Chapter 11
Necessary Roughness
Hermione Granger climbed atop the wooden stands, seemingly abandoned in the absence of a Quidditch match. It was cold. Colder than cold. She chose a seat toward the center of the stand, out of direct wind, and charmed it with a warming charm. Still, her butt froze only a minute after sitting.
The grassy length of the Pitch was long. Blades moved with the wind as it whipped across the fields into the beyond of the grounds. A sharp whistle came with each gust. The hoops of the Goalposts were the most likely culprit. They sang higher than a siren as the force of nature pushed air through their center.
She'd sat along the side of this Quidditch Pitch many times throughout the years. Harry played first year. Ronald started on the team, too. Fred and George played as Beaters on the Gryffindor, so they were cheered for as well. So many times in the stands. Alone. She watched her best friends endure so many injuries that she could have prevented. Or prevented all together if they didn't play.
They all thought she hated the game which was not a fair assumption. She liked it. She attended the matches and cheered on from the stands as they battled their opponents. Just because she didn't solely focus her existence as school entirely on a sport and speak of it incessantly didn't mean she was incapable of enjoying said sport.
The truth was, Quidditch made her queasy. Her hands and feet tingled when she watched people dangle from their brooms so high in the sky. She hated flying. Brooms were her enemy. Heights made her deathly afraid.
Her mouth watered and thoughts spun when they'd zoom up higher than the clouds. It was usually Harry. He always blindly did dangerous things. It was going to be the death of him. And her.
She crossed her ankles, pressed her thighs firmly together and tensed her entire body against the wind. The hope of a short practice on her mind.
Members of the Slytherin House team filtered onto the grass from the locker room below. Their bodies were small against the enormity of the Pitch. Five hundred feet long and one hundred eighty feet wide, the team were less threatening little blemishes atop the shiny grass. School uniforms were only required for formal matches. Draco wore solid black. His porcelain hair was a giveaway. Otherwise the players blended in.
As the practice started, nevertheless, she recognized two lumpy figures last to the pitch. One was shorter than the other. Both were built like boulders. They swung their legs over their brooms rather lazily and flew upward where the rest of the team awaited them. She chuckled as Crabbe huffed. His fingers fumbled with his beaters bat in hand. It was tough to switch hands with him clung so tight to the broomstick.
A sharp voice boomed out over the pitch. Words were lost in the distance. Still, the way Crabbe reacted, it needed no translation.
Goyle and Crabbe were the team's newest members. Their beater bats were short and blunt pieces of wood that hanged off their arms with a great weight. It took Crabbe a good hop to swing the instrument around to have it worthy of using. Then when a push of wind came, his cape helped pull away from his stance. It took him an entire minute to ready himself again.
Crabbe's cape was a problem for Goyle. It whipped in his line of vision as he watched his teammates demonstrate techniques. He exclaimed something of a colorful variety and pushed his friend away.
Green capes fluttered higher as Crabbe and Goyle's instruction continued. The other players tossed a Quaffle around in a playful game of catch.
During a match, the Slytherin team was a ruthless competitor who stopped at nothing, even slight cheating, to win. Hermione observed a different side of them. They practiced like childish boys.
One player dropped his hold of his broom, swirled around so only his knees kept him attached to it, and caught the Quaffle. All while flying! Hermione was at the edge of her seat as she watched. He recovered topside and tossed the ball to another teammate with a satisfied smirk on his face.
Was this common practice for all the teams? It'd had better not be. If she found out Ronald, or for Godric's sake Harry Potter, did moves like that, she'd have them buried in statistics of athletic injuries and the damage they cause.
Hermione scanned the Pitch for a player with white blonde hair, but he was nowhere to be found. She hopped at attention focusing harder on the players. Where had he gone?
Just as she thought of standing for a better vantage point, a dark shadow cascaded down the stands. Overhead levitated a body.
She started to smile, concocted a snarky remark in her mouth, until she saw the green.
Draco didn't wear green.
"Still don't have anything better to do, I see."
She bit back a smirk. "Someone's got to feed that ridiculous ego of his."
Terry Higgs dropped lower in his hover. He was adorned in Slytherin green except for the black of his trousers. He'd tied his dark hair tightly at the crown of his head. The dark smudge of his beard had already come back.
"I'd rather jump off the Astrology Tower than do that." He chuckled. "Suppose he's still got that rule against me, doesn't he?"
"Rule?" She forced a bit of confusion in the air.
"It's not that much of a leap. He tells me to back off and tells you to stay away. You know a Malfoy. They love to make their rules."
Hermione feigned indifference. "Hm. Really? I hadn't noticed."
"Surprised he doesn't have you out here in a number three jersey," Terry said. "That's what his rules are about, aren't they? You're like his girlfriend."
Girlfriend. Draco Malfoy's mudblood girlfriend.
It would be like her marrying her rapist. He was the terror of her nightmares. The only reason she was there with him was because she had no choice. Things were too tight for Harry to be lured into a duel. Harry couldn't help himself. He's been off in his own angry world of grief and isolation that he'd leap into any chance to prove himself and give Umbridge all that she needed to ruin his life.
Hermione was doing her duty as his best friend and someone who depended upon Harry's survival.
"He is rather possessive over his things," she replied.
Higgs frowned. Those bubbles underneath her skin defused. She was a pathetic excuse of a witch in his eyes. It was just another notch underneath Malfoy's belt.
"So, you're one of things now?"
She nodded. It hurt with each motion. "I suppose I am."
A hollow echo bounced around the Pitch. Higgs overlooked his shoulder where a group of green capes waited. They waved him over. Members of the Slytherin team descended upon the center of the field. Terry flew off and joined them. Across the Pitch, a patch of blonde hair appeared like a whimsical fairy as it danced in the fast gusts of the broom. Malfoy skidded to halt into the congregation.
Practice continued.
Players started to split. There were two groups. They grew with each new entry until there were no new players to introduce. Each group took to their side and aligned in their playing positions. Draco sat highest, whereas the chasers were closer to the ground.
Team captain walked on the grass. He placed the balls center field.
All players were instructed to close their eyes. Once he was satisfied, the captain released the snitch and watched it fly out of vision. At the call of his voice, all the players opened their eyes and started the fight for the Quaffle. A collision of green upon green.
Crabbe struggled the hardest at the start. He had to switch hands to adjust himself on his broom and transfer the bat each time. It made for slow game play.
Out of the grinding pull of the pile of players came a victor: Terry Higgs. He flew with the Quaffle in his arm as fast as he could. Others flew after him. They pulled at his cape. Two tried to collect him between their brooms and shove him out of the goal path, but the apt flyer dipped down at the last minute, Quaffle still in his grasp.
He wove through the hordes of players. His teammates were excellent, but so were his opponents. His arm rose to just toss into the hoop when he was shoved rather hard out of the path.
Hermione's breath caught. It was Malfoy!
The glimpse of his black shadow against the green of Terry as he flew by the hoop, narrowly missing the goalpost. By the time Terry recovered his thoughts from having almost given himself the world's worst headache, Malfoy had sped away after the Golden Snitch. The game resumed.
Draco's team grabbed hold of the Quaffle and managed to score. His team cheered, lifting their arms in the air victorious as the other team struggled to gain hold of the ball. Goyle managed to swing his bat and knock a player off their broom. Higgs team was down a player.
A sandy haired boy raced through the towers of the arena with an outstretched arm. He looked young. His broom extended far out in front of him as he flew by.
Suddenly the black shadow emerged once more. He was after the snitch. It reflected off the rare glimpse of sun through a thick blanket of clouds. Just as Hermione thought she spied it, the grey covered the light and the snitch was lost.
A cheering captured her attention once more.
Terry's team scored a point. His arm pumped. A cheery smile on his face was shared by his teammates. They rode their brooms with puffed chests the closer they flew toward the opposing team, who'd grabbed the Quaffle.
He formed a fist. As he came behind the player with the Quaffle, he swung his arm and popped the ball from the player's arm right into his teammates. He then blocked the others from pursuing his teammate by swerving within their paths of flight. They all stopped short. One slipped from their straddle atop the broomstick. Their chest piece helped displace their weight and toppled them over, only a few fingers still clenched onto the wood.
Hermione's hands flew to her wand, convinced the player was about to fall, when he managed to climb back aboard.
It was a stark comparison to the childish fun they'd had at the beginning of their practice. This was nasty. They shoved, and pushed, and injured their own teammates. What was worst was that their teammates accepted it without grudge. A Slytherin! Not holding a grudge. It was another species. Her eyes stared without rest at the workings of the team. They focused on the task at hand with great intensity, violently fought for something as simple as a goal, then returned to their playful selves at the sound of the goal. The Quaffle actually whistled through the hoops.
Terry Higgs and two other teammates moved once more. This time they were a straight line of defense as the other team charged at them. The other team broke their line to avoid a crash and in the process opened up their Quaffle. It took only a few seconds for the chasers, Terry included, to surround the player. Again, he was met with a dark entity as Malfoy and his teammates fought off their advancement. It was clear that he was stronger than need be. Terry whipped back on his broom. The two collided again as they pushed against each other. She thought they'd forgotten the game completely until there was a moment where Malfoy turned and flew straight into the clouds.
There was another score on Terry's team. Crabbe finally managed to swing his bat at a few players. It didn't hit them, but it was a moderate success on his part.
All hope seemed lost for Draco Malfoy's team. Terry Higgs was a strong competitor. He and his teammates worked together like an agile snake in the sky. Each motion carefully aligned with the others.
Slytherin was known for their aggressive matches. They used every advantage to gain success. It was hard on the other players. Many got hurt. Their ruthlessness was an undisputed fact of the castle.
This Slytherin, the one in front of her eyes, was another fact all together. Sure, there seemed to be a fair amount of fights and aggression. Crabbe and Goyle liked their positions as beaters too much. Malfoy, too, did his fair share of disruption. Yet, they played an excellent game.
It took a bit of pride out of her sails that Gryffindor wasn't nearly so attuned.
Malfoy and his billowing black cape lowered through the center of the field; his hand raised high. In it was the smallest ball of the game: the Golden Snitch.
The team captain called game. Malfoy's team were the victors. They hooted and chanted their nasty little rhymes at the other players as they flew around. Goyle pounded his own chest with the beaters bat like it didn't hurt. Hermione clapped quietly in the stands. She'd forgotten the chill of the late afternoon for a moment and felt glad that Malfoy had won. She was there for him, and he won. That was something.
Practice finished forty minutes later just as the sky started a darker turn indicating the coming rain on the wind. That pleasant smell rode the wind, a siren's call of nature. It tickled her ears with tiny drops. A kiss from the pending storm.
Hermione hugged herself as she fought the wind down the stands. It wanted her flesh. The push and pull tugged at the loose ends, wherever it could enter beneath her shield, icing the pale body under its touch. The cold set in her bones. It encapsulated her lungs in a tight embrace with each breath cinching tighter.
The Slytherin team eyed her closely as they entered the locker room. Most just slipped out of their gear and left just as quick. They tilted their heads to the sky, concerned of the rain.
She waited patiently. And waited then anxiously.
Malfoy was the only one left that hadn't exited the room. The last teammate was up the hill beyond sight already.
When he fully emerged, he was still adorned in his black practice gear. He was a wraith, in his billowing black. The only show of humanity was the red burn of the wind across his cheeks.
He gestured her to follow him. Eager to escape the wind's torment, she entered the room.
He stood before a bench where his fingerless gloves laid. He worked at the arm guards. The pale hairs of his brow fell as he focused. His fingers moved stiff against the leather ties. They were bright red. Almost raw. He winced as he stole a breath.
Hermione frowned. "Let me," she said quietly.
She parted the knots with caution and freed his pale skin from their constraint. They were placed at the bench next to his gloves.
He examined her closely. A distrustful glaze clouded his grey orbs.
She gave a small smile. "I'm not going to curse you."
Although there was hesitation in the tension, Hermione bent down to remove his shin guards. It was deathly silent as she worked. He stayed though. Not a muscle moved as she was in front of him. Even more impressive, he refrained from a snide comment easily constructed in the position she was in.
One guard was undone, then the other. As she rose, she saw the lax hold in his shoulder. It was slumped down in its socket. He pulled the arm close to his body, a subtle way to support it.
For a moment, she forgot who he was. She prodded the arm with a faint touch. It was enflamed, sore. Her hands ghosted across the shoulder blade. The taut muscle tensed beneath the flow of her fingertips. Hermione lost herself in the feeling. She stood behind him, assessed the damaged tissues, and started to work her hands with gentle pressure up his spine. When she reached the shoulder, her fingers clamped the muscle and stretched it down the length, rounded back and stretched it again.
Harry played Quidditch first year. He was often sore from practice. One day he'd been so in need of soothing, Hermione massaged his back. It was completely platonic. She wanted him to feel better. Ron took it the wrong way and she heard about it for weeks after.
She remembered the feedback that Harry had given. She mumbled, half in thought, "I'm not sure if this helps with a shirt on - ."
Malfoy quickly cut in, albeit in a very gentle, soft way. "I'll take it off."
Her pulse quickened as the bare expanse of his back was exposed. She was in awe. It took a moment to collect the Gryffindor courage and touch him again. It was the same chest he had at the Black Lake, that was true, but it felt far more intimate this time. She touched him in comfort. Her hands worked over his muscles, stretching and rubbing down the length of his back.
What shocked her the most was the heat that radiated. Her hands and face warmed in close proximity, despite the idea that Draco Malfoy was known to be an ice-cold wizard. The pale porcelain skin didn't aid that image either. It should be cold.
Relief came in waves. She watched the shoulders sink from their resolute thrones high in the sockets down to a more comfortable position the longer her hands massaged.
There was complete silence. Wind groaned against the structure and a sparse applause of rain beat against the boards, but the room was dead quiet as she worked.
His heart was palpable below her touch. It thudded violently.
She rested her right hand atop his shoulder as she brought her left to his side and worked. A warmth surrounded the hand.
Malfoy rested his hand on hers. She stopped. Her heart did anything but.
Juicy sliding sensation swirled her abdomen. It moved down deeper, into the throbbing core of her excitement. His heat transformed into hot tension. The dense cloud of his musk, a haze of perfume in her mind. She noticed the ripping tension down his back. Their defined edges beneath the stretched flesh. The heat. It beckoned her closer. A bead of sweat fell down the risen edges of his spine in a delightfully slow descent. Her eyes followed as the bead disappeared within the waist of his taut Quidditch trousers.
Sparks started at her bellybutton. The delicious drop of pleasure fought against the rational, logical repulsion she expected herself to feel rather than urges she prided herself on not having.
Romance was ridiculous. Dating was fruitless in youth. Lust, a typical by product of a budding teenage body, nothing to surrender to momentary bodily responses.
Hermione couldn't help herself. The hormones were stronger than her resolve.
He was in pain. So was she.
She moved closer, lips quivered as she struggled with control, and caressed the flesh of his back with her lips. They closed at the base of his shoulder blade.
Malfoy moved. Her kiss had encouraged him to confront her. They were face to face now. His own face was easily as unreadable as were her feelings.
The air turned electric. She felt something surge up around them. Whatever it was, it was powerful. Pouring rain stopped its patter against the walls. Wind moved soundlessly. A force, invisible and unyielding, protected them in a sensory deprived space where only the other was a thing they noticed.
His eyes. They held a come-hither glow. The icy cold dropped from his stare.
She found herself on her toes, closer to his face. Strands of his hair fell from place as he, too, leaned in close. A faint feeling of touch spread up the side of her face as his fingers cupped just below her jaw and reached upward. Their eyes aligned. She was unable to look away. A vulnerability to Malfoy that she saw only this close left her enthralled.
Their lips touched. At first, Hermione felt only the lightest touch of his lips against hers, but their pressure became firmer the longer they stayed. He pushed into her harder than she pressed into him. She was too distracted by the dazzling sparkles beneath her eyelids to realize it might seem unwilling. To make up for it, her tongue delicately caressed the closure of his mouth, spelling out her desire in an unmistakable way.
Malfoy was still slow and careful as his tongue joined hers. It massaged her tongue, flicking and licking with a tickling pressure. She was in instant raptures. His taste invaded her senses. All she read was the distinct, yet sweet, taste that would always be assigned to Draco Malfoy.
The locker room would be the place where she snogged Malfoy after practice. Luckily she didn't ever enter the place beneath the stands, but she saw it plenty. That part of Hogwarts, along with that corridor, would be places forever engrained in her mind. When she walked by that stretch in the castle, she blushed violently at the physical display of lust. Lust that overpowered her senses.
The moment was too impossible to resist. Her body was alive with a burning fire; the epicenter was his palm against her cheek.
There was a firm hold at her waist that pulled her flush against his naked torso. Heat filled her hands as they rested against his chest.
It would have been the moment to push away. Her hands were poised in the perfect position. It was time.
The slick snakes of desire had other plans. Hermione laced her hands around his neck and pulled him deeper into her. The taste of his tongue was a delicacy she wanted to savor with every last second. Every last drop. The edges of his lips curled with a huff out of his nose.
When their lips stopped kissing in favor of a deep breath, Hermione noticed how he kept his face close to hers. Their foreheads rested together as they breathed each other's hot, excited air. And she knew he was excited. It dug into her stomach very obviously.
She ventured a glance upward and noticed he wore a very visible smirk. The softness was in his features. He breathed with his eyes closed tight. Smirk still on his mouth.
Her breath caught. Was it all a Slytherin trick?
The silent of the air made it easy for him to notice her change in rhythm. His eyes burned bright as they examined her, reading her features. She blushed, poised her eyes at her feet where they seemed better suited than the alluring expanse of his chest, and loosened her hands.
His hands flew to hers, holding her there against his neck. The soft touch rubbed down her thumbs as he held them. His lips parted. Their moisture glistened.
Malfoy kissed her again, swallowing the gasp right out of her mouth. Her body lurched at the opportunity, threw it into overdrive, and sent a wave of ravaging hormones against her better judgement, and collided with his body all over again. His hands pulled at her urgently. They explored down the length of her sides. One hand ran close to her arse. He paused the journey as if to ask for permission. She nodded through their snog.
The roar of thunder overhead broke the daze.
Malfoy's lips remained millimeters from hers. "Gryffindor will be here soon."
The icy chill of the rain burned her raw lips. She found herself nodding without a word. It was time to stop. Stop snogging. Stop…
Malfoy and Hermione parted in the castle. They agreed to meet in the library after he cleaned up from practice. There was a softness in his features as he beheld her. She was rather smitten with it.
In a way, she could see how girls fell in love with him so often. He was handsome. He made a great effort to be, which was so over the top and pathetic, and she hated to admit it, but it was a job well done.
She was on her way back to the Gryffindor dorm when Ron ran into her.
"Mione!" He said excitedly, though not too loud to attract the attention of anyone else. "Mione, come quick. Where have you been? We found it."
"Found what?" She asked.
"The perfect place to meet in secret."
He'd made a point to say it quietly so that the statement was only shared between the pair.
Of course! Training. She'd tried to reread through old Hogwarts: A History version to see if there was anything that yielded a place forgotten by all but the school itself. It was a priority. Well, until Malfoy came along.
She excitedly embraced him. "Ronald! That's excellent. Who found it?"
He gave a lazy smile. She rather liked it on him.
Ronald was an attractive wizard, in his own way. It was not obvious like Draco Malfoy or that Cormac. He was a more subtle looking wizard with piercing sky-blue eyes and a kind smile. He had red lips that contrasted his peachy flesh. He had normal but nice red hair. There were little bubbles of interest at her throat when she noticed the shine of that smile.
Godric! Malfoy had her seeing all sorts of things she ignored. Lust, desire, yearning, attractiveness. It was a lower plane of thinking. Genetic predispositions were no basis for quality. Actual work from the person itself was what made a person attractive, not just the things they were given at birth.
A quizzical look crossed his face. "What's that for?"
Oh no. He noticed!
"Nothing. I've just got a load on my mind," she lied. It was coming far too easy. She wanted to be ashamed. "I am relieved though. Harry needs this."
"You're tellin' me. Never seen him so happy. It's like he's won the House Cup."
They started to walk together. It wasn't too far to walk from the Gryffindor Tower to an empty stretch of hall that opened to a room filled with the mysteries of the castle.
She gasped. "The Room of Requirement. Of course. Why didn't I think of it before?"
Because Malfoy's taste was so delicious.
Harry and Ron had notified the list of participants where they'd meet and gathered them all together for the first official gathering. Hermione wringed her hands. If it took too long, Malfoy would notice. What would she tell him?
The Come and Go Room, or Room of Requirement, was lined with wooden bookcases and instead of chairs there were large silk cushions on the floor. A set of shelves at the far end of the room carried a range of instruments such as Sneakoscopes, Secrecy Sensors, and a large, cracked Foe Glass that Harry was sure had hung, the previous year, in the fake Moody's office. And it was all for their use.
Harry greeted Hermione with a sly smile. "What do you think?"
He glanced around, and scratched his head, as he waited her response. Harry was different. She appraised the change in his eyes. Their green was no longer calm in their socket but fixed rather dark. They were sunken in his head. Nights of fitful sleep their culprit. In the light, Hermione swore they reminded her of bruised eyes from a fight.
She stared too long. He shrugged his shoulders. "Is it a misuse of school property?"
"Definitely. That's exactly what we need if we're going to train. Look at how large our Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom is. It wasn't made for just reading books," she said. He sighed in relief.
They had done it. They'd found the spot in Hogwarts that would keep them unseen.
During the meeting, when Hermione was able to steal away a moment to herself out of conversation, she tried to breathe. She hadn't thought just how relieved she'd feel once it happened. The place she needed to learn how to defend herself.
It would come easy to Harry, being their official leader and all. He knew so much. Experience – horrible experience – prepared him for the horrors that were Voldemort and evil incarnate. Hermione shared in a few, but the mental havoc it played on him. She wasn't sure she'd ever be prepared.
There was a tap at her shoulder as their peers talked of naming the group. Ron had broken away from the flow of the conversation and sidled up close to her in her realm of quiet.
"You never answered my question," he said bluntly.
Her eyes popped. "I beg your pardon."
"I asked where you were, remember?" He kept his eyes at her face for only a moment before they glanced back to their other best friend, who looked the happiest they'd seen all year long. Harry's visible glee radiated off him. It encouraged the others to step closer and listen. "You were with Malfoy, weren't you?"
The proper answer was silence. Her heart rejected lying to him twice in one day. It hurt. The trusting way he acknowledged her words like gospel only made a lie burn twice as much. Ronald was dear and kind, when he wasn't busy being an absolute idiot.
But it was for them that she allowed Malfoy to keep her company in the first place. They were too easily baited into fighting. He was able to draw their wands quicker than Voldemort himself, and that was just first year! Stakes were bigger this year. Bigger than Harry and Ron even realized. They might not have felt it, but she did.
War was coming.
The longer Harry stayed at Hogwarts and out of view, the safer it was. Outside the walls of the castle protected by the strongest witches and wizards of the time, he was as good as dead.
"I already have to watch one of you," Ronald said with a sigh. "Don't make me watch you too."
She forced a smile that more fractured her esteem than built it. "He needs you more than I do."
"What are you doing with him? Really. He can't be nice to you. I know that. Bloke can't bully you all these years and just change his mind, can he?"
If you only knew what changed his mind, she thought.
To say she wasn't still dazzled by Draco Malfoy would be a lie. She rushed back to the library to meet him just as they'd agreed. She hated how eager she felt. Her heart fluttered behind the cage of her chest the closer her feet came to the place she knew he'd be. The fallen locks of her curls brushed against her cheeks. They were rather wily. Time out in the wind had feathered out their ends in a fluffy plume. She knotted them back. At least she wouldn't look out of a wild nature show.
The library was warm. Scent of firewood filled the air. It was cozy, quiet against the pouring rain. Thunder echoed outside. The rolling gray clouds darkened the windows in the illusion of night.
She greeted Madame Pince and inquired after new titles, to which the old librarian gave a smile and the same answer she did the day before, which was there would not be any new titles for a time and she'd reach out if there was anything she thought Hermione might like.
A flash of platinum blonde hair caught the corner of her eye. He retreated to a darkened corner of the library. It was by the volumes of Ministry regulations by year, for the past century. Needless to say, it was not popular. The winged back chairs smelled musty and stiff, as if never once sat in. However, there was the delighted rumor of Malfoy and Pansy using the chair for some thrilling voyeurism. Not that she cared to find out.
Her feet moved through the aisle of the library until she found him, rigidly sitting and staring at the opening between the shelves.
She paused. It was difficult to translate his body language into something understandable. Was it anger that she'd bothered him or did his face look extremely tight from exhaustion?
He leaned back in his seat. The length of his fingers gripped the rests. The very same fingers that ran over her body earlier. She started at them against the dark fabric, which only gave a lighter playful smirk on the Slytherin's face.
Hermione flushed slight.
He produced a book of his own as she settled into the armchair at his side and even watched her adjust her legs to be crossed in the cushion. It looked like curiosity rather than disgust. She took it as acceptance and continued.
She happily read through her pleasure book, a book she had for pure enjoyment, not education, that she made a point to read at least once per day. It helped her relax. The pressure of studying and learning constant dragged a bit on the other areas of life that she enjoyed. Pleasure reading was the key to her success at Hogwarts. She never let herself get too overwhelmed that she couldn't kick back with a novel and hot cup of tea to spend an hour wrapped up in a world unlike her own.
The rainstorm cooled the castle to frigid temperatures. The corridors were seriously drafty. Madame Pince struggled with her circulation, so she overcompensated in the frighteningly stoked fire. It blazed on so that the old witch could warm her toes as she glared at noisy breathers and rule breakers.
It became uncomfortable in the stifling jumper. She was aware that Malfoy watched her actions closely and bit her lip as she moved as slowly as possible. It took ages for the zipper to reach the bottom without making a sound. Then came the adjustment to remove her shoulders. She'd just started to retract her arm from the sleeve when he cleared his throat.
"Just take the damn thing off." His eyes ran through the lines of his book. "Or do you require my assistance?"
"Hm. I don't know. Would you stop with just my jumper?"
It was a bit crass. For her tastes. But it finally raised his eyes from the page.
She bit back a cheeky grin as she pulled the jumper from her body and slung it over her lap. He went back to his reading as she did. Neither said a word.
The library was an uneventful place. It was a sanctuary to find a bit of peace to complete assignments and search for answers to some unasked question. Hermione spent many days, nights, afternoons, breaks, within the four walls. It was another piece of her heart that was home at Hogwarts.
It was a different place with Draco Malfoy. Apparently, it was social hour.
Pansy and Daphne and Theo found them tucked away, thanks to Crabbe and Goyle. She scowled at the sound of the shrieking tone of Pansy Parkinson. She shrunk down in her seat with the hopes of being avoided.
"Can't keep away from fond memories, can you, Draco?" The witch smiled her little crooked smile.
Hermione heard Malfoy sigh. "If they're something you remember, they aren't fond. Not for me."
"Ah. Surely you remember this corner. That seat your mudblood is in," she said, still managed to make Hermione excluded whilst being included.
"She means the day you guys humped in here." Daphne sniffed. "By the looks of this place, I'd guess the chair hasn't been cleaned since then either."
Without thought, Hermione leapt to her feet. It brought a rather annoyed glance from Malfoy.
"That is not what happened." It was a very stern tone. "Not that I'd expect a witch of your reputation to keep all her liaisons separate. Must be difficult with the hundreds of wizards there are straight."
Pansy narrowed her eyes rather sharply. "Watch it. Just because you want to show off for your pet doesn't mean you can talk to me like that."
"Why, why. That's a first." He sneered. "A slag insulted by name."
"Hey!" Pansy pointed her jeweled finger.
Theo and Daphne shared a look. Hermione felt incredibly awkward amongst the drama of their own house. She didn't broadcast Gryffindor business in front of others and wouldn't tolerate it for any other house either.
She reached back for her jumper. "I'll just be going…"
"Oh, no. You don't." Malfoy grabbed hold of her wrist and pulled her back down to his seat. "Now, Pansy. You almost scared my pet away."
"I don't give a damn about your stupid mudblood pet."
"Then why are you so adamant that I be done with her?"
The witch stomped her foot. "Because I care about you. Whether you like to admit or not, you cared about me too."
He chuckled harshly. "So it's my fault that you cheated on and dumped me for some Dumstrang wizard who in turn dumped you. It's all my game to make you jealous, is it?"
"Yes. You know this shit isn't you. A mudblood pet. Granger. You're spiraling and I'm trying to save you," she said. "Don't be a proud prat. Let me help you."
She then turned on Hermione with a venom in her voice. "You don't belong here. You're nothing but his little trophy he hopes to use to avoid any real difficulty. The whole castle knows how eager you are to please a wizard. It's why Potter and Weasley had you, wasn't it? They weren't actually interested in all your books and essays and cute little wand tricks. You're just another mudblood whore to them. To us. To the whole world, really."
That was way harsher than Pansy ever went. It was a deep-down wound that pierced the pumping flesh of her heart. Hermione was overtaken with anger and mortification. The sticky hot mess of the library, the collection of their eyes as they watched her boil, it suffocated her throat. She couldn't breathe. All her clothes restricted her. They clung to her flesh with needy hands.
She needed out.
Abandoning her jumper, she jumped out of Malfoy's chair and rushed out the library before she could allow them to see her cry. The bloody tears brought on by someone who meant nothing to her but another annoyance to fade out. Why had she let Pansy get to her?
Hermione wiped beneath her eyes. Their burn from decades of dust eased with the growing tears. She scowled her hardest. It helped withhold the urge to bawl out in the open hallway.
The cold drafts of the castle discolored her arms. Lines of goosebumps cascaded down the back of her arms as she hugged herself tight. Out of the protection of the over ambitious fireplace, the rest of Hogwarts was chilly as it often was. She'd hastily left her jumper back in the library, and there was no way she was going to Gryffindor Tower with tears in her eyes. One look and Harry would see red.
Stupid Pansy. Stupid Malfoy.
It was all his fault. If he hadn't started this weird game, Pansy wouldn't have gotten the clear opening to humiliate her in front of everyone. Why hadn't he said anything? She was his pet, wasn't she? He was bound by some moral code, or whatever he'd been enforcing, to protect her.
Perhaps that was more of what she was shocked by. Him.
Pansy said awful things all the time. It was the only thing that came out of her mouth. But Malfoy. He'd kissed her, healed her, snogged her. Everything she did was protected by two of his favorite goons, who even in her pathetic storm out, followed her through the castle like their foot scuffs weren't audible. What the hell did he even want from her?
He said a pet. Hermione concluded that was not true. Despite that one day where he demanded that she wait on him in the quad with all his friends around, he hadn't asked her services for anything. All he did was spend time with her. They studied and read and did assignments. There was the occasional meal that he brought her over to the Slytherin table which always brought on quite a scene in the Great Hall, which she suspected was the point. He wanted everyone to know it.
Had no one known about the very verbal past of Malfoy and her, it'd be quite obvious they were friends. That was too simple for Malfoy. There was always another plot afoot. He knew about the DA. He'd made a point to tell her that he did. It was a chance at glory if he discovered their private training and turn them in to Umbridge. But that was after. The DA hadn't been a thing when he first approached her.
Hermione found herself at the door of the Prefect's Bath on the fifth floor. As usual, it was quiet when she entered. It was rarely used. Except for the magnificent bathtub. It was sunken deep in the floor with an array of faucets, golden and jeweled.
She tapped the faucets and out steamed a purple colored water scented with violets. It rose in steamy clouds as the water ascended the walls of the sunken floor until it reached the tip top. Her feet pushed aside the bath oils and other personal hygiene products in a space just large enough for her to sit on the edge.
Shoes removed, socks folded and placed securely in said shoes, Hermione placed her legs into the frothy warm water. The chill of her toes was chased away with the burning fury of heat.
A deep breath allowed a few small tears to escape from her restraint, and she suddenly felt much better. The violet helped, too. Her lungs filled with the dense fog of calm and exhaled all the bullshit of her life if only to be breathed back in again to terrorize her all over.
When Voldemort came back, she felt a panic begin within the recesses of her mind where she often pushed nonessential thoughts to when she was not ready or bored enough to live with them. It stayed in the black. She focused upon Harry. His survival meant the world, literally. She never allowed Voldemort's success a moment in her head. The loss was too great.
Now that it was very possible that Voldemort might rise higher than he ever was, Hermione permitted the thoughts of what might come if he killed Harry. Many would be killed, too, of course. The entire Order of the Phoenix would be hunted and slaughtered. That was a certainty. It was a fallacy to believe their underground identities wouldn't be discovered. She never bought in to underground being the solution forever.
Death came to those in wait.
She'd never stop fighting. That was why the DA was so invaluable. Her life would come to depend on those spells and the ones that knew them would be the first ones to fall under enemy fire.
But. Hermione had heard rumors. Mere mentions in dark alleys and hidden intelligence that Voldemort had plans for some. A list of witches and wizards needed, alive.
There was a dark plan that awaited those on that list filled with horrors beyond imagination. If she were Voldemort, the most dangerous ones to keep controlled would be on the list. Powers that, if turned against him, would have him fall.
More than she felt in her life, she knew. Her name was on that list.
