I desire the things which will destroy me in the end.
Sylvia Plath
Hermione sat upright in her bed, her consciousness pooling into every vein with each thud of her rapping heart. Slowly, her eyes adjusted to the darkness surrounding her. In the shadows, she took in the four-poster beds, the overflowing bookcase, the stove that centred the room. Through the thick red drapes hanging on a nearby window, a soft light emanated. The tide of dawn washed across the room.
With a depleted sigh, Hermione pressed a palm to her damp forehead. She brushed away the mop of brown curls that clung to her skin. I'm safe, she thought to herself. The more she repeated those words, the more her anxiety abated.
For the first time in seventeen years, Hermione could not think rationally. As her pulse quickened, her mind raced. Nightmares had plagued her sleep for months and each time she woke, she felt more off balance than the day before. She was neither here nor there with one foot planted in reality and the other lagging behind in the unconscious world.
The only comprehensible thought in Hermione's mind was the image of a stretched out corridor cloaked in eerie darkness. A sense of foreboding snaked up her spine. A single shimmer of emerald green sparkled ominously at the end. A shadow-concealed figure awaited her.
In the world outside of her dreams, Hermione clenched her fists around the plush burgundy eiderdown that lay across her lap. She felt as though she were emerging from water, pushing through to the surface and gasping for air. Her mind was muddled. Her clothes seemed to suffocate her and scratch at her skin when she moved.
She needed to get the hell out of her dormitory.
Tossing aside the duvet, Hermione swung her legs over the side of the bed, flinching when the old mattress springs squeaked noisily under her weight. Careful not to rouse her roommates, she padded across creaky planks like a crook in the night. Her toes curled against the cool ground as she hurried from one throw rug splayed across the floor to the next. Only once she emerged through the heavy wooden door into the adjacent bathroom did she allow herself to exhale the air that was trapped in her lungs.
Ever since the battle at the Department of Mysteries, nightmares haunted Hermione. She hadn't had a restful sleep in nearly three months.
As time passed, the battle increasingly felt like a failure. Granted, the Death Eaters had not seized the prophecy as they had sought out to do. But Sirius Black was dead, a half-dozen students were traumatized, and worst of all, Voldemort was back. This time, at least, the rest of the wizarding world believed them about that. The news of the Dark Lord's return was stamped across the front page of every newspaper in the nation.
In the bathroom, Hermione removed her pyjamas with haste, shivering as her skin was bared to the fresh morning air. She neatly folded her clothes into a pile on the bench by the door. The small room contained two shower heads which poured water onto the cold tile below where it pooled down into a drain in the middle of the room. Each tile was appropriately adorned with the Gryffindor house crest.
Hermione waited for the water to warm up—no small feat, given the sheer age of the castle and its archaic plumbing system. The sound of water rushing through the pipes echoed through the chamber, the conduit whining before finally pouring water from the intricate faucet.
There was still half an hour remaining until the Gryffindor girls would rise for the day. Hermione's decision to get a head start on everyone was intentional. She wasn't prepared to face anyone or anything yet. All she needed was a hot shower and a chance to clear her head, and then maybe she could tackle the day.
The nightmares had worsened since returning to Hogwarts. They seemed more potent, like a scene out of a film she watched on repeat. Everyone else had slipped back into their old routines at Hogwarts with remarkable ease, while Hermione lagged behind, unable to move on from the past.
Even still, there was something noticeably different about this year. A terrible sense of unease that Hermione couldn't shake from her bones.
Next year would be their last at Hogwarts, although graduation hardly seemed to be of utmost concern to anyone these days. Despite the return to normalcy, no one could fully focus on their studies, least of all Hermione.
She recalled the sound of the Killing Curse being hurled at her as thought it were yesterday. She wouldn't have made it out alive, if it were not for Harry saving her life.
The threat against the wizarding world extended beyond Hermione and her friends. Danger lurked ominously in the shadow of each new awn. All that anyone could do was wait it out and go about their lives as if it were any ordinary year.
Rubbing her bare arms with her palms to keep herself warm, Hermione dipped a toe under the running water. It warmed slightly but not nearly enough to combat the chill that settled into her bones. For a moment, she found herself missing home. Her real and her real shower—not these century-old pipes and chilling stones. The thought passed fleetingly. In spite of all its faults, Hermione loved Hogwarts and everything about it. She wouldn't change her life for the world. This room temperature shower would simply have to suffice.
Water splashed against Hermione's skin as she entered the stall, submerging her body beneath one of the dual shower heads. She closed her eyes and tried to clear her head as she let the cool water pour down her spine. She couldn't allow herself to be weighed down by these thoughts; to be consumed by fears of the past. What happened at the Department of Mysteries was over. She had to prepare for what was to come.
Sure, a handful of Death Eaters were locked away. But for how long? Voldemort's return meant that his army would grow and it wouldn't be long until they devised their next plan. So too should they.
Long after Hermione scrubbed her skin clean, she allowed herself to linger in the shower. After a few moments passed, she held her breath and dunked her entire head under the running water, praying that when she emerged, her anxieties would be washed away.
Until now, Hermione always knew her place in her group. Harry, the brave one, Ron, the loyal one. Her, the rational one. Lately, she felt fuzzy around the edges. A bit absent, a bit unsure. If she couldn't get her head out of the clouds soon, they wouldn't stand a chance at fighting back. And that's all she wanted to do.
Voldemort infiltrated their lives. Her school was in danger. And Hermione would be damned if she didn't give it all she had to fight to protect the place she called home and the people she called family.
After finally turning off the faucet and drying herself off, she wrapped the cotton towel tightly around her body and returned to her room with her discarded pyjamas in tow. The morning light poured in through the windows, illuminating the space just enough so that Hermione could make her way through the room without mistakenly bumping into furniture. To her relief, her roommates still dozed in their beds, but it wouldn't be long until they were bustling around the room.
Hermione unlatched her trunk and slowly popped it open, reaching inside for the clothes she would wear that day—a white button-down blouse, a pleated black skirt, and finally, her robes and striped maroon and yellow Gryffindor tie. Careful not to wake the other girls, she wiggled into her clothes in the near-dark, trying not to let her thoughts wander and undo all the progress she made in the shower.
Dressed for the day with nowhere to go, Hermione reached over to her bedside table. From the small wooden table, she retrieved her wristwatch—a piece with a brown leather strap and gold casing that she received as a sixteenth birthday present from her parents. After blinking a few times, her eyes adjusted to the dark and registered the position of the hands of the face. Half-past. The Great Hall wouldn't even open its doors for breakfast until 7 o'clock.
On a whim, Hermione grabbed her school books for that day's classes, plus a recreational book for the gaps in between. She descended the stairs from the Gryffindor dormitory, finding herself in the quiet common room before exiting the tower altogether. Walking the corridors in solitude, she made haste towards the courtyard with enough books under her arm to supply a small library. There was very little that a chapter or two of Wuthering Heights couldn't fix.
Unlike at night, when a thousand portraits patrolled the school corridors and called attention to any student out of bed, Hermione's presence in the corridors that morning raised no alarm. It was one thing to have a student lurking around at night, potentially looking for trouble. An early-riser, however, was the least of anyone's concerns those days.
As she emerged into the cool September morning, a gust of wind brushed up against Hermione's arms, sending shivers down her spine. Her robes weren't doing much to keep her warm. After five years at Hogwarts, the drastic weather of the Scottish Highlands still came as a shock to Hermione. The cold nipped at her ears as she padded across frost-covered grass. With each inhale, she fought against the icy-cold burn that singed her lungs.
When she came across a seat with a pleasant view of the grounds, Hermione situated herself on the bench, ignoring the shock of cold stone against her body.
She came her often. Since term resumed, she found herself becoming a morning person by no choice of her own. It was near impossible to fall back to sleep after awaking from that horrid dream. If nothing else, her morning insomnia gave her an opportunity to catch up on her reading. Heaven knew there was never enough time for it these days.
It was easier to read Muggle books when she was alone. Of course, her friends would never tease her for being born to non-Magical parents. In fact, despite his own pure bloodline, Harry often bonded with Hermione over their similar childhoods. If she ever wanted to wax nostalgic about the TV programmes she grew up on, Harry was the one she went to.
But Hermione knew the risk of taking out an unfamiliar book in front of a crowd of witches and wizards. In spite of their harmless curiosity, Hermione grew tired of constant prodding from the Weasleys. They wanted to know everything about the Muggle world, as though she were the subject of an anthropological study. She learned her lesson when she decided to publicly read The Bell Jar one afternoon in fourth year, much to Ron's fascination—and then, subsequent horror.
Sometimes, Hermione wanted to enjoy these moments out of the scrutiny of every student at Hogwarts. There were some things that she wanted to keep to herself.
Hermione cracked open her book and began to read. Try as she might, she couldn't fully immerse herself in the story like she once could. There were too many worried thoughts racing through her mind to fully invest in the words on the page. She stared at the same paragraph for a quarter of an hour, rereading it over and over while never retaining a single word.
As the school came alive later that morning, Hermione resigned to the fact that her morning of peace was drawing to a close. She closed the book that she barely read and shuffled her feet towards the school, joining the crowds of students who were heading to breakfast.
She entered the Great Hall with her chin raised and a neutral expression on her face. Outwardly, there was nothing unusual about Hermione. She carried the same air that she always had, the confidence of an intelligent young woman that shrouded the self-doubt which haunted her for the past six years. Her wits got her this far. But deep down, she knew she would always lack. Sometimes she looked at her friends, at their parentage and bloodlines, and she knew that somehow, she didn't belong. Not fully. Perhaps she never would.
Standing in the entrance of the Great Hall, Hermione scanned the sea of students with squinted eyes as she searched for her friends. Students blew past her in a hurry, shooting her annoyed looks for obstructing the doorway. The aisles between the house tables were swarmed although they remained demarcated by strong invisible borders. Sure, students mingled and chatted here and there. Maybe a girl from Hufflepuff made conversation with a Gryffindor boy about their shared classes. But when the time came to find a seat, they always found their house tables. Everyone had a place here. They knew better than to blend the permanent boundaries etched in the centuries-old stone.
At the end of the room, near the High Table, a head of fiery red hair bobbed up and down at the Gryffindor table. A long arm shot up in the air, waving enthusiastically at Hermione. Attached to that arm was Ginny Weasley. She stood with one leg propped up on the wooden bench to elevate her above the crowd. When the girls caught each other's eye, Ginny flailed both arms over her head.
Despite the cloud hanging over her head, Hermione giggled to herself. Before Ginny could make an even bigger scene, Hermione paced over to the table to join her friends. She carefully placed her stack of books on the table and plopped down in the empty spot beside Ginny. "Sorry, I'm late," she exhaled, brushing a strand of hair out of her eyes.
On the opposite side of the table, Harry Potter and Ron Weasley sat before their plates which were overflowing with fried sausages, eggs, bacon, and toast. As Hermione reached for a piece of toast offered on a silver serving platter, the boys stared at her with expectant eyes and wide grins.
Hermione's eyebrows furrowed as she slowly lowered the bread onto the empty plate before her. She reached for the butter dish and used her knife to spread a slab on the hot piece of bread. "What's gotten into the two of you?"
"Hermione," Ginny laughed uncertainly. She grabbed Hermione's arm. "It's your birthday."
Hermione's stomach seized. It was her birthday? No, that couldn't be right. Had that much time already passed? With everything else that was going on, it completely slipped her mind. Her seventeenth birthday. "Oh. You're right, it is."
Ginny wrapped her arms around Hermione, embracing her in a tight hug as Ron laughed across the table. "Happy birthday, Mione."
"Thank you," Hermione replied, forcing a smile.
Ginny pulled back, holding Hermione's arms in her hands. The redhead pulled a face. "What's the matter?"
Hermione shook her head. "No, it's nothing. It just… slipped my mind."
With a mischievous grin, Harry reached under the long wooden table and retrieved a parcel wrapped in light brown paper. He slid it across the table towards Hermione. "Now, don't get mad. I know you hate getting presents."
"You're right. I do…"
"But it was Ginny's idea," Harry interjected quickly.
Hermione glanced down at the parcel, running a finger along the brown paper. A thin, light blue string was tied around the package to keep it together. "Wow. You guys didn't need to get me anything."
"Happy birthday," Ginny sung loudly. "Now, open it!"
Hermione carefully unwrapped the gift, pretending not to notice that it appeared to be put together by a toddler. Evidently, Ginny was not responsible for wrapping. Inside, she found a new quill and journal, swaddled by thin white tissue paper. "Oh, this is lovely." Hermione's heart squeezed happily as she lifted the leather-bound journal from the paper and examined it closely. The dark green cover was embellished with exquisite gold swirls and it was instantly obvious that it must have cost a bundle. She hugged the book to her chest and smiled genuinely at her friends. "Thank you so much. I love it. Truly."
"Seventeen years old," Ron lamented, taking a sip of pulpy orange juice. "Merlin, you're old."
Hermione pulled a face at him which earned a collective laugh from the group. She missed easy moments like this. Recently, they were few and far between. Had it truly only been a few short years ago that they entered this hall for the first time? She glanced at her three closest friends, finding it hard to imagine them as eleven-year-olds. Where did the years go?
Maybe Ron was right. Maybe she was old. She felt old. At least, she felt tired and assumed those two things were one and the same. Her gran used to say that she didn't feel her age because she ate well, slept well, and kept her mind sharp. "Take care of your mind, Hermione, and your body will never age a day," Gran told her once. Hermione's mind and body felt the opposite of sharp these days.
It was probably the lack of sleep. Lately though, it felt like something was fundamentally wrong with her. She fought herself, the exhaustion, and soon, the darkness. It had long ago dawned up Hermione that a band of misfit teenagers were the least qualified people to defeat a Dark Wizard. Then again, what choice did they have? It wasn't as though there were a line-up of contenders willing to sacrifice themselves for the cause. Hell, it wasn't until recently that anyone believed there was a cause.
Unsurprisingly, Hermione couldn't imagine that her former Muggle schoolmates had become this jaded by seventeen.
"You alright?" Ginny whispered, nudging Hermione with her elbow.
Hermione's eyes shifted to Ron and Harry who were talking amongst themselves now about Quidditch. She looked back to Ginny and gave her a tight-lipped smile. "Of course." Her lie was futile. Ron and Harry might be oblivious but Hermione knew that she could never fool Ginny Weasley.
"Yeah, as if I believe you. Your face looks weird."
"Wow, a gift and a compliment. Happy birthday to me."
"You know what I mean."
Unfortunately, Hermione did know what Ginny meant. She could feel the permanent flush beneath her cheeks. When she looked in the mirror, she was faced with the sleepless tint of purple beneath her brown eyes. More than that, the effect of her stress was manifesting in less explainable ways. There was a hollowness to her face that couldn't be put into words. She looked as empty as she felt.
Instead of coming clean and explaining her anxiety, Hermione did what she always did. She shrugged, ignoring the concern in her friend's eyes. There was enough to worry about these days. Hermione didn't need to add anything else to everyone's lists.
Forcing her voice to sound normal, Hermione asked her friends what she missed that morning before she arrived, eager to shift the attention off herself.
Ron swallowed a mouthful of eggs and pointed his fork at Harry. "This one's been going on about that damned Malfoy again."
Hermione's eyes shot to Harry. "Draco? Why now?"
"There's something going on, Hermione," Harry insisted in a hushed tone. He dropped his fork onto his plate, unfazed by the loud clatter. "After Borgin and Burkes, after what we saw… Well, it's obvious, isn't it?"
"No. Absolutely not." Hermione shook her head. They had enough on their plates without Harry inventing new problems. Ever since they followed Draco and watched him enter the unusual shop of antiquities at Knockturn Alley before school started, Harry had been completely unsettled. The principle of 'innocent until proven guilty' evidently did not apply to Harry's hatred of Draco Malfoy.
"I'm serious, Hermione." A couple of Ravenclaw students scampered by, chatting loudly about their summer holidays. Harry's eyes tracked the group as he waited for them to pass out of earshot before he continued. "Malfoy's been recruited as a Death Eater. It's plain and simple."
Ron rolled his eyes theatrically. "He's been at it all morning. Coffee makes him paranoid."
"Think about it," Harry pressed, ignoring Ron. "Malfoy is directly associated with the Death Eaters who—if you hadn't noticed—have been sent to Azkaban in droves. Surely, they're in need of new recruits. Malfoy could easily fill his father's shoes."
Hermione sighed. "Look, Harry, there's nothing to suggest that this is true."
"There's nothing to suggest otherwise. How do you expect me to just sit here and do nothing? After what happened at the Department of Mysteries? After what they did to him!" Harry's voice raised an octave too high, drawing the attention of a couple Hufflepuff students who peered over curiously. Harry shot them a look that made them turn back around and continue with their own conversation.
Hermione's heart panged sorrowfully. She couldn't imagine the hell her friend had been going through these past few months. Sometimes she forgot how much Harry had lost in his short life. It was partly for that reason that Hermione didn't tell anyone about the nightmares. How could a bad dream compare to losing your own family?
Harry cleared his throat. When he spoke, his voice was hardly louder than a whisper. "Besides, we practically have firsthand evidence."
"Firsthand evidence?" Hermione repeated. "Harry, we didn't see anything. At least, not anything that could prove your suspicions."
"Come on, Hermione. I thought you of all people would be rational about this." In response to this remark, Ginny swatted Harry on the arm. He gripped his arm and smiled sheepishly at the redhead. "No offence. But can we all admit that Hermione is the smartest out of all of us? Not to mention, she hates Malfoy more than anyone."
To that, Ginny had to concede.
"Alright, tell me this then, Harry," Ron interjected. "What do you propose we do to confirm this theory of yours? Sneak into the Slytherin house at night and peek at Malfoy's forearm? Be realistic. Malfoy's a git. But a Death Eater? No way. Mummy would never allow it."
"Not unless mummy is involved," Harry countered.
"Oh, for the love of Merlin!" Ron groaned. He dropped his face into his hands and exhaled loudly into his palms.
As the tension released and her friends laughed at Ron's reaction, Hermione felt a strange feeling wash over her. Pressure built up in her chest like roaring waves. She squirmed in her seat, swallowing hard to fight the lump growing in her throat. "We shouldn't get into this right now. Anyone could overhear."
In unison, the laughter stopped and her friends turned to stare at Hermione. Her skin crawled as she realized at once that she had given away too much. Every word that came from her lips felt like a liability. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn't stop the anxiety from consuming her. It felt like the eyes of every person in the room were glued to her, examining her every move.
She couldn't breathe.
Harry narrowed his eyes. "Is everything alright, Hermione?"
"Of course," she exhaled, feeling as though it were the last bit of air her lungs had left. "I'm perfectly fine. Do you know what though? I've just remembered that I have to return a book to the library before class. I ought to head over there now."
"There are still fifteen minutes left before class starts," Ron pointed out. He glanced down at Hermione's plate and frowned. "You hardly ate your breakfast."
Hermione grabbed the remaining piece of toast and grinned. "It's portable breakfast, Ronald. See?" She took a bite of the bread to prove her point. It tasted like ash in her mouth but she chewed it with audible satisfaction. "Delicious. It's very popular in London right now. I'll see you guys later, yeah?"
It took everything in Hermione's power to ignore the shocked expressions on her friends' faces as she turned on her heel and walked away. Before anyone could protest, she scurried up the aisle between the house tables and made a beeline towards the exit. She awkwardly waved goodbye over her shoulder with the arm that wasn't juggling her books, toast, and the birthday gift.
Once she was out of the Great Hall, Hermione paused in the corridor and allowed herself a moment to relax. As she watched students scurry past, she unclenched her jaw and forced her shoulders to drop from their tense position by her ears. Pretending to act like herself was exhausting. As much as she loved her friends, she secretly wished that she could just be alone. At least until she was able to figure out how to be her old self again.
Making a sharp turn around the corner, Hermione slammed into a wall at full force. Her books tumbled out of her arms and hit the ground with an audible thud that echoed through the corridor. Her toast followed suit, spewing bread crumbs across the floor. She glanced up to see what she collided with and much to her dismay, she found that it was not a wall at all.
"For fuck's sake, Granger," Draco Malfoy huffed. He ran his long fingers through his gelled white-blond hair which had barely budged from the collision and glared down at her with stone cold grey eyes. "Walk much?"
Could this day possibly get any worse? Hermione wondered to herself as she knelt down to retrieve her belongings. She frowned as she stared down at her toast. "Well, there goes breakfast."
"What are you mumbling about?" Draco snapped. "Breakfast? You've just pummelled into me and that's all you have to say for yourself."
Hermione pushed a lock of hair behind her ear so that she could look up at Draco. "First of all, I rounded a corner, Malfoy. It was hardly premeditated. Second, those are my belongings currently decorating the floor. And you walked into me just as much as I walked into you. So, you should claim some responsibility, too."
Usually, Hermione wouldn't be so mouthy to Draco Malfoy. The consequences of ending up on his bad side were boundless. But she was feeling agitated and his mere presence had put her in a mood.
Besides, it wasn't as though Draco was having a great time himself these days. The former stronghold he had on the Hogwarts student body slipped after his father, Lucius, was incarcerated in the spring. After the Department of Mysteries, the Malfoys had become social pariahs. Draco, unfortunately, was facing the brunt of it.
The blond Slytherin stared down at Hermione with a raised eyebrow. "You love to hear your own voice, don't you?"
Rolling her eyes, Hermione began to pile up her books onto her lap. When she fumbled with them, her skin burned a hot shade of red. If only the ground would open up and swallow her whole.
She couldn't help but feel nervous around him. Draco elicited that sort of reaction in her. It was part and parcel of him being the sole provider of her misery and shame for the better part of her childhood. Being bullied for five straight years did a certain degree of damage to a person.
It was especially easy to be threatened by him now that he looked more like a man than a child. Draco grew significantly over the summer and towered well over six feet. He loomed over Hermione with a newfound strength that superseded his arrogance.
As Draco watched Hermione mishandle her books, he scowled down at her. "Fuck, you're clumsy. Must be that Muggle blood of yours."
By now, Hermione had heard every dig in the book of Muggleborn insults. Every time they crossed paths, Draco hurled those abuses at her like daggers aimed straight for her heart. Over the years, she grew used to it. Some comments hurt more than others. Mostly, she was tired of hearing it.
"Have you nothing better to do than sit here and comment on my every move?"
Draco blinked. The glimmer of amusement drained from his dull eyes. "I thought you were meant to be clever, Granger. This whole exchange is boring me to tears."
Hermione retrieved her new journal from the floor, brushing off the dust and dirt from the beautiful cover. "Well, I'm tired today. Come back tomorrow and I'll try to come up with a more creative retort for you."
His interest finally depleted, Draco sneered at her one last time and then stalked off in the opposite direction. He casually adjusted his uniform as he went on his merry way. Once he disappeared around the corner, Hermione groaned aloud. I'm such an idiot, she admonished herself.
Aside from the brushes with death, Hermione's years at Hogwarts had gone mostly in her favour. She studied more ardently, worked harder, and learned quicker than any other student in her year. She formed the sort of friend group she spent years dreaming about having one day. She faced the darkest wizards and lived to tell the tale.
But there was something about Draco Malfoy that touched a nerve in her.
He personified every bad thing about the wizarding world. Hermione couldn't comprehend how anyone could find his presence even remotely tolerable. He had his two sycophants who followed his every movement, which presumably gave them status and power, along with whatever goodies the Malfoy fortune could bestow upon them. That alliance, at the very least, made sense.
What Hermione could not fathom was how anyone would willingly spend time with Draco for their own personal enjoyment, rather than for the prestige that came with tying yourself to an upper-class pureblood. The object of this confusion was Pansy Parkinson. It was common knowledge that Pansy and Draco had become an item over the past couple years. Everything that Hermione knew about the Slytherin couple's relationship was learned entirely against her own will, particularly one compromising position that Ron came across in the dungeons one day last spring. The mere memory of it was shudder-inducing.
The two were often found openly groping each other and playing tonsil hockey in the corridors. Their public displays of affection were like a jump scare in a horror movie; no matter how prepared you thought you were, they still sent a shock to your nervous system when they popped out of a dark corner.
Hermione supposed Draco found himself a match there. Pansy and Draco were perfect for one another in that they were both perfectly and entirely insufferable.
As she dragged her feet through the crowded corridors, aimlessly wasting the remaining minutes before class, Hermione prayed that she wouldn't encounter Draco again for a long time. At least not until she found herself back on her feet. She couldn't go toe-to-toe with a snake at her current brain capacity. She decided then and there that she would have to actively avoid him until the dust settled.
Then she would show him just who he was dealing with. They didn't call her the brightest witch of her age for nothing.
