Hermione did not have black eyes.
They should be brown. A warm, rich colour.
Her eyes in the mirror were wrong.
"My eyes are not black."
She said it aloud, thinking if she stated it firmly enough, they'd return to their usual hue.
But her eyes gazed back in a depthless, dark black. The colour of something never ending; infinite in its fathomless darkness. Nothing to separate the pupil, iris, and sclera.
Hermione leaned in closer to the mirror.
"No. My eyes are not black."
She reached up one hand to gently touch her reflection. "They're not. They're brown. I don't want them to be black."
She blinked.
Her face in the mirror showed a woman with ordinary, brown eyes. Hermione splashed cold water on her face and finished her morning pre-work routine. Surely the odd sight in the mirror had just been a holdover from a dream?
Yes, not being fully awake would shoulder the blame for her temporary hallucination.
She couldn't remember when Draco Malfoy became a part of her morning routine. But there he stood, each day, as if waiting for her.
As Hermione shot out of the Floo and into the Ministry Atrium, she immediately clocked the tall, leaning form dressed head to toe in black from across the polished floors.
It was sort of funny, she mused, how she saw him more than her own friends.
Monday she had dinner with Harry and Ginny. Tuesday with Ron and Susan. Wednesday, at her parents. Thursday was for herself. Fridays were girls' nights with Ginny, Susan, and Luna. Then on the weekends she caught up on reading.
And Monday through Friday, she saw Malfoy standing in the Atrium.
Hermione gave him a curt nod of acknowledgement which he routinely interpreted as permission to abandon his post and approach her.
"Good morning to you, Granger."
"Malfoy."
"That's it for a greeting? Just a surname?"
"Was there something else you were expecting?"
"Oh I don't know, something a little more befitting your reputation for brilliance, perhaps?"
"Goodbye Malfoy."
"Have a pleasant and productive work day Granger."
Every morning interaction ended with him left standing in the Atrium while she went onward to her office.
There were cracks in her skin today. Little discoloured lines along the backs of her hands. She could possibly pluck them apart, separate the skin, spread the gulfs wider and see how big she could make them before her hand just split in two. Part of her wanted to poke and prod and peel and see how deep into her epidermis she could go before her pain receptors flared to life.
Hermione peered closer, intent on decoding this change. It wasn't quite scabby, nor did it itch like scabs, but like a child told not to pick at them, it was all she longed to do.
A quick peek at her clock told her she'd be late for work if she delayed any longer, wasting time by inspecting what amounted to overly dry hands. Perhaps she should invest in a humidifier? Was the air that dry in her bedroom? This seemed quite an extreme physiological response.
She furiously applied lotion, rubbing it into her skin. She relished the pleasing feeling of watching it blend and absorb, leaving behind a lovely jasmine scent.
But the cracks remained as if an impenetrable film existed between the top layer of her skin and where these cracks made their home.
Hermione didn't have time for this. She had to get to work.
She was fine. There was nothing wrong with her.
"Hello to you on this fine morning Granger," greeted Malfoy as she dusted off Floo powder. Hermione quickly shoved her hands in her pockets.
"Is it a fine morning? I haven't been outside."
She tried to brush him off with a brisk response and speedy step away from him, but his much longer legs meant he could easily keep up with little effort.
"You should try going outside today. See what the world has to offer you."
"You should try doing something other than bothering me every morning."
"Does it bother you that I say a friendly greeting each day? Would you prefer I say something nasty?"
"No, of course not, but I'm unclear as to why you insist on making conversation for this quick jaunt across the Atrium."
"I've got to fill my time somehow. How have you been filling your time lately?"
"Goodbye Malfoy."
He'd at least distracted her enough so she'd stopped worrying about her hands. But when she reached her office, she pulled them out of her pockets. The sight of two fragile-looking hands connected to normal, healthy and smooth wrists and forearms plagued Hermione still.
A Tuesday evening meant a pleasant dinner with Ron and Susan in their neat, two-bedroom flat.
Susan had cooked up a delicious roast dinner and Hermione felt full and content in the company of friends. Friends she'd known for so long and with whom she felt so comfortable that she had no reservations bringing the topic of conversation round to her odd dermatological predicament.
It struck her as odd that the hands had gone unnoticed by her friends. They'd been in full view of both of them throughout the entire evening. And yet, not a word from the normally blunt (at times to the point of rudeness) Ron and his much kinder, yet also straightforward wife.
No, "Merlin 'Mione, who scraped your skin away?" or even just a, "Blimey."
Hermione swallowed her embarrassment and wiggled her fingers at them. "This is a bit weird, but do either of you have a special salve or anything for this?"
She held up a hand in front of Susan's face.
"They've been like this since I woke up," said Hermione.
"Like what?" she asked blankly.
"This!" Hermione said, gesturing a little more. Indeed, she gestured so enthusiastically that part of her wondered if she flailed hard enough, her hands would simply pop off and shatter onto the floor. Bits and pieces of Hermione scattered all about, so fine and brittle and easily swept away. Dust collected and discarded.
Susan just stared back at her, so Hermione turned to Ron. "See? Look at them? Isn't that odd?"
"They just look like your hands to me, Hermione," said Ron.
Perturbed and puzzled, Hermione cradled her unfamiliar hands in her lap.
How could they not see that her skin looked so disturbing? Hermione peered close at her own hand again. It definitely looked anything but normal.
But if neither of her friends thought this odd, then what was the matter with her? Was her eyesight going? Perhaps this was just normal, dry skin and she was overreacting?
"What would you like for dessert?" asked Susan with a placid smile.
Hermione tried to relax and accepted a piece of her favourite pound cake. If her closest friends saw nothing wrong, then she must be fine, if a bit overtired.
Hermione's brief resolve to not worry about her skin crumbled when she woke the next morning.
Because like Malfoy waiting for her in the Atrium, her odd looking hands awaited her as well.
And speaking of Malfoy...
"Granger, how are you today?"
"Not today Malfoy, leave me alone."
"No need for such a rude brush off, I'm only being friendly."
"Go be friendly elsewhere," she grumbled and he frowned.
"What has you so ill-tempered this morning?"
Hermione stopped walking and stared up at him.
What did she have to lose?
She withdrew her hands from her robe pockets and held them out for inspection.
"How do these look to you?"
"Your hands? Rather strange, have you come in contact with any potions?"
"No, that's the thing," Hermione lowered her hands and stared down, bottom lip drawn between her teeth. "This is the second day where they've been like this, and no amount of ointments or charms will remedy the skin. I even applied dittany."
"Sounds like you need to be more creative."
She raised an eyebrow at him. "Those are the standard healing methods and now that I've run out of those, perhaps I should contact a healer."
"Sure if you want to get poked and prodded with a wand and then sent on your way with no recourse."
Hermione narrowed her eyes at him.
"What do you care anyway?"
"You asked my opinion, remember?"
"Oh. I suppose I did." She looked at her hands again. Caressed one over the other. "I can't deal with this right now. I don't want to deal with something like this."
She blinked.
Her hands appeared smooth now. No cracks, no tears, no blistered looking skin covered her hands. Normal fingers, knuckles, and palms.
"Huh. Maybe it was just a temporary side effect of something I came in contact with," she mused and nodded up at him.
"Have a good day, Malfoy."
"And you Granger, I look forward to our next meeting when I can assist you in problem-solving again. I think we'd make quite the team."
She rolled her eyes and turned away from him. Though she mentally called him a prat, she couldn't help the small smile on her face as she made for her office.
"Is that… did you really mean that?"
"I did. I do."
"Thank you."
"Do you disagree?"
"No I… I'd been thinking that too. That we work well together. It's…"
"Nice."
"Yes. Nice."
Hermione brushed her teeth, rinsed her mouth, and when she looked back up in the mirror, jumped back in shock.
Black teeth. A black mouth.
Her reflection smiled, wide and mad. But Hermione's hands came up to her mouth and she could feel that she was not smiling.
The Hermione in the mirror continued to grin, eyes popping in glee as the lips stretched as wide as they could go. Every one of her teeth was blackened and as the mouth continued to split, revealed nothing but a dark, dripping cavern of an opal-coloured something. The something was a viscous liquid that spilled over her tongue, teeth, and bottom lip. It dripped onto her chin and the reflection licked some of it, like the juices from a hearty bite of a ripe fruit. The liquid dribbled down her neck and Hermione watched her mouth open wider and wider, as more bubbled out. But Hermione clutched at her own throat and felt nothing.
She waited and watched for this imposter, this horrifying reflection, to do something other than silently gurgle and appear to enjoy every second of choking on this dark substance. She stood frozen to the tile, watching a mad pantomime play out in front of her. The paralysis of fear wouldn't allow her to look away.
Eventually the mirror version shoved fingers in its mouth to collect the molten blackness and spread it over its face. It rocked its body back and forward as it did so and then tugged and pulled at its hair. It pulled so hard that some of it tore from the scalp and Hermione was finally frightened at a level well beyond a standstill and screamed, "Stop, what are you doing? Stop it stop it stop it, I don't want to see this!"
She blinked.
Her normal, non-mad, white-toothed, pink-gummed, hair intact reflection blinked back.
Hermione backed slowly out of her bathroom and didn't look at any mirror in the rest of her home before Floo-ing to the Ministry.
Malfoy strode over immediately.
"Granger. Another glorious day, is it not?"
Hermione sighed tiredly. She'd lost the fear adrenaline from her encounter with the mirror, exhaustion taking its place.
"I can't say I agree, but good morning."
"You disagree with my proclamation? Do tell, has something happened to put you off your day already?"
"Just need some tea," she grumbled and waved him off.
"I find a good cup of tea usually does the trick."
She made some sort of noncommittal noise to Malfoy's irritating cheeriness this morning. Merlin, who woke up and decided to be this bright at this hour?
"Enjoy your tea and your work day," he said with a charming smile.
"Is everything a routine with you?"
"It's tea. It's more than a routine."
"I agree, you're practically ritualistic about it."
"I refuse to take offence to this."
"Are you this particular about everything in your life?"
"If I am?"
"Merlin, I'm only teasing. You're just quite a… traditional sort."
"It's how I was raised."
"Mmm, I can imagine."
"But I'm not—I don't—I'm not like… that. Any more. For other things. For the important things."
"I know, Draco."
"Good."
This time it wasn't just her reflection experiencing the change.
Wrinkled, puckered skin. The skin of someone decades older than her. She brought her hand up as close as possible to her eyes, scanning the area, marvelling at the dry cracks that spider-webbed over it in a concerning network of flakiness. If she picked at it and picked it, it would fall away in a heap of deadened tissue.
These should not be her hands. It had grown worse than the odd brush of dryness she'd previously suffered. More than that, it was moving.
She watched as it spread. All the way up to her face. Hermione took a sharp gasp of breath through desiccated lips.
How could she go to work like this? How could she show her face in public looking as if she'd been kept in a crypt for who knows how long. All moisture gone, her veins dried up like a desert.
Everything about her kept shrinking, diminishing, in this sped-up process of degrading tissue and features. Part of her wondered in an inescapable surrender to morbid curiosity: what would she look like as a corpse? This fast forward breakdown of her physical form mesmerised her for a moment before the crumbling sensation became a stretched kind of pain.
No, Hermione wanted to live, she wanted to be healthy, she had things she needed to accomplish. People in her life who she… she...
She blinked.
A whole, healthy vibrant human woman blinked back at her. Hermione smoothed down her clothes, checked over her arms, hands, legs. Nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing to suggest she'd seen anything so fantastical as a body that had rolled out of its tomb, happened upon by a team of archeologists keen to decipher her as the deceased representative of some long-buried civilisation.
While her mind calmed with the notion that the worst had apparently passed, Hermione felt a flare of panic in her chest. This was another morning with an incident of a physical nature. Where her body had acted out in a grotesque manner.
And unlike the horrific reflection with the black mouth, Hermione had physically felt this change, this pain.
There had to be more to this than a lack of sleep or a minor side effect of a foreign substance.
What was happening to her?
Magical malady or mental breakdown?
Should she see a healer? Fear rose up and slashed that thought to bits.
Hermione could see it now; the Prophet headlines about the war heroine cracking up. Being confined to the Janus Thickey Ward. Spoken to in soft tones like an invalid by patronising healers while they declared her a head case.
She was fine. She was fine.
"Morning Granger. Read anything interesting lately?"
Malfoy fell into step beside her as if he belonged there.
"Why would you like to know?"
"I'm a voracious reader myself, merely curious if you had any titles to recommend."
"No, I've got to get to work."
"The polite thing would be to ask what I've been reading lately."
"Fine, make it quick."
Her snippy attitude did not deter him, but rather that charming smile found a way to grow wider. She wondered how many other witches in the Ministry received these attentions from him every morning.
"But I want to hear your list first, since I asked first."
"I don't have time for this."
"Hermione Granger doesn't have time to discuss books? Oh dear, that's the most disappointing thing I've heard in quite awhile."
She stopped walking and whirled towards him. He stood closer than she anticipated and she almost turned smack into his broad chest.
"You're not going to drop this are you?"
"Not a chance."
Malfoy did not seem bothered in the least by the distinct lack of space between their bodies. Hermione took a decided step back.
"I'll write you up a list tonight and give it to you tomorrow. Satisfied?"
"That remains to be seen."
"Goodbye Malfoy."
"All of them? Already?"
"Yes, I… I'm the type to read quickly if the writing is engaging enough."
"Me too. So I take it you'll be needing more recommendations then?"
"Please."
"Hmm, which was your favourite though? So I have a better idea of other authors to recommend."
"Poe's works."
"Mine too."
For a moment Hermione believed she'd make it through her pre-work morning prep without incident.
An incorrect assumption.
Her leg itched. She bent down and scratched at the offending spot on her calf then straightened up and continued brushing her hair.
Her leg itched again. She indulged it with a scratch.
It itched again. And again. And again.
Knowing she was probably irritating and inflaming some sort of bug bite, Hermione glanced down at her leg.
She saw scales. Protruding scales of an iridescent green dotted both her legs below the knees. She let out a high-pitched shriek and backed up to her bed. Sitting on the edge, she pulled up a leg to inspect further.
They were almost beautiful in a way, but no matter their appearance, the fact remained that they did not belong on her body.
And they bloody itched.
Trying not to panic, Hermione picked up her wand. She cast every healing spell she knew and ignored the burning call to scratch and touch and soothe.
Furious tears formed in her eyes as every charm failed, every summoned potion that couldn't ease her distress.
So itchy.
Hermione gave in with a harsh sob and scratched and scratched at the scales. She kept at it, wanting to know, wanting to discover, just how these things had adhered so fully to her.
A deep breath in and out as her nails dug in. She tried to mentally disassociate from her next ill-advised action: these scales weren't real, they weren't on her body, they were just an interesting specimen to be studied, a puzzle to solve.
She tore into one eventually, and though the rip caused her to cry out in pain, she watched, transfixed as blood oozed from the self-inflicted wound.
It looked like her blood, red and flowing. It felt like her pain, raw and aching. The blood rolled down her newfound scales and collected onto the beige carpets.
Hermione could at least fix that with magic. In two flicks, the stain no longer coloured her carpet, but her scales still wanted her to ease their itchiness.
She could rip them all off if she wanted. Take them to a lab and study the composition; see if any useful magical properties were imbued within them.
Hermione stroked the piece she held. It was difficult to tell from just this bit whether these would be better suited to the body of a dragon or the tail of a mermaid. Would she be an adept flier or a swimmer if these scales began to grow and spread?
The others still attached to her legs made their discomfort known, breaking the spell of her fascination.
No. No, she did not want this. Hermione did not want to be a slave to this gross impulse all day.
She blinked.
No more scales. No itchiness. No blood.
"Morning Granger, I'll have my list now."
Hermione stared up into Malfoy's grinning face and tried to piece together his request.
"Oh… oh God that's right, I did say I'd bring you one, didn't I?"
"You did."
"I don't understand… how could I have forgotten?"
Hermione shrank away from him, running an anxious hand through her hair. Last night she'd… she'd been at her parents. Yes, and then this morning she'd meant to grab some titles for him but the scale situation had quite captured her attention.
"Granger, don't fret, it's just a silly list."
"No, but I said… I promised I would and then... and then…"
She really had meant to do it. She'd come home from her parents and… and…
She must have gone to bed early. Work had been running her ragged lately and these new strange mornings certainly hadn't helped her state of mind.
For a moment, Malfoy almost looked concerned about her well-being. But then he flashed a smirk.
"Forget about it. Let's just say you owe me now, how about that?"
"Owe you?"
"Precisely. Should I ever be in need of a bureaucratic favour, I think it's well within my rights to ask it of you now."
There was the prat she knew.
"Goodbye Malfoy."
Hermione breathed a sigh of relief. Ready for work and no sign of any physical deformities today. She still avoided any mirrors as she left for the Ministry, but when Malfoy regarded her normally, she knew nothing strange had occurred.
"Morning Granger. Any fun projects you're working on today?"
"How is that your business?"
"Only wondering what it is you get up to at that Ministry job."
"Why are you so interested in my work?"
"I'm interested in many things."
"And my job duties are interesting to you?"
"They could be. Why don't you try and tell me about them?"
"I don't have time for your nonsense today Malfoy."
"Should you ever find time to fit me in, you know where I'll be Granger," he called after her retreating form.
The lack of physical suffering made room in her brain for thinking about Malfoy. It was unfair the way he'd been able to get under her skin with that parting shot.
Fit him in.
Borderline inappropriate. No, definitely inappropriate. Especially for one to holler in the Ministry Atrium in front of dozens of other colleagues. Merlin, had other people also heard him and interpreted it in the most vulgar way possible?
Then again, it wasn't truly vulgar, perhaps Hermione was being a bit harsh. He'd only ever been collegial with her, but of course her frazzled self just had to go and think of the double meaning of his statement in the most scandalous way.
He always made it a point to speak with her. Every single morning. And despite his teasing comment about asking her for a favour, he had yet to do so. He was a difficult man to read on the best of days: all winning smiles, crisp suit, perfectly coiffed hair, a jovial tone to his banter. But unreadable eyes.
Surely Malfoy had better things to do than wait around for her to show up in the mornings just to bother her?
Then again, could Hermione honestly say it was a bother? Or perhaps did a not so insignificant part of her sometimes eagerly anticipate these verbal sparring rounds? He'd not once been unkind, just consistently toed the line of being an irksome prat if she'd not slept well.
Which unfortunately, seemed to occur often these days.
She never saw him greet or speak with anyone else. What did he do once they completed their friendly morning routine? Did he take up his post again by the Floos and await another witch to semi-flirt with again?
Hermione had many questions about Draco Malfoy, and not enough details to string together a reliable picture of an honest man.
What did she know about him? He possessed an obscene amount of wealth, that was a fact. A fact in the way he dressed but also in the way he confidently carried himself, the way many of a certain tax bracket did. That assuredness of never having to fret over financial security but stretched to the absurd degree of the Malfoy fortune, it rolled off him in waves. Never mind that he didn't seem to boast about it in the way he would at school. But that type of wealth had its own signifiers: his clothes, his posture, the smirk.
So why did a man with an ungodly amount of money and no need to seek out gainful employment spend his weekday mornings hanging about the Ministry? He may not have asked a favour of Hermione yet, but that didn't mean he wasn't asking others.
But what could Malfoy possibly need from the Ministry? Influence? Power?
Well, reasoned Hermione, the only way to get answers would be to go directly to the source.
"Morning Granger, what are you— ?"
"Why are you here?"
"Can't I just say a friendly hello at the start of our day?"
"You don't even work here."
"How would you know? Maybe I have a super-secret position with top security clearance."
"Unlikely. I think you just loiter about to bother me and then flounce off to do… whatever it is that you do."
"And isn't that just so mysterious? You can admit I intrigue you, just a bit."
Of course he intrigued her. Hermione hated that he knew it, too. It meant he held the slightest bit of an advantage over her, in addition to the physical height advantage. Malfoy could look down that sharp nose and make her feel as if she were just a beat behind.
She stared back, unwilling to back down from this silent challenge. What did he want her to see? To understand?
Normally a dull grey in hue, but when she gave him direct eye contact now, his eyes sparkled with an intensity of the brightest silver. Polished and gleaming.
Passionate eyes. She'd seen them flash this colour in hurt when she'd taunted him for buying his way onto the Slytherin quidditch team in their Second Year. Just before he'd hurled a slur at her.
They'd flashed this colour every time Harry beat him at quidditch.
When he helped capture them all in Fifth Year for Umbridge.
Hurt, defeat, and triumph. More expressive than she'd realised.
But she'd seen them give off other strong emotions too. Reactions and emotions that felt familiar yet out of reach.
The best way to sum up her current relationship with Malfoy: familiar, yet just out of reach. Accessibly inaccessible.
And now those burning, close eyes wanted Hermione to throw out her best guess. Wanted the "brightest witch" to deduce the grand meaning behind it all.
Curiosity lost out to annoyance. Annoyance at herself for being unable to decipher the unspoken code, annoyance that she'd allowed herself to be caught up in whatever game he played, and annoyance at him for having devised it at all.
She stepped back from him and looked away.
"Goodbye Malfoy."
"See you tomorrow Granger."
"Something funny about what I said?"
"No, of course not. I'm just surprised is all."
"What's surprising about it? An Auror is a highly respected career."
"It doesn't seem like… like you."
"How would you know anyway?"
"It's challenging, and you like a challenge, but it's too…"
"Too what? Too noble? Too hard for someone not willing to work for it?"
"Too simple."
"Simple. Is this something I'm allowed to throw in Potter's face?"
"Simple magically. There's Dark magic out there and the Aurors chase it down and put a stop to it. They don't study it, don't try to understand it, they exist to snuff it out. What we do… there's finesse involved. A respect for knowledge. For creation."
"You're... I suppose you're right. This does allow us to recognise the value in less… shall we say conventional magic."
"Precisely. I truly think being an Auror would have bored you to tears."
"Perhaps. Plus I'm not allowed to apply anyway. Son of an imprisoned Death Eater and all…"
A/N: Thanks for reading! Find me on tumblr: heyjude19-writing