As Hermione lay awake in her room, staring at the canopy above her head, her mind was a bloody mess. It wasn't the separate dormitory for eighth years; in fact, she thought that was quite considerate of the Headmistress. Having a space she didn't have to share was proving to be an unexpected gift.
It wasn't the fact that Neville and Hannah were going to be using the Heads' dorms, thus leaving her and Robert being the only ones using the new quarters. Albeit, it did feel like an awful lot of wasted effort for just two students. It wasn't even seeing Professor McGonagall standing where Dumbledore once stood or Professor Slughorn smiling where Snape once scowled. It was nice, however, to see Hagrid back at his post again.
It was Draco-sodding-Malfoystaring back at her from the professor's table with that cold, unreadable expression on his stupid ferrety face. What is the Headmistress thinking? How in Merlin's name did he convince her to put him in charge of innocent students? As the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, no less? The very post that Lupin once held, when Malfoy fought on the side that killed him!
Is this some sort of punishment? A penance, perhaps? On another note, when did Malfoy get his N.E.W.T.s?
Hermione swallowed the lump in her throat, willing the knots in her stomach to subside. Tomorrow evening, she would be sitting in-ugh-Malfoy's classroom as a student. The idea of addressing him as Professor Malfoy did not sit well with her at all. Perhaps she could just drop the class. She had been able to drop Divination and Muggle Studies...
No.
That singular roared in her ear, louder than the symbol of her own house. Once more, Hermione had to shake away the train of her own thoughts. That's right, the war heroine forcefully told herself. Malfoy can not force me out of any class. He doesn't have the power to make me change my own plans. He's not running me off anywhere!
Determined as she was, she nodded to herself. Maybe it won't be so bad. She sighed, instantly deflating. Alright, that is being a bit too optimistic.
Hermione sat up, irritation shooting through her, and pounded on her pillow with all the strength she could muster. She huffed, still unsatisfied, but fluffed her pillow back out before literally flopping back down and turning over. No matter how hard she tried to shut off her racing mind, sleep continued to elude her. She glared, unblinking, at the serene moon outside her window. The complete opposite of the anxious rage that coursed in her blood. In all fairness, she thought begrudgingly, someone with first-hand exposure to, and practice of, the Dark Arts would best know how to defend against them.
With another huff, she curled on her side to try, and fail, once more to get some sleep. If the Headmistress saw fit to hire him, I will simply have to trust that the ferret can do the job. However he managed to get it. The thought did nothing to help her relax.
She had known her endeavor to sleep without an aid would be futile, but didn't she need to at least try? "What on earth is shaking under my bloody pillow?" Hermione grumbled. She shot up, ready to lift the offending object, when something quite disturbing caught her eye. Right there, in front of her face, was her own arm shaking with tremors. Reflexively, she tried to hold her arm, but what she saw made her eyes widen in horror. Her other hand had been shaking, too.
Without another moment to lose, she bounded out of bed and darted towards her trunk at full speed. Quickly, carefully, she used the hand that trembled less to fumble with the lid and snatch up a phial of Draught of Peace. Practiced ease allowed her thumb to pop off the cork so she could down it in one swift movement.
All at once, Hermione tossed the bottle into the trunk with both panic and disgust. Wrapping her shaking arms around herself, she practically glided over to her beautifully crafted desk and eased into the cushioned chair.
Shame. Guilt. Fear.
Every single instance of succumbing to her dependency flashed through her head, one after the other. Hermione squeezed her eyes shut against the images, demanding herself to take deep breaths and calm down.
Of course it would be her own mind defying her. The more she willed herself to breathe and calm down, the more her mind reminded her of why she turned to them in the first place.
The war. Voldemort. Her parents.
Hermione's hands flew to the sides of her head as a basketball-sized knot formed in her throat and scalding hot tears threatened to stream down her face. She gritted her teeth harshly against her fierce desire to scream at the top of her lungs. This couldn't be happening to her. Not now!
Two bodies falling from a balcony with a thud. It was impossible not to identify Greyback, horrible and terrifying, sinking his teeth into Lavender's unconscious body. Hermione's heart flew into her throat. In that moment, all she could see was a normal girl who lived and loved loudly and unashamed. Even if the person that she loved was Ron. The girl who knew who she was and never once tried to be anything she wasn't. Alive. Smiling.
She represented everything Hermione had once wanted and everything she would never be.
She didn't hesitate. This girl could not die. "NO!"
Hermione regretted not casting the Killing Curse, just that one time, as Greyback flew backwards into the castle wall. The sound of the crunch from his bones would just have to be enough.
The only other thing she regretted was not being able to check on Lavender, as Death Eaters were around every turn. Ron's ex girlfriend stirred, though it was weak. Had she survived?
Hermione barely registered the wetness on her hands that finally stilled. To this day, Lavender Brown has been "presumed dead," but yet no one ever found a body. What had happened to her? She deserved more than just being another name on the floor. Her parents deserved closure. How many more families never got closure? How many more "Lavender" cases were there? Unsolved and written off?
A glint of blue light caught in the corner of Hermione's eye sparked her first bit of inspiration. This would have to be done quietly. Perhaps some good could come of this year, after all. With renewed purpose, Hermione snatched her Twinned Quill and a sheet of parchment and began to write:
Ink, are you awake?
To Hermione's surprise, the response was instant.
Unfortunately. What do you want?
Hermione bristled.
No need to be so rude. Merlin, you sound like a bloke when he's hungry.
So, you're a woman, Blood? Good to know.
Hermione rolled her eyes, fighting the unexpected twitch of her lips.
Go get some food and then come back. I need to ask you something.
Are you always so bossy? Besides, I don't know how to get into the kitchens.
For Hermione, it was becoming increasingly difficult to hide her smile.
Stop being so rude, and I might tell you. If you swear to keep it a secret.
How would I know that you're telling the truth? You could lead me in the completely wrong direction out of spite.
Well played. I guess your stomach will just have to decide how alright you are with taking a leap of faith.
A lingering pause left Hermione with enough time to lean back in her seat. The more she thought on his words, the further the corners of her mouth turned up. Hermione pondered on whether her pen pal's chosen alias was a tribute to his studies or possibly a tattoo when the next elegantly written message appeared on the page.
You didn't answer my question. Furthermore, what did you want to ask me?
Fair enough. Contrary to popular belief, I am not bossy. I merely communicate in a direct manner. Also,
A sudden thought drew Hermione up short. She had no clue what year "Ink" was in. For all she knew, she could be communicating with a first or third year. As unlikely as it seemed, it was still possible. If she were to start asking questions about Lavender or theories about Tracking Charms, her pen pal could blow any ideas she may have formed right out of the water.
No, if Hermione was going to find Lavender and get answers, she would have to find them herself. Merlin, that was close! What had she been thinking, going to a random individual with yet another spur-of-the-moment plan? Hermione folded her arms on top of the desk, allowing her head to fall on top of them. Habits formed from being around the boys for eight years were going to be hard to break.
Drawing herself up, she tried again. This time, for a much more harmless train of thought.
I wanted to ask you what year you are in. You see, it's strange, not knowing anything about the person I'm speaking with. For all I know, you could be a Third Year.
A long, lingering pause filled the space then. On one end, Hermione practically collapsed into a ball in her seat. Arms folded, head down, she regretted picking up the pen to write. After all, what sort of idiot bothers a stranger in the middle of the night and merely asks what year they're in? In her mind, she felt that any progress she may have made towards attaining a space where she could unload her burdens must have been shot. A hippogriff-sized weight settled on her chest as a single tear rolled down her cheek. Hermione decided right then and there that if things went south with her pen pal, she would just have to go see the school's psychiatrist.
I might go see him or her regardless, Hermione thought. She couldn't continue on like this. She knew that now. The idea of blundering things up with someone she didn't even know shouldn't affect her to this degree.
On the other side, Ink stared down at the paper, scrutinizing Blood's words far too much for his own liking. It took her too long to simply ask what year he was in. What had been her true intentions? Why does she keep reaching out to him-in the middle of the night, no less? What did she want?
Worse, was it this stupid program or her that kept him writing back?
He ran his hand down his face in frustration. One minute she's giving him a spirited debate; going as far as to be a bit cocky in her jokes at times. In the next, it becomes apparent that she pulls back into herself, reverting to being a bit formal in her wording. Sometimes, even a bit cryptic. He closed his eyes, resting his head on top of the desk with a deep sigh. If his father knew how he currently sat with such poor posture, he'd likely throw a fit. Ink smiled at the thought.
I don't sleep much, if that's what you're asking, Blood had written just two days before. Duty to the ones you love comes with a heavy price, doesn't it?
The girl's words ran through his mind over and over again. They hadn't left him since they appeared on the paper. Ink supposed he could answer her question. It seemed to be habit for her to make valid arguments, even if it hadn't been her actual intent to make the point in question. With her earlier words in mind, he had no doubts she had been involved in the war against the Dark... Voldemort.
Maybe it was her wit. Maybe it was her good-natured bossiness. Maybe it was those blasted words that resonated so deeply within him. Regardless, he decided then and there that he would get the clues that would help him piece together who was on the other end of the quill.
He swore he wouldn't take this project of McGonagall's so seriously, but it was times like this that his curiosity got the best of him.
I'm nineteen, if that's what you're asking. No Third Years on the other end of this quill, though I find it disturbing that you would associate someone who would have barely mastered the levitation or lighting charms with having been to war.
Ink smirked. This would be fun. If he didn't shut the conversation down soon, though, he would be late for his first class in the morning. And so would she.
A lingering pause filled the space between them, leaving Ink time enough to sit back and think. What could she possibly be doing during the silences? She had reached out to him! Before he could get to the point of pacing, her slightly sloppy scrawl appeared on the page once more. He rolled his eyes with a slight upward twitching of his lips. Every time this script appeared, he imagined the other quill practically flying across the page, for fear that their thoughts would get away from them if they didn't. She really should take an extra moment to think about penmanship.
Not unlike other girls who have a horrendous habit of stopping him in his tracks. Other girls who have no idea of the power they hold to turn his world upside down. Other girls who wreck his mind, save him, and then invade his safe haven, tormenting him just with her presence...
Other girls whose existence would likely wreck him as long as they lived.
Ink shook away the turn of his thoughts and turned back to Blood's messy scrawl. She would likely prove to be a good distraction.
Neither Dumbledore nor Voldemort discriminated based on age. One molded, created if you will, child soldiers and one gladly killed them.
Ink sighed.
Before he could come up with a response, she was writing again.
I'm an eighth year, too. That's good to know. It's strangely comforting and yet terrifying to know that it's not a stranger on the other side of the quill.
Terrifying? Terrifying how? This girl has likely looked the Dark L... Merlin! Voldemort... in the eye, and yet this is terrifying?
Explain?
It means the chances of you being a friend of mine are very high.
Ink, in a very uncharacteristic show, snorted. While she isn't wrong about the chances, Ink was probably the furthest thing from her friend in existence. Still, he couldn't help himself.
How is that terrifying? Shouldn't that be a good thing?
It means that everything I'd hoped for just went out the window.
What did you hope for?
A no-strings-attached sounding board. Someone I could vent to without having to see the guilt in their eyes. Someone who wouldn't be hurt by my words or outbursts. I was prepared to reciprocate the favor, once we got to that point. However, when all this is over, and it will, and everyone finds out who they've been writing to, there is no way I could possibly look at a friend the same way after that.
Ink stared at the parchment in front of him with wide eyes and his jaw hanging open. He couldn't believe his luck. However, he couldn't seem too eager.
Why not go see that new Mind Healer?
A pen pal doesn't have the authority to send me to St. Mungo's.
I see.
Exactly. Goodnight, Ink. Sorry for bothering you.
Just like that, Ink began to panic. He'd expected some form of explanation. Maybe even a bit of begging. Girls tended to do that. He clearly underestimated this one.
If you were bothering me, you'd know. Who says we have to reveal our identities, after?
I suppose you're right. I didn't see anything in McGonagall's letter regarding the end of this project of hers.
Your proposal is actually quite intriguing. I could use a "sounding board" too.
Alright, then. I accept your condition of keeping our real-life identities separate from our pen-pal identities indefinitely. How do you propose we terminate this arrangement when the time comes? If, say, one of us wants to end these exchanges?
Ink didn't expect his heart to drop through his stomach the way it did. She was already thinking about ending this? What kind of person is she, to be planning the end just as it was beginning?
I take it you're used to people ending things with you?
Surely you must be aware that nothing lasts forever. Everything comes to an end, eventually.
Fair point, Blood.
Hermione turned in her chair, absorbing the fading light of the moon. Soon, night would turn to day, and the figurative spell caused by their exchanges would fade. She couldn't explain it, but she felt an indescribable need to live outside of parchment, ink, and quills. At least for a moment. Tomorrow, she could go back to being her bookworm-ish self, dive into her studies, and work harder than anyone else to get her N.E.W.T.s. After all, that's what she was here for.
Who says we have to reveal our identities, Ink said. He made a fair point. He may have been referring to remaining anonymous, but his words struck a different cord. Why couldn't she be pre-war Hermione for a little while? Why couldn't she tap into those lost parts of herself? If nothing else, relieving some of that bitterness could, in fact, free her mind and help with her studies.
If the Room of Requirement still worked, it could provide her with all the tools she needed. If she was painting, she didn't have to be Hermione-the-world's-biggest-swot-and-Gryffindor-war-veteran Granger. She could just be... Hermione Jean.
Some things are worth taking a risk!
If anything in life was worth taking a risk, reconnecting to a part of herself was certainly it.
A few minutes later, draped in Harry's invisibility cloak, Hermione tiptoed through the Eighth Year common room, which she thought had been tastefully decorated. With a perfect blend of Gryffindor red walls with Hufflepuff yellow trim and artistic designs, as well as neutral colored furniture around a merrily crackling fireplace, Hermione smiled to herself as she slipped out. She couldn't wait to try out the little kitchenette off the main gathering area in the morning. That is, after a good, long shower.
Harry's words filled her ears just as her foot touched the corridor floor. Try not to get into too much trouble without us, okay? "This doesn't count, Harry," Hermione breathed.
However, she was astonished how easy it was to make her way to the seventh floor. That is, until she rounded the corner and found someone leaning against the wall directly across from the Room. The figure let out a deep, exasperated sigh.
Chills ran down Hermione's spine. She didn't dare to breathe. She knew that voice.
"Either you're highly skilled with the Disillusionment Charm," Malfoy drawled, "or you have an invisibility cloak." Malfoy lazily turned his head towards her, and though he couldn't physically see her, the silver of his eyes bore directly into her brown ones. "That fact alone narrows who you are down to a handful of people. Knowing where this room is narrows down your identity even further. If you're smart, you'll turn around and head back to your dorm. Your classmates won't thank you if your House has negative points in the morning."
Fuming, Hermione turned and tiptoed back down the hallway. Why, of all the people she could have run into...
"Oh, and Granger?"
Hermione stopped dead in her tracks.
"You walk too loud. Quiet down your stomping before you run into Filch. McGonagall will stick you with me for detention, and I don't want your bushy head in my classroom more than you have to be."
"Trust me, Ferret," Hermione seethed, "the feeling is mutual."
"Tsk, tsk," Malfoy lightly chided. Something new and foreign burned inside him as he stalked confidently over to where she stood. Hermione reflexively took a step back, reaching for her wand, ready to fight if necessary.
It wasn't the frightened little ferret boy that reached over and grabbed the cloak off her head without any preamble. This man who held Harry's cloak in his hand as he casually leaned against the wall, whispered in a hushed, deliberate drawl, "Is that any way to address a professor?"
Hermione, never one to back down from a challenge, crossed her arms over her chest and glared back at him defiantly. She should have expected the way his lips curved into that signature smirk she loathed. "Hand over the cloak, Malfoy," she growled.
Malfoy's smirk grew wider. "You know, I'm not sure I will. It would seem I've caught a student out of bed past curfew. How ever shall I handle this?"
Hermione rolled her eyes. Malfoy already showed his hand by expressing he didn't want the likes of her in his classroom any more than necessary. "Do you want an apology? Is that what you want? Because you've already expressed not wanting me, the mudblood, in your classroom any more than I want to be there."
Malfoy's earlier demeanor shifted instantaneously. His body went rigid, stiff, as his smirk shifted into a sneer and his eyes hardened into steel. "That's not what I said," he spat. "I said your bushy-"
Hermione aggressively stepped further into his space; the pair were nearly nose to nose. She was armed and ready to fight right there on the spot. "When you walked into my bookshop," she said in a sneer equal to his own, "as soon as you saw me behind the counter, you couldn't wait to turn around and get out the second you could. As soon as your pure bloodedlittle girlfriend showed up to rescue you."
Malfoy opened his mouth once more, but Hermione wasn't done yet. "Sitting at the Head's table tonight, don't think I didn't notice how you completely shut down the instant I walked into the room. Your actions so far completely defy the very public apology you made at your trial. The very one where I-"
Malfoy then did something he'd never done before in his life. All of Hermione's words dried up in her throat as soon as his hands gripped her shoulders. "I'm aware you spoke at my trial," he hissed. "I was there, in case you've forgotten."
"Well-"
"No," Malfoy growled. "I'm not done. Don't you dare use that word again. Do you understand me?"
"Why not? You taught me that word." With that one sentence, Hermione's voice dropped to a deadly cold tone. The pair continued to glare at each other in heated silence. "Don't tell me you're allowed to use that word to describe me, but I can't..."
"No," Malfoy growled. "You're..." His jaw snapped shut, averting his eyes toward the wall. Another long stretch of silence filled the small space between them. Finally, Malfoy grit out between clenched teeth, "If I hear you use that word again, especially to describe yourself, I will give you detention and dock at least fifty points." His head snapped back sharply, and what Hermione saw was enough to give her chills. His face, contorted with black rage, twisted him into someone nearly unrecognizable. "Understand?"
Hermione had no idea how anyone could pack so much venom into a singular word.
Yet, there was something about their exchange that struck a cord within her. Could this possibly be the same Malfoy? Had he been Polyjuiced? Out of the corner of her eye, she could still see Harry's cloak in Malfoy's loose grip. With a single, steady breath, she took a final step towards the D.A.D.A. professor. For the first time since they met, their chests touched.
Malfoy's rage slid completely off his face, replaced by shock. His body, wired with fury and tension mere moments ago, shot completely straight. "What...?"
Hermione swallowed the lump in her throat. She hadn't expected her blood to pound harder in her veins. She hadn't expected his scent to invade her senses, reminding her so much of...
No. She wouldn't think it. He couldn't make her.
"Malfoy?" Hermione whispered, her voice breaking on the last syllable. His Adam's Apple bobbed. "Granger?" Her eyes flashed to his, leaving them both working to keep their voices level. "When was the true moment that we first met?"
To her surprise, he sighed. "You think I've been Polyjuiced." Malfoy took a step backward, angling his face toward the ceiling and ran his hand over it with a groan of frustration.
"Answer the question, Malfoy," Hermione bit out.
Malfoy's jaw flexed one, twice, three times. His Adam's Apple bobbed once more, his eyes ablaze with one of his hands balled at his side. "Take Potter's bloody cloak and get out of here, Granger," he snarled.
"Fine," Hermione snarled back. "Wouldn't want to be stuck with each other in detention, would we, Professor?"
As Hermione stomped back towards her dorm, she vaguely heard Malfoy's cries of, "Are you deaf? Quiet it down! That cat of Filch's is a bloody menace!"
Hermione couldn't help the smirk that tugged at her lips as she draped the cloak over herself once more. By deliberately making more noise, Peeves found the exact spot where Malfoy stood. The feeling alone was worth getting points docked.