After the dulling acceptance of it, Hermione seemed to circle around in her grieving. During the short walk back to her dormitory, she convinced herself that Draco Malfoy was not capable of living without her. The idea of them not being together after everything was so unimaginably ludicrous she couldn't truly believe him. He had always been childish and this was just one of his silly tantrums which she'd allow to play out.
The thought of him trying to trick her into breaking up with him left a bitter resentment on her tongue. If she were honest she believed wholeheartedly that she had a right to him, a burning necessity that took precedence over frivolous things such as safety and reason; and what inflamed her fury more was to know he felt the same tireless compulsion only to try to deny himself of yielding to it.
And all because of some stupid heroic notion that he needed to protect her. Her mind traveled to Cormac McLaggen as she climbed back into bed. She wanted to kiss him just to antagonize Draco; to punish him, hurt him. Because what she really wanted was to inflict some semblance of pain. But the idea of anyone else's lips on hers other than his was unbearable, not to mention, unfaithful. She was still his as much as he was hers.
Just a tantrum, she repeated. Let him throw it. It won't matter in the morning.
This small assurance allowed her a peaceful sleep but when she awoke any trace of denial was gone. She skipped past anger. She understood in the morning light that there was no bargaining with Draco… and there was no bargaining with Voldemort.
Hermione heard, rather than saw, the telltale signs of movement. Ginny, Lavender, and Parvarti were waking up. Then they were getting ready for the school day and she knew she should be doing so too, but she couldn't move. The pillow nestled between her thighs was warm. Neville was meant to meet her in the library so they could finish a herbology report together. Yet her eyes felt dry and tired and the library was so far away. She also had an Arthimancy essay to turn in after lunch. Still, she couldn't move.
Because it didn't matter. None of it mattered.
"Hermione," said a soft voice, touching her arm.
Ginny was speaking, asking her if the scars were bothering her or if she were in any pain.
"No," she replied. Thanks to Snape and Madam Pomfrey she had none. Nothing at all, not even a single scratch to mark that Harry had ever cursed her.
"What's wrong then?" asked Gin, her red hair catching in the light like fire.
Everything, she wanted to say. But her lips said nothing, instead, reaching for a strand of smooth ginger hair, thinking of how different it was to Draco's smooth blonde.
Her friend went to the door and called out, "Go ahead, I have to take Hermione to Madam Pomfrey for a checkup." Then Ginny closed the door, climbed into bed with her, under the covers and held her tightly, asking nothing, saying nothing and Hermione had never felt more grateful for the silence.
That was a week ago and anything that had transpired between the golden Trio and Draco Malfoy had become old news. Especially today, with the school in an uproar about the Quidditch match between Slytherin & Hufflepuff, she'd thankfully become invisible once more. Things between her, Harry and Ron had been stifled. Neither had asked her about Draco and yet they seemed to know, to sense what had happened between them. She assumed Ginny had told them and then ordered them not to ask her about it. Hermione had waited though, expecting Ron to say, I told you so, for some smart remark or reprisal but instead, he said nothing, not to her, nor to anyone else when they'd asked what happened. He took great care of her as if she were a Fabergé egg, a delicate, fragile thing. Harry, on the other hand, was distant and distracted, and she was secretly pleased not to have to deal with them both coddling her. She wanted to thank him for keeping Draco's secret, to ask why he had, but she was afraid if she brought it up and out into the open he'd change his mind. To be fair, she felt a little sorry for him. Harry had many secrets to keep and others to uncover, one in particular which kept eluding him, was the memory Professor Dumbledore had asked Harry to retrieve from Slughorn. He had yet to do so...
Toying with her breakfast Hermione sneaked a glance at Draco sitting in his Quidditch gear. He looked… fine. Neither sad nor happy. He was sitting among his teammates, his arms on the table, leaning forward, his undivided attention on Urquhart as the Slytherin Captain spoke in a hushed conspiratorial tone. Hermione understood how much this stupid sport meant to him, how hard he'd been training all these months to win the Quidditch Cup and she felt stupid for not understanding the truth behind the desperation of it. Only after she'd discovered his plan to run once the school year was over, she'd realized he was determined to win because he wouldn't have the chance in the coming year, or possibly any other. She'd stopped nagging him about his constant training and pre-dawn departures. She'd begun coaxing him out of bed on those particularly lazy mornings he didn't want to leave the warmth of her and rubbed his shoulders on the days his muscles ached.
"Hermione?" whispered Ron, who'd caught her staring at her food again.
Without lifting her gaze she asked, "Who do you think will win?"
His silence made her look up. Ron's lips were a tight line.
"I don't know," he clipped after several moments. Then his eyes danced over her face and his jaw slackened as he shrugged, "It's hard to say. Slytherin seems to have made a good comeback but... like I said, it's hard to say."
Hermione went back to staring at her food. The Quidditch match would start soon. She bit her lip, her mind racing trying to figure out a way to be there for him without being there. To love him from afar.
Giving Ron a small smile she said, "I'm going to go study. I'll meet you later?"
"You aren't going to watch?" he asked perturbed. "I thought…"
She gave a little shake of the head.
He nodded in understanding, which was a strange thing because he normally never seemed to understand and he hated things as they were. He hated it more than anything... The truth, the full awareness of her lies; their broken relationship, but he let her be, he let her grieve and most importantly, he never, ever brought up Draco. He might as well have been dead to him.
Leaving the castle, she made her way to the Quidditch pitch. A mild breeze blew by and the scent of Draco came to her, as it sometimes did, in phantom drafts when it wasn't there; and she imagined that maybe it was really there, carried through the castle and grounds from where he was to her. She breathed in again and it was gone. The weather was lovely that morning and given another life she imagined a quiet picnic under the sun, grass in between her toes, soft soil underfoot. Small pleasures like those were what she hoped to have with him one day. The closest they'd come to something normal like that was on Valentine's day. Blinking away the memories she found she'd already reached the middle of the field, her head tilted to the sun. Drawing her wand and pointing it to the sky, Hermione began the incantation. The spell itself would only hold a short while but hopefully, it'd be long enough for him to see.
"Avis Luteus," she intoned, watching as specks of golden dust began to form at the tip of her wand.
She poured her heart into the spell.
Avis Luteus.
She felt his hand over hers again, guiding her.
Avis Luteus.
His breath along her ear, encouraging her.
Avis Luteus.
She remembered turning to smile at him, as he realized with perfect clarity the gravity of what he felt for her.
Hermione watched with a grin on her face as not one, but dozens and dozens of little golden birds flitted around, filling the sky above her, glinting like galleons.
After a few moments, she lowered her wand.
This was her gift… and she prayed that when he saw it, he'd understand, it was love.
Some hours later, the Gryffindor common room which had been mercifully quiet began to fill with the loud chatter of students bursting through the portrait. Chewing at her lip she closed the book in her lap and stood from her seat on the couch. She'd been re-reading an old potions textbook just to numb her mind.
"Who won?" she asked abruptly, interrupting a second-year who was in a heated conversation with another girl.
The girl in question, whose name Hermione kept forgetting, answered, "Slytherin." Then recovering quickly from the shock of a sixth year speaking to her added, "their seeker caught the snitch."
Hermione broke into a grin. "Oh," she laughed, a hand covering her mouth. "That's—"
"Bad!" she exclaimed with wide eyes. "If we don't beat Ravenclaw we'll lose the Quidditch Cup and I heard that Harry Potter can't play—"
She let out a big bark full of mirthful laughter. The girl looked horrified and then indignant.
"Don't you care?" she huffed, her little hands placed on her hips.
"I do," she answered, smiling at the honesty of the question. She finally gave a damn about Quidditch. "I care… I care very much."
Then she walked up to her room to be quiet and alone— because, for the first time since Harry had cursed her, she was happy. He'd been banned from playing the final match and it made her glad. Who knew that his true punishment would be the Quidditch Cup?
Serves him bloody right, she smiled to herself.