A/N: This story contains adult content, profanity, self-harm and depressive thoughts, talk of bigotry, abusive, alcoholic and absent parents, dubious consent (not between Dramione), and a domineering Draco (not really dom/sub, in my opinion). Updates will be monthly to start, but should pick up momentum sometime next year. Old stories are still being worked on and will get reposted eventually. No timeline as of yet. If this gets taken down on ffn, look on AO3 under the same penname.
1.
Mindless chatter. Incessant speaking to saturate the silent voids. It all filled Hermione Granger's head and rattled around tirelessly until she felt as though she were going crazy. The War had ended on the second of May, and the months following had been laden with nothing but empty condolences and endless, exhausted expressions of gratitude.
People—friends, peers, and family—had died. Fallen heroes, and enemies alike, all immortalized in the nightmares of those left behind. The individuals who had lived—they all had personalities; had laughed around the tables at Hogwarts; had loved someone with their entire beings; had cried, smiled, lived. Now they were nothing, mere whispers carried on a gust of wind; a tear in Molly Weasley's eye as she told a twins' tale; a fading smile as those left behind fought to remember every wrinkle, every freckle, every quirk they never thought necessary to commit to memory.
Yet, those around her carried on as though the world were suddenly new, bright, promising. Voldemort was dead, his followers all imprisoned or hiding in fear for their lives. The wizarding world was emerging from a fit-filled slumber. Shops reopened in Diagon Alley, stocked full of bustling patrons and individuals just thankful to breathe fresh air. Weekends were filled with family and friends, gathered around tables, exchanging stories.
Hermione stood outside of Quality Quidditch Supplies, staring vacantly at her reflection in the window. She was thinner than in years prior, her nine months on the lam, the War and the months of grieving taking a toll on her. Her hair, still an unruly bush of curls and knots, had lost some of its shine and she frowned at it as she pushed a hand through it absently. One short year ago—though it felt like a lifetime—she had left a life of comfort amidst books and cozy Common Rooms and scrambled her parents' brains to hunt for the trinkets that would bring about the end of Voldemort's life. Now, here she was, standing in the bright sunlight, watching her two best friends navigate through handle polish and Keeper's gloves.
Moving on. Advancing. Progressing. The two of them had more to rue after the War's end than most of the witches and wizards surrounding her. Harry had lost his innocence, himself one of the Horcruxes. In the months that followed, he and Ginny spent the majority of their days—and nights—holed up together, learning one another all over again. He was mending. Ron had lost something even more precious—a brother. He had five more siblings to love, but Fred's death had left a deep wound that refused to yield. Most days, he was sullen and took to riding his broom out over the pond adjacent the Burrow.
On some of his better days, a few tentative kisses had passed between Hermione and Ron, but she knew, intuitively, that he needed something more that she could not offer. They had done a delicate dance around one another for so long, but the chase had been far more alluring than the catch. They fumbled, awkward and burdened with far too many expectations. Hermione only wished she knew how to tell him she didn't want to try anymore.
It was truly surreal to stand in the middle of Diagon Alley, a new bundle of school books under one arm and a new pair of school robes draped over the other. Every student was required to repeat—or in the Trio's case, enter—their prior year of schooling. With Hogwarts being the scene of the Final Battle, other magical schools had opened their doors to those who may not want to return to the castle. A few had decided to return to school at neighboring Beauxbatons or across the water at Ilvermorny, but Hermione, Harry and Ron had all agreed that Hogwarts had been home for far too long to abandon it now. It was proper to return, to immortalize those who died within the stone walls and ensure their memories lived on.
Ron paid for his new gloves, a large smile on his face, and he and Harry made their way out of the crowded shop. As they moved, people stopped them to thank them—for saving the world, no doubt. Hermione rolled her eyes. If only people understood that it was a collective effort—of everyone who had hidden them; of Lee Jordan and his Potterwatch; of Fred and Tonks, Lupin and Moody; of McGonagall, who had remained in the castle to ensure the safety of her students in the grips of the Carrows. The three of them had worked damn hard to collect and destroy Horcruxes, but the War was won on the backs of thousands of resilient witches and wizards.
"Got everything you need from Flourish and Blott's?" Ron asked her after he and Harry had finally broken free of the gushing fans.
His face was rosy beneath the freckles and a lopsided smile adorned his features. Always the forgotten Weasley—unremarkable in every way—leaving the house was the only time he came to life any more. He soaked up the attention, grateful for recognition. Hermione looked from him to Harry, who looked agitated and flustered, mumbling a string of curses as they began walking toward Gringott's. "It was a madhouse in there. I got the required readings," Hermione replied with a shrug of her shoulders.
"You came out of a bookstore, with only the required readings?" Ron teased, raising an eyebrow.
"I just can't wait to get to school and be done with this exposure. I don't blame you," Harry told her, trying to hide his face though his head of wild raven hair acted as a beacon for onlookers.
Ron groaned slightly, trying on his new Keeper's gloves. "I can't believe we saved the world and still have to go back to school before we can join the Aurors."
Hermione glared up at the lanky wizard, pursing her lips. "Why should we be given a free pass? When people like Neville and Luna—who were forced to torture fellow students—have to go back?"
The tips of Ron's ears went scarlet and he cleared his throat, the little joy he had in the upcoming Quidditch season all but gone. Hermione felt a surge of guilt for taking a small bit of happiness from the now sullen Weasley brother. "Ron, I'm sorry—"
Ron put his hand up and shrugged his shoulder limply, indicating he had no desire to continue the conversation. Hermione clamped her mouth shut and stared straight ahead as they made their way through the crowds.
A head of white blond hair appeared ahead as they made their way toward Gringotts. Draco Malfoy, dressed in a suit of solid black, stepped out of the bank's doors. His head was bowed and he held the door for someone else. Pansy Parkinson. The pug-nosed witch stepped out and draped her arm through Malfoy's, smiling up at him. A small smile curved his lips at whatever Parkinson said.
Hermione was entranced at the simplicity of the couple walking among the rest, the way Malfoy's smile never lit up his entire face as it had when he was younger. Too much had happened in the last few years and she silently wondered what he had seen, said, been forced into. His head lifted for the briefest of moments and his eyes met Hermione's as they passed on the pavement.
His stare felt as devoid and hollow as she felt inside and it made her guts squirm to have anything in common with him. "What was that about?" Harry asked her, bumping her arm with his as his gaze followed Malfoy's back.
"Your guess is as good as mine," Hermione told him, feeling as though ice cubes had settled in her belly.
o~O~o
"We're too old for curfews," Ron griped aloud as the castle loomed against a starless, inky backdrop.
Hermione sat, staring at the page of a book she hadn't turned in the last hour. The mindless chattering was back, stuffing every corner of her brain with nonsensical noise. Harry was pulling his robes over his head, his hair mussed further when his head popped through. "We're finally going to have a normal year," he remarked quietly, his jaw tightening as the implications of his statement settled over them.
Normal. How normal could it be, to tuck into a feast at a table ten feet from where Molly Weasley had been forced to kill Bellatrix Lestrange to save her only daughter? How normal would it feel to go to Hagrid's hut, knowing that he had been forced to rebuild his life after the fire? How incredibly mundane would it feel to sit through a Defense Against the Dark Arts class, knowing that, had some of the children known these spells and been taught proper dueling techniques, they may not have lost their lives within those very walls?
When the Hogwarts Express finally stopped jostling, Hermione heard the utterances and quieted sounds of hundreds of somber teens disembarking from the train. Ginny was the first to exit, followed by Ron. Harry hung back, his emerald eyes staring at her from behind dark-rimmed glasses. "Are you okay, Hermione? You've been distant lately."
Hermione raised one corner of her mouth in an attempt at a smile. "I'm fine. It's just going to take some adjusting, to be back here again so soon."
Harry wrapped his arm around her shoulders and nodded. "Madam Pomfrey hired a group of mind healers. Maybe it wouldn't be a bad idea to talk to someone who wasn't there. Someone who can offer an outside perspective?"
He phrased it like a question, though Hermione knew it was a silent plea. She had been withdrawn from them all for months now, the cleft growing wider with every night she had stayed holed up in Ginny's room at the Burrow. It was far too painful to face George at the dinner table, to watch as he simply moved food around without actually eating. It shredded her hearts to bits to remove every mirror from the house after he had put his hand through one a week after the funeral.
Leaving the Burrow led to the harsh reality that she would live life in a limelight she hadn't asked for and would never learn to enjoy. Her parents were gone from her life forever—a decision and reality she had thought herself ready to face the year prior, but one that caused her an aching sorrow as she came through the War a hero. Alive, but just barely. A lifeless shell that meandered aimlessly day in and day out, not fitting quite right anywhere or with anyone anymore. Harry had Ginny and the Weasleys all had each other, and while she was considered part of the family, never before had she felt so detached from them.
She kept her face tucked into her chest, steadfastly refusing to acknowledge the ghastly thestrals that pulled the carriages. Their skeletal, menacing bodies and thin, bat wings; the stench of carrion that always seemed to linger around them—they were the absolute embodiment of the deaths she only wished she could forget. Who the hell cared about nargles or brooms or fucking gillyweed when so many people had died? She doubted their bodies had even begun to rot just yet and already, their names refused to slip into the open. The others all ambled toward an empty carriage, though she stood unmoving. "Coming, Hermione?" Harry asked, gesturing toward the carriage's open door.
Hermione shook her head and took in a shaky breath. "I need some fresh air. To clear my head."
Harry nodded and put a hand to her shoulder, his eyes roaming over her as he assessed whether or not she really was going to be alright. Hermione gave him a half smile and watched as he boarded the carriage and the thestrals moved into action. The clopping of their hooves rattled her and she tried desperately to raise the walls of oblivion around her mind. She wanted to forget. Needed to.
The air had a nip to it as she began her walk toward the castle on foot. Pulling her robes tight around her, she fought to breathe. The leaves crunched under foot and the wind lifted her curls as she walked. As she came through a clearing in the wooded area, the castle came into full view. A rope dropped into her stomach, knotting itself into a bundle of nerves as she stumbled. Hermione didn't know what she expected when she saw the castle again, but she certainly didn't expect the raging anger that coursed through her.
A sob tore through her throat as she knelt down and lifted a rock from the path. Rearing back, she tossed it in the direction of the castle, a screech of abhorrence ripping through the night air. The rock smacked the stone wall that surrounded the castle and plunked to the ground as she stood and wrapped her arms around herself. Grief welled in her throat, constricting it though no tears fell from her eyes.
Footsteps sounded behind her, snapping twigs and scuffling along the underbrush. Hermione closed her eyes, not wanting to acknowledge the individual as they came to stand next to her. "It's fucking sick, isn't it?"
The low timbre of the voice surprised her and she opened her eyes to reveal Draco Malfoy standing next to her, his hands shoved into his pockets as he stared at the castle ahead. Just as she had outside of Gringott's, she noted the haunted undertone of his features, somehow more sallow in the waning moonlight.
Perhaps more surprising than her anger and his presence was the fact that she wasn't angered by his presence.
"What is?" Her eyes traced along his throat as he swallowed.
"Having to come back here after everything that happened."
"Everything you caused, you mean."
His shoulders jumped in the semblance of a shrug as he dragged his eyes away from the castle. In the dim moonlight, the pale grey eyes seemed to bore right into her soul. "I don't deny my part in the war. That doesn't make it any less horrendous to stand where so many died."
Hermione wished the wrath she felt would direct itself toward him, but even with the animosity hanging in the space between them, she couldn't bring herself to feel anything more than exhaustion. "Did Durmstrang turn you away?"
"I didn't try to run away to Russia. I came here of my own volition. I deserve to suffer through the nightmares and to relive every one of my indiscretions."
Hermione remained silent, mulling over Malfoy's self-deprecating stance on post-war life. The carriages were pulling up to the front of the castle, and the din of hushed voices carried their way. "Looks like you might finally get your uneventful year," he mentioned with a bitter scoff, taking a few steps forward. "Have fun in your lion's den, immersed in homework and Head Girl duties."
The air was biting as wind whistled through the trees and cascaded through the clearing. She remained, staring at the bright luminescence of his hair as he followed the crowd of students at a safe distance. She struggled to move her feet, every inch of her begging to leave this place for good.
The oversized oak doors loomed in front of her, once beckoning and now imposing. Taking a deep breath in through her nose and exhaling from between parted lips, she allowed her subconscious to lead her into the Great Hall. A din of laughter and the groans of a returning school year had once filled the room. Now, a hushed silence hovered between the bumbling and stumbling bodies as everyone moved to take their seats. Heads were all bowed and a few sniffles could be heard.
Hermione listened as McGonagall—now the Headmistress—made a speech about the bravery of those lost, those who made the choice not to return to the school. There were a handful of new students, perhaps half the size of the usual first-year count. As their names were each read and the Sorting Hat judged their innermost thoughts, Hermione ran a finger over a knot in the wood of the table.
The feeling of being watched crawled over her and her eyes rose from where she was making indolent circles to over Harry's shoulder. Draco Malfoy seemed to be paying her no mind, though she swore it was his stare she felt tingling under her skin. A shudder ran down her spine and she turned her attention back to the Headmistress, a bloom of heat spreading from her chest and creeping into her cheeks.
"Have fun in your lion's den." His jab made the thought of returning to her usual routine—dragging Harry and Ron along and completing the assignments so that they might "borrow" them; listening to Ginny rattle on about Chasing; Lavender and Parvati predicting her future, incorrectly, once a week. It was all too much. She felt as though she were suffocating under the thought of the banal day-to-day schedule she would fall into.
Around her, Ron, Harry and Ginny were immersed in talks of how Harry should have been offered the Defense teaching position. She rose just as McGonagall was moving the stool and Hat away from the center of the teachers' dias. Before her brain could catch up with her feet and mouth, she was extending a hand. "Wait, Professor!"
The voice sounded as though it belonged to someone else, hoarse and clipped. McGonagall turned and looked over her shoulder, running a hand over the soft fabric of the hat in an appreciative pat as she raised an eyebrow. "Miss Granger? Is there something you wish to say?"
The feeling of hundreds of pairs of eyes was enough to cause her hands to tremble and bile to rise in her throat. "I want to know what the Hat would say today," she managed to mumble.
"Hermione," Ron hissed from behind her. "What in the bloody hell are you doing?"
She ignored her friends' chitters and the muted whispering of the crowd around her, staring straight at the Headmistress. She silently pleaded with her to understand. Understand that she needed an escape, that she couldn't bear another moment of the same. The elderly woman, who'd slipped from being her mentor to her sister-in-arms during the Final Battle, looked at the younger witch with sympathy, her lips pressed into a thin line. "If the Hat chooses a new House, understand you must accept its decision."
Hermione nodded, the stares of her classmates cutting into her like dagger wounds in her back. The whispers died down as her ears began to ring, the sound of rushing waves behind her eardrums. She sat on the stool, carefully avoiding her group of friends, all looking on in incredulous horror as Headmistress McGonagall cleared her throat and slipped the Hat atop her mass of curls.
"Ahh, Miss Granger, heroine of the wizarding world. Feeling it's time for a change?" the Hat muttered, humming as it contemplated her fate. "You have intelligence beyond your years and a wisdom your classmates may never understand. But Ravenclaw would be a safe choice, wouldn't it? Yes. You like to live dangerously, put your wisdom and wit to good use. My brave Gryffindor, forsaking your House for the chance at a challenge...but where to put you?"
Hermione's eyes finally rose from the floorboards before her and swept slowly over the room of faces, all watching her in mortification as the Sorting Hat grumbled in her mind. "You value justice and loyalty, but don't mind backhanded and cunning schemes to achieve those means. When you set your mind to something you stop at nothing until you have succeeded. An ambition to admire. A natural born leader. A muggleborn. But could you play nice?"
The knotted feeling returned to her belly, accompanied by the distraught flapping of butterflies fighting their way up her throat. "You're exactly what they need to shake things up a bit, hmm?"
And before Hermione could rip the Hat from her head and toss it across the room, it screeched in it's old, rasping voice, "Slytherin!"
There was a collective gasp of hundreds of people and the din rose as everyone began discussing the abject horror of the situation into which she had so precariously gotten herself. Her feet had surely grown roots, as she could not force herself to move for an eternity's worth of a moment. "Miss Granger? Are you alright?" McGonagall asked close to her ear, a hand on her shoulder.
Hermione nodded her head one sharp bob and slipped from the stool. Her eyes roved over the Gryffindor table, where her friends were staring at her, their mouths all hanging in identical disbelief. A disbelief she felt in her soul's very core. Ron's face was turning an ungodly shade of puce and she tore her eyes from her friends to view the end of the Slytherin table. Slytherin, her new House. A glance at her chest told her that the lining of her robes had already transfigured themselves to green. The earlier knot was working its way from her belly and up her esophagus to choke her.
There wasn't a friendly face nestled among the sea of snakes, only icy glares and agitated huffs. She ambled toward the only empty seat at the end of the table, refusing to look away from where Theodore Nott and Tracey Davis were looking on with raised eyebrows and mildly amused stares. Pansy Parkinson clutched Malfoy's left forearm, her eyes following her every step. Malfoy's face was stoic and untelling. He ran a hand over his jaw, contemplating her. And then he did something that surprised Hermione more than anything else had that evening. He waved his hand at the empty space on the bench across from him.
Hermione shuffled to the end of the bench and her benchmate—Gregory Goyle—slid closer to Daphne Greengrass and gave her a wide breadth, treating her presence as one might a leper. Malfoy leaned over his plate, acutely aware of hundreds of eyes on them. "Your friends look awfully put out, Granger. Might have to wrench Weasley's jaw up from the floor."
Snickers sounded from their table mates—her new Housemates—and she sank further into her seat.
Fuck. What had she gotten herself into?
o~O~o