broken stacks back together?
No, no. This wouldn't do at all.
As uncomfortable as it would be to be alone with him for any extended period of time, Hermione couldn't let the library suffer because . . . She peered closer at the crossed-out name . . . Seamus Finnegan had decided not to do his part.
Shaking her head, Hermione took her quill and signed her name beneath Seamus's scrawling. When she was done, she went to put the sheet back on the wall. Lifting herself onto the tips of her toes to reach the spot, she strained her left arm to push the pin in. Then, she took out her wand and tapped it thrice against the sheet.
There, she said. That should make the sheets in the other common rooms reflect the change.
Working on the restoration with Malfoy would be . . . Interesting. But he'd avoided her all year. Since she'd spoken on his behalf at his trial, perhaps he would even deign to be polite.
One could only hope.
O
Hermione walked into the library with her nose in the air.
It was her best defense against Malfoy, should he decide to rip into her the moment he saw her. What if he hadn't seen the sign-up sheet? What if he'd been bringing his mates in to hang around and do nothing? Or worse: what if they were lounging about, drinking Firewhiskey around the books?
That thought filled her with a spot of rage. If she discovered that he was utilizing the library's space, defiling the sanctity of it with the risk of damaging hundreds of years of historical text . . .
She sped up, nearly racing through the mixture of upright and toppled stacks to locate his platinum-haired head. She was already seething. She could see it now: him and Theo Nott, tipping bottles onto ancient tomes; Pansy ripping pages and letting them flutter out all over the floor; Blaise Zabini casting incendio on whiskey-soaked books just to watch them burn.
Not on my watch.
Hermione's hands balled into fist as she came to the furthest corner of the library, stepping over piles of discarded books that were in the carpeted walkway.
There he was. In the furthest corner, by the Herbology section. He had a stack of books piled up beside him the height of his chest. He was pulling them off one by one and checking their spines before placing them on the empty shelf before him. His robes were discarded on a clean table behind him, and the sleeves of his black button-up were rolled up to his elbows. His chin-length hair was scraped back on top of his head, but stray strands of it seemed to keep flopping forward.
Hermione froze in place, her gaze scanning the area.
It looked like he'd gotten three entire sections done. She could see that they were neat and orderly, from top to bottom. The table and chairs were righted as well, and there was a massive pile of books to the right of her that was separate from the one he had beside him.
She cleared her throat.
He didn't turn around.
"After you punched me," he said, "I didn't think you'd come back."
Hermione's eyebrows shot up. "I haven't done that since Third Year. But if you'd like me to do it again, I could be convinced."
With one hand still putting a book on the shelf, Malfoy's head twisted around to look at her. Hermione saw a flicker of surprise in his grey eyes and then it faded into a blank expanse that she couldn't read. His other hand came up to comb his hair back.
"Granger," he said by way of greeting. "Come to rescue me from indentured servitude and send me to a new section?"
Hermione frowned, putting her hands on her hips over her robes. "The restoration is a volunteer-based program, Malfoy."
"Hn," was his response.
Hermione worried her lower lip between her teeth, following the movements of his forearms as he picked each book up and set it gently on the shelf. She was glad that her fears hadn't come true, but she was curious about what he'd just said.
"And who punched you?" she asked, taking a step closer. "You should report them."
Not turning to face her, he let out a short, mirthless laugh. "Yeah, because when it's me against Seamus Finnegan, it makes sense that he struck me unprovoked."
Hermione grimaced. "It's Seamus, so . . . It actually makes quite a bit of sense. He's always had a temper."
"You always were an optimistic, Granger."
Hermione wandered closer, dropping her satchel onto the tabletop. She walked around the edge of it. "In any case, I'm here to help you. I saw that Seamus had . . . Unvolunteered, so I signed up to help since you're . . . You know . . ."
"On parole?"
"Um . . . Yes." She moved until she was beside the stack of books. It reached his chest now, and was the exact same height as Hermione. "And this is an awful large stack of books. You shouldn't have to do it without magic."
He looked down at her. As she tilted her head back to keep eye contact, an errant thought crossed her mind.
He's actually quite tall.
"You don't have to act awkward about it," he said, eyes searching hers. "The only reason why I'm on parole is because of you."
Hermione started to speak, but found herself suddenly overwhelmed by the fact that she was alone in the library with Draco Malfoy. She'd never been alone with him. Their previous interactions had always been in groups, when he was decidedly less calm. He was usually hurling insults, not standing here studying her like a potion brewing in a cauldron.
He really was rather tall.
Swallowing against the sudden, strange lump in her throat, Hermione lifted her chin in a haughty manner.
"Right," she said, withdrawing her wand from the inside of her robes. "Well, I've got my wand, so I can use it to get the books on the shelves. You could bring them to me and stack them like this to make it easier for me?"
Malfoy shrugged and walked over to the pile of books behind her. As he passed, a rush of air greeted her nostrils with the scent of his cologne. She breathed in. How curious.
He smelled of spearmint.
She began to cast the charms for levitation and organization, her wand doing all the work. She cast a couple of glances in Malfoy's direction. He was grabbing stacks of ten or so books, bringing them back over, and then returning to grab more. They worked in silence for a solid twenty minutes.
Hermione marveled at the situation. This was unheard of. The two of them, working together to restore the library, of all places. Even more interesting to her was the fact that the silence was not uncomfortable for her. She wasn't sure how it felt for him, but as he seemed entirely focused on toting the books back and forth, it didn't seem to be on his mind at all.
Somewhere along the years, Hermione had forgotten that Malfoy was an actual living, breathing human being. She felt poorly for that.
"I'm surprised you started in the Herbology section," Hermione said as they made their way right, along the back wall of the library.
"Why?" he asked, breathless from the back and forth. He piled some more books beside her. Her charms immediately picked them up, shuffled them, and sent them onto the shelf.
"You just . . . Don't seem like you like to read."
He stopped by the book pile and shot her a weird look. "Is that supposed to be a joke?"
Hermione paused, her wand held aloft. "No?"
His brow furrowed for a moment, and then he dropped down to pick up some more books. "Granger, I hate to be the one to tell you this, but you're the most intelligent witch at Hogwarts." He set the books beside her, on top of the pile, and looked down at her. "Not the most intelligent of all."
She nodded slowly. She supposed she was guilty of not looking at anyone else's marks. "So you do like to read?"
"Yes," he said with a heavy sigh, pausing with his hands on his hips to catch his breath. "I do like to read. But me liking to read has nothing to do with where I started when I began putting the books on the shelves." He waved a dismissive hand. "I started in Herbology because it's the furthest from the door. Since Finnegan up and quit, it seemed like the most organized way to do things if I was going to have to do them myself."
"Ah," Hermione said, waving her wand again. The rest of the books in her pile flew to the shelves.
She paused for a second. He didn't seem like he didn't want to talk, but he also seemed a little irritated. She didn't know if it was irritation at her or at Seamus. What she did know was that Malfoy was a human being and he did have interests and hobbies. And if they were going to work on this for the rest of the year, they might as well get to know one another.
"What books do you like?" she asked.
He shot her a wary look.
Maybe he didn't feel the same about getting to know one another. It would make sense, since he'd spent the better part of seven years ensuring that he didn't think she was on the same level as him. During the war, he'd definitely shown that he did not agree with the Dark Lord's ideals, but he hadn't exactly stepped forward to stop his aunt from carving into Hermione's flesh that night in the Manor.
The corners of her lips tugged downward. She'd almost - intentionally - forgotten about that.
She didn't like to think about it.
As he returned with another pile of books, she couldn't help herself. She glanced down at his forearm.
His Mark was still there, faded as though with age. It looked the same as it always had, the snake crawling out of the skull's mouth as though it wanted to slither down to wrap around his wrist. Only now, it seemed to lack that ominous, oppressive atmosphere that it'd had when the Dark Lord was alive.
He didn't notice her looking, or if he did, he didn't say anything.
After a couple seconds of silence, he replied to her.
"I prefer to read books on mythology," he said upon an exhalation of breath. "Greek, Norse, Roman, and Japanese are my favorites. I find them romantic, in a way."
Surprise widened Hermione's eyes. "Really? That's . . . Fascinating."
The ghost of a smirk played about his lips. He paused beside her, looking down into her face. "Which part? The fact that I find them romantic, or the fact that I like to read?"
Sheepish, Hermione lowered her gaze for a second. "I find it fascinating that you like mythology. Consequently, I enjoy reading about Greek mythology myself."
The smirk on his face went from ghostlike to real. "Amongst other things, yeah?"
She pursed her lips, feeling her haughtiness returning full force. "Yes, actually. I enjoy reading all books. I don't exactly have a preference. Excuse me for thinking you preferred to read . . ." She gave him a scathing once-over. "Darker texts."
He placed one hand atop the stack of books, his fingers inches away from her temple. She glanced to the side and saw that he wore silver and black rings on his knuckles. When her gaze rose, she saw with a jumping heart that he was glowering down at her.
"Just because I made some poor choices when I was a kid, doesn't mean I enjoy reading books about the Dark Arts," he said. He sounded angry.
"I thought your family was known for having a library full of Dark texts!" Hermione cried, wanting to defend herself at least a little bit. "Your father made it quite clear to the Prophet multiple times that the Malfoy Manor had the largest collection in wizarding Britain!"
She hadn't expected any of this; she'd expected Malfoy to be a right prat the moment she entered the library. Instead, he was just a quiet man who seemed genuine in his desire to help fix the school.
"What does my father have to do with what I choose to read?" Malfoy's upper lip curled as he pulled his head back on his shoulders. "I can think for myself, you know."
Hermione scoffed, feeling flustered. She lowered her wand and turned to face him. "I never said that you couldn't! I just remember you being very attached to your father and his opinion. In spite of what a poor father he was, you seemed to look up to him. You -"
"Watch your mouth," he snapped, and the polite tone he'd been using had completely burned up like a meteor streaking across the sky. Where he had once seemed tall, he now towered over her like a tree topped with white leaves. "My father was interested in some fucked up things, but that doesn't mean that he was a poor father. As I said, I made some poor choices. I made them. And I wouldn't be here, putting these bloody books away if I didn't have at least some semblance of a heart."
Lucius Malfoy. He was in Azkaban for the rest of his life. Before this very moment, Hermione hadn't thought of Lucius as a human being, either. But now, looking up into Malfoy's eyes, she could see in them the pain of a son who'd lost his father.
She felt awful, and yet she didn't at the same time. She understood that he had a heart, but she had always had a heart. He'd just picked his up last year.
"I'm sorry that you lost him," she said, looking at his back. "I'm sorry that he let you down. However, I feel that if you hadn't bought into the circle of hatred that he perpetuated, then I wouldn't be in a place where I can make assumptions about the things you read. I'm not -" She stopped herself. She wanted to say, like you, but she didn't want to make things worse by bringing up the past even more. "- trying to upset you, but you can't blame me for thinking you preferred Dark texts."
"Can you just fucking stop?"
Hermione blinked and shot him a sharp look. His tone was edged like a knife's blade.
"Excuse me?" she said. "I only meant to -"
"Just stop talking about my damn father!" he suddenly yelled, whirling on her.
Hermione's mouth slammed shut. He'd never yelled at her before. Never, in all of their experiences with him as the antagonist, had he ever raised his voice. She didn't know how to feel about it.
She just knew that she'd better do as he asked.
The silence stretched between them, as thick as wool. They didn't move. He remained where he was, positioned beside the pile of books with his arms crossed. Hermione stayed beside the bookshelf, her wand held down at her side and the opposite hand curved around her upper arm.
She was a Gryffindor, but that didn't mean she was insusceptible to awkwardness.
"I get that I hurt you," he eventually said, holding his hands up in the air. There were rings on his other fingers, too. "I get that I was a prat. I'm sorry for that. I'm sorry for everything I ever did to hurt you. But two wrongs don't make a right. I'm not a bloody block of ice."
Hermione stared at him, her heart racing. She'd never been faced with this before. No one had ever called her out like this, and she had never thought of herself as a bully. Yet here she was, and she was the bully.
"I-I'm sorry," she whispered. "I didn't -"
He scowled, and the vehemence of the noise cut her off. It was at this very moment that Hermione remembered that she had never been alone with Malfoy before. She'd never faced his distaste for her down without Harry and Ron flanking her sides.
She felt small.
"Don't apologize to me," he spat out, sounding bitter as he glowered at the floor between them and threw his hands about. "I'm not imbecilic. I'm aware that I treated you like shite. I'm aware that I probably made your life Hell for years and I'm aware that when you were on my fucking floor, I . . ." He trailed off suddenly, and pushed his hands backward through his hair. "Fuck, just - Nevermind."
Hermione felt like she was having trouble breathing. She knew what he was about to bring up.
She didn't understand why it mattered to him.
"I'm sorry for everything, all right?" he said in a quick rush of words. "Never apologize to me, Granger. Just don't expect me to melt anytime soon."
The ground was quivering beneath her. Any second, and it would open up to swallow her whole. She would tumble through darkness with no one to catch her. She couldn't tell if she was mortified, felt bad, or if it was a mixture of both.
"Let's get back to work," he said, muttering, and he did just that.
Whatever had been in the air that caused them to act amiably around one another had dissipated. Hermione couldn't make eye contact with him for the rest of the evening. Later, when they were done for the night, he left abruptly.
She walked back to the Gryffindor common room alone.