Hi, all. I've decided to write another chapter even though my reviews have hit a plateau. I know I said that the forth chapter would be Draco oriented, but due to an unexpected turn of events(mainly the direction this chapter took) I will have to postpone that particular piece of prose.
I know at first this may seem meaningless, but there's a lot of subtle foreshadowing in the first half, that I hope some of you will pick up on. I tried to cut down on her thoughts of Draco, but these thoughts were simply unavoidable in the second half. It is imperative to the plot and contains foreshadowing as well.
I hope you like it, and here it is. This is a big'un kiddies.
Chapter 3: Only fools tread on the devil's ground...so call me a fool.
Hermione had never been particularly adept at making friends. Going into her first year of primary school, she had been tested, observed, and prodded until she was finally labeled a prodigy and immediately skipped into fourth year. Predictably, she excelled at the actual school work, but was so out of her depth socially that she was unable to interract with her older, and in her eyes, much more sophisticated classmates on any kind of level outside of the classroom.
Thus she became the prime target of the easily-made-jealous children, both male and female. She had her hair dipped in ink, her teeth made fun at, and had even been hit once or twice by particularly sadistic children. The entire experience left her emotionally scarred and effectively put her off friendship of any kind. Left without this singularly important facet of a little girl's life, Hermione turned to books. She read all the time. In any position, anywhere, and anything she could get her greedy little fingers on. She read novels and plays, fiction and non-fiction, in any genre and for any age group. She even read product manuals. And most amazing of all for a seven year old, she understood most of it. That is she could process and store the information in her brain for future reference.
Eventually books became her window to the world, as well as her only source of companionship. Immersed in the magical spell the words weaved around her, she could ignore the teasing and the taunts. She could pretend she was somewhere else, sometime else, and most of all, someone else.
Slowly, her timidity metamophosed into something else. Her quietness turned into aloofness. Her anxiety to arrogance (she knew that she was more knowledgable than most kids older than her.) And lastly her fear into a calculated iciness. Once the bullies realized they couldn't intimidate her anymore, they grudgingly gave up. She was the darling of all the teachers, and with her new found confidence they couldn't touch her.
Instead, she got new nicknames: ice princess, snob, know-it-all, and toward the end, queen of bitches. (her classmates were thirteen and fourteen and therefore beginning to experiment with cursewords)
Little did they know that the 'transformation' was strictly on the exterior. She had been on a steady decline toward a nervous breakdown at the tender age of ten due to the stress of school and the pressure of her parents and teachers to not just do well, but to do exellently.
Then the letter from Hogwarts came that summer. Hermione was so disbelieving that she discarded it, believing it to be some kind of practical joke from her classmates. But then she got a second, then a third. With each were detailed instructions to a place called the Leaky Cauldron, as well as a list of items she would need. The address was in a rather shifty area of London, and at first her parents refused to take her. Only after she begged did they reluctantly give in and drive her to the decidedly shady area.
Smack in the middle of the neighbourhood was a quaint little pub called the Leaky Cauldron.
"There it is Dad!"
"Where?" he replied testily. He had no notion of what this nonsensical hocus pocus giberish was about and disliked humouring his daughter in this way, in this place. His wife gave him a warning look and he sighed. She so hated to dispell their daughters whims, that she wouldn't even if it was for her own good. "All I see are a lot of dingy, boarded up buildings."
"Right there, Dad, oh, park already!"
He did and she dragged them to where she'd seen the pub. "Right here!" she exclaimed.
"But darling..." her mother looked confused and slightly worried. "This is the same as everything else."
Hermione frowned. Were they blind? She pulled them through the door and they immediately gasped. Later she would learn that there was an anti-muggle ward on the place to discourage them from entering. However, once inside the ward was useless, and from then on the Grangers had been able to see the Leaky Cauldron.
"We gotta 'nother one, Tom!" called a man at the bar.
A hunched figure came out of the back and smiled toothlessly at her. "Aye, you must be a new 'Ogwarts student, then?"
Hermione nodded mutely.
"Well... Canna see the letter then?"
She handed it over. After reading it he gave her a searching look, then addressed his companion. "Looks like a Muggleborn. You wanna take 'em or should I?"
"You go ahead, Tom. I got'ta finish with the bar."
"Well then, Miss 'Ermione, we'd best git you to Diagon Alley then. Yer here early, only two other students have come to git their stuff yet."
And he led them, Hermione and her wary parents, to the magical entrance to Diagon Alley. He even became their tour guide of sorts, taking them to Gringotts, where they exchanged muggle cash for wizard money, then to Ollivanders and Flourish and Botts and a myriad of other shops, meticulously checking the things off her supply list.
They spent nearly the whole day in Diagon Alley. Hermione got books upon books, which she began reading as soon as she got home. Her parents had left the decision of whether or not to go up to her. Of course she had. The rest of the summer had been spent memorizing the books she'd obtained. They were more interesting than any muggle novel she had ever read. Especially Hogwarts: A History.
So on September first, she was dropped off at Kings Cross, and sent on her way after her father helped her load her things in a buggy, and followed the other people she saw with paraphernalia like hers. She didn't speak to anyone, and her unapproachable facade was firmly in place. Fearlessly she stepped through the pillar between platform 9 and 10, to platform 9 3/4.
And it was there that she had her first encounter with friendship, or perhaps more accurately, her first encounter with the wizard who was going to end up being her first friend. He was a rather stout boy with dark hair, hanging on desperately to a quite terrified frog, and looking as if he was being thoroughly lectured by an imposing elderly woman. The frog escaped his grasp, and he dove after it to no avail, right at Hermione's feet.She bent down and picked it up gently, handing it to the boy with a genuinely kind smile.
In this boy she recognized a kindred spirit, though they couldn't have been more different. He thanked her profusely and offered his hand to her. "Hello, I'm Neville Longbottom. Thanks for catching Trevor. He's a bit of an escape artist."
She chuckled, for Hermione Granger rarely laughed. "I can see that. I'm Hermione Granger and I'm pleased to make your aquaintance, Neville. I believe your, ah, grandmother is calling you," and she pointed over his shoulder.
Sure enough, the old woman was calling for him. "Neville, you'd best get on the train before you lose that dratted frog again."
"I suppose I'll see you train Hermione. Maybe we could get a compartment together. Coming Grandmother!" He tripped away, leaving Hermione slightly bemused.
Neville would become her best friend for the first part of the year, and would remain a very good friend even after she, Harry, and Ron formed the 'Gryffindor Golden Trio.' Perhaps her best friend even still. While she didn't have the bond of shared experiences, and cooperative secrets with Neville that she did with Harry and Ron, there was something else there. He'd been the one to coax her out of the tough shell she'd built around herself, inadvertently or otherwise, though it had ultimately been the other two that tore it all the way down. And in return she'd helped him find his love of Herbology. A true gift when he considered himself a failure in everything else to do with magic.
There was something indefinable about she and Neville's friendship. A mutual respect and gratitude. Sometimes she felt like he was the only one she could truly confide in, like sometimes Ron was the only one Harry would tell things and vice versa. It was as if the two boys had a whole different kind of (platonic) relationship outside the box of Hermione, Ron, and Harry, that oftentime, as the only girl, Hermione felt doubly left out of.
And that was why Neville was so important to her. When Harry and Ron got all secretive with each other and refused to make her privvy to their thoughts she would talk to Neville and he would inevitably make her feel better. She had no romantic feelings for him whatsoever, nor he for her. They had simply been each other's first real friend and that was a bond that could never be broken.
One week into holidays, as she sat reminiscing about that friendship, Hermione realized that because she had been so steeped in her own emotional turmoil she had completely neglected to let Neville know what was going on. Then came the realizion that she had no way of actually getting a message to him. For the umpteenth time she berated herself for not purchasing an owl of her own.
Just as she was beginning to bite her lip in an effort to find a solution for this problem, a frantic tapping began at her window. Startled, Hermione looked and saw Pigwidgeon, Ron's hyperactive little owl, accompanied by a much older and slightly irritated looking Errol. She opened her window, and Pig flew in and flitted about her room several times before settling on her desk and tapping his claws in an aggitated way. Crookshanks merely eyed the small bird in a superiorly annoyed fashion, and went back to sleep on the bed. Errol merely walked through and extended his leg and Hermione untied the parchment
"Um, thanks. Do you two want some water or something?" she kept a perpetually filled water bowl on her desk for just such occasions. The owls drank gratefully, and Hermione wrestled the other note from Pigs leg amidst many hoots and nips. Finally, when she had them both, she took a look at them. One was from Molly and Arthur Weasley, the other was from Ron and Ginny.
The one from the elder Weasley's read,
Dear Hermione,
Harry owled us your request and the other bit of news and we must say that we are quite flabbergasted. Should we take this to mean that you are not Muggle-born after all? I know that you must not want to speak so freely about it over post, but we are all itching to know the details.
Of course, we would be happy to have you. The more the merrier. Harry will, of course, be coming to stay with us soon. Do you suppose you could wait until then? It won't be much longer, no doubt Harry will be owling us to say he simply can't stand it there another moment, quite soon. Muggles or not, that is a dreadful family.
Other than the obvious, how have you been? I do hope you work things out with your family. We met them briefly at Flourish and Botts a while back and I could tell immediately that they love you and are immensely proud of you. Don't judge them too harshly, I'm certain they had your best interests at heart.
As you must realize, Ron, Harry, Ginny, Fred, George... oh, my, well, the whole family is most curious and has been nagging us, mostly ME senseless with questions I've no clue how to answer. Honestly, how did you expect a little slip of a note like the one you sent Harry to appease them?
We'll owl you just as soon as we have a set time to come for you. Do you have a fireplace? And if you do, do you suppose your parents would consent to have it temporarily hooked up to the floo network? If not, it's fine. We'll see you when we can, dear, keep in touch.
Love, Molly Weasley
P.S. (From Arthur) If they do consent to have their fireplace attached to the floo network, could you confirm that it's not built over with bricks or anything else? Thank you.
Hermione smiled at this last bit. Some of the other things in the letter had hit some still exposed nerve endings. Molly's unconscious parallel to what her birth mother had written in her letter to her. She still hadn't shown it to the Grangers. Why did everyone seem to want her to so readily forgive them? They had hurt her by keeping their secret for so long, and she simply wasn't ready to forgive yet. She unrolled the note from Ron and Ginny.
Dear Hermione
HOW DARE YOU SEND US THAT LITTLE BIT OF NOTHING AND EXPECT US TO BE SATISFIED? WHAT ON EARTH ARE YOU THINKING? DON'T YOU GIVE ME SOME TRIVIAL EXCUSE ABOUT NOT WANTING TO SAY ANYTHING OVER THE POST, EITHER BECAUSE IT'S NOT GOING TO WORK! I CANNOT POSSIBLY WAIT ANOTHER MINUTE TO FIND OUT WHAT'S GOING ON!
By the way, I miss you terribly. It's so awfully boring around here with only my brothers and Mum and Dad for company. I wish you were here. Love you lots, Bye
--Love Ginny
Hermione blinked once and wondered how Ginny could be like a carbon copy of her mother angry one paragraph, and a sweet little girl the next. Mind boggling, that was. She went on to read the second half, which was from Ron.
Hi, 'Mione, how are you? Sorry about Ginny there, she's been batty all week. I think she misses Harry. Either that or she's got the, you know, woman thing. Ahem! I won't ask you what's going on, I'm sure you'll tell us, so I'll wait patiently until you come to the Burrow. Until I see you again---Ron
P.S.(From Ginny) Don't listen to him, Hermione, he's been in a fair tizzy since we got the letter from Harry. If anyone's got the 'woman thing' it's him! But really, though, he's so worried about YOU that he's been driving ME daft with off the wall theories. As per usual. Love Again, Ginny!
In an immensely better mood, Hermione wrote a polite reply to the letter from Molly and Arthur. Then an equally polite denial to Ginny's, er, request for more information. As well as mischieviously noting that she hadn't denied Ron's comment about Harry. Did she miss him? And finally to Ron she said how terribly sexist it was to put all female feelings down to the menstrual cycle. She was satisfied that this would embarrass him into never saying such a thing again. Then she sent Errol and Pigwidgeon on their way.
She had already finished her second read-through of her book and was therefor out of things to take up her time. Her mundane routine was to wake up, wait for her parents to leave, get up, eat breakfast, read, eat lunch, read, tidy up, read, go to her room when her parents returned from work, read, come out to eat and awkwardly silent supper, go back to her room, read, sleep, and repeat the entire thing over again.
But today she was feeling restless. She did her best to capture her hair in a ponytail, donned a simple tank top and jeans with a matching denim jacket, then grabbed a shoulder-bag and headed out. She had no set destination, and reconciled to just see where she ended up. Before she knew it her feet had carried her to the library. Then bypassed it. She walked for another twenty minutes at least, before she found herself at her old secondary school. Had she returned here after that fateful summer, she would have begun taking preperatory classes for her GCSE--General Certificate of Education--along with her thirteen or fourteen year old classmates. If she hadn't gotten the letter and went to Hogwarts, she would probably be at university right now.
Hermione looked up at the overcast sky and hunched her shoulders against the wind, though it wasn't exactly cold. Or perhaps she curled in against the memories, some good, but mostly bad. Infact, the only good times she could recall here had been spent in the library, she thought ruefully, poring over the latest texts Mrs. Hasslebach had gotten in and saved especially for her. Hermione wondered if Mrs Hasslebach was still the librarian, though it was doubtful. She'd been getting on in years, even then, and had probably retired by now.
If classes hadn't already let out for holiday, they would very soon, Hermione thought, and as it crossed her mind, she heard a bell from within, afterwhich a moment later students began milling out of the several exits. Hermione waited around wondering if she would see anyone she recognized. According to her calculations, this would be the last year for the students two years "lower" than herself. And it hadn't been only people in her own grade that had bullied her. Especially on the playground.
Soon she was rewarded with the sight of a group, the exact same group, of boys who had been particulary tenacious in their humiliation of her. Ian McCallister, Nicolas Goldstein, Andrew Collins, and Geofrey Stanton. It was distantly amazing to her how easily the names came back to her. They had been the authors of her misery back then, much as Malfoy had been these past six years. It seemed she was destined to be the target of bullies.
At first they didn't see her. They were laughing at something, and slyly hurling rocks at the other students. It also seemed that they were, ah, jocks she believed was the american term for them. They had letter jackets(do they have letter jackets in England?) and one of them had a basketball.
One of them noticed her, and must have recognized that he had seen her somewhere even if he didn't know where or when. She hadn't changed that much, just got a bit taller and slimmer looking. And she no longer had bucked teeth of course. They swaggered over to her, and Hermione couldn't help but smile at their obviousness. The leader, Ian, uncannily reminded her of Malfoy, though he was several centimeters taller and broader, and his face wasn't quite so pointed, (Though, if she thought about it, Malfoy's face wasn't as pointed as it had been when she'd first encountered him in first year. It was still rather sharp however) nor was Ian's hair as white blond. No, the thing that most reminded her of Malfoy were Ian's eyes. They weren't a startling silver, but a glacial blue, however, she recognized the gleam in them. Cruelty, malevolence, and all around bad will emanated from those eyes, and tried to cower anyone brave or idiotic enough to meet them.
It was lucky then, that Hermione had six years of experience with these kind of eyes under her belt, and had long since obtained immunity, and had even mastered her own brand of withering scorn, which she brandished through her own brown orbs.
She addressed and nodded to each in turn. "Goldstein, Collins, Stanton... McCallister." The other three appeared to be nothing more than muscelbound goons, rather like Crabbe and Goyle.
Apparently startled at his lack of effect on her, Ian narrowed his eyes, trying desperately to place her. Then it came to him. "Granger? Bucktooth Granger?" he hooted maliciously. "It's been a while hasn't it? How was France?" This one wasn't stupid, Hermione thought calculatingly, though by the looks of the others, she had been right in her earlier assessment. They just stood there with stupidly evil smirks on their faces. No doubt about it--they had the combined IQ of a teacup.
"Oh, Ian, do try to be more observant. As you can plainly tell, I've no longer got abnormally large front teeth. But you're still as frightfully dull as ever I see. Why, I remember the time I beat you at that spelling tournament. Hmm, let's see, motion, M-O-S-H-U-N was it?" she cocked an eyebrow and got the pleasure of seeing his face redden, and that annoyingly Malfoyish smirk wiped from his (it really was quite pointed after all) face.
"Ah, I see finally grew into your... teeth so to speak. And you have some claws too I see. With your hair, I always did think you rather looked like a lion. Or one of those ugly flatfaced cats." he sneered.
Hermione pursed her lips. This was actually quite fun. This boy's taunts were nothing compared to what she'd been faced with in the past. "How original. And I suppose your body grew to match your feet, though they are still freakishly large."
At this, Ian's composure began to slip and he openly scowled. "Watch it Granger. Your mouth might get you into trouble someday. Or even today"
This got Hermione riled. In her wrath she barely noticed the school grounds emptying of people. "Oh, yeah? And what are you gonna do about it? Beat up a girl? Oh I forgot, bullies don't care who they pick on, as long as they're smaller and weaker than they are.Well I've got news for you--I'm used to it. Your not clever, or smart, nor do you have even a modicum of originality" She was losing herself in the anger, in the impotence she had felt her entire life, and was now venting every feeling of inferiority she had ever felt about any of the bullies she had encountered. But particularly the one that had made her life hell the longest. And it wasn't Ian McCallister, he was merely a convenient scratching post.
"You know what, Ian? I cannot believe you have the nerve to talk down to me. Even at, what is it now, seventeen?, you still act like a two year old. Throwing a fit when you don't get your way, you big baby. Scowling when you realize that someone might have more brain power in their pinky finger than you do in your entire body, you idiot. Getting offended when someone finally speaks their mind to you, even though you have no notion that what you say hurts others. Either that, or you don't care, you absolute git. Do you know what you are, Mal-McCallister? You're a coward. The lowest sort of coward on the totem pole too, a bully. You're not fit to inhale the air I breathe, NOT the other way around! Do you know how long I've wanted to say that?"
Hermione was breathless from her rant, and practically gulping the air. Her rage spent, she was finally able to realize what she had done. It had just felt so good to get that out that she hadn't really thought about it. A first for her. And now that she had expelled the ugly words, she realized her error. She had just insulted--numerous times--someone much bigger than her who had three reinforcements that were larger than him. In an empty parking lot. Stupid! she chided herself as the fear slowly blossomed in her clearing head. Stupid, reckless Hermione!
Ian's face had grown steadily darker throughout her tirade, and he and his buddies seemed to loom even larger. "No Granger, but I reckon it's been a long time," Slowly they began to advance, and for every step Hermione took backwards they took two. Ian bent down and she could feel his afternoon bad-breath on her cheek. The only wild thought that occurred to her was--'I bet Malfoy wouldn't let his breath get this bad,'--before Ian whispered silkily into her ear, "Didn't I tell you that mouth would get you into trouble Granger? But my mates and I... we can think of better uses for it, can't we boys?"
There was a collective nod, that McCallister seemed to sense because he smiled. "See, Granger? You asked for it. And there's nothing an ickle girl like you can do about it, especially when she's all alone"
Hermione's brain was working overtime. Fear was trying to get the better of her, but she stubbornly refused to let it. She'd faced Death Eaters for God's sake, surely she could outsmart a few horny teenage tyrants. She had gravely miscalculated McCallister, putting him on the same level as Malfoy. She realized now, that while Malfoy could hex her, could probably even use an unforgivable on her, he could not actually hurt her. He wouldn't attack her at school, nor, even more likely, would he sully himself by touching her or her tainted blood. McCallister had no such qualms. He would touch her, he might even rape her.
Her first mistake had been approaching him in an uncontrolled environment, but her most grievous mistake had been superimposing Malfoy over him. McCallister was a schoolyard bully, with no other agenda other than to hurt. And if she didn't do something soon, hurt her he would. Quickly she brought her knee up with the intent of knocking his balls all the way up to his tonsils, but he moved his leg just in time to prevent the incapacitating blow. She did manage to sufficiently startle him into letting her go, however, and she immediately took off at a sprint just as the sky began to weep great torrents of rain.
Just as she thought she might just get away, there was a hard yank on her ponytail. Her forward momentum caused her to slip on the slick pavement and fall on her back. Hard. All the air left her lungs in a whoosh, and there was a dizzying pain at the back of her head that caused dots to dance in front of her eyes. Dazed, she looked up and saw that the boys had made a square around her, Ian on the right side of her head. He knelt down and rubbed his thumb over her lips. She spit at him, and even in her disabled state had the dignity to glare.
He wiped the spittle from his cheek and said in that same smooth voice, "You've actually become quite pretty. Pity your such a bitch. And it's such a shame we're going to rearrange that beautiful mug of yours. What do you say we rough her up a bit first, eh boys? To show her what us cowards are capable of?"
"You got it, Ian." Said the rather meaty looking Goldstein.
"Yeah, It'll be our pleasure, mate," seconded a sneering Stanton, while cracking his knuckles.
The last thing she saw was a fist headed straight for her, and white hot pain erupted behind her eyelids. Then all went black.
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That night, when Mr. and Mrs. Granger arrived home the red light on their answering machine was blinking, signaling that they had a message. Earlier, on their lunch break, they had resolved to confront their daughter together that evening. It was unfair of her to ignore them like she had been and frankly, they were tired of her moping about, acting the part of a martyr. They had given her a good life, and they loved her just as much as they would if she was their own flesh and blood.
They marched through the house in search of Hermione, and were bewildered when they yielded no results. She wasn't even in her room, though her bed was meticulously made, as she always did before leaving her room. They briefly entertained the idea that she'd run away then discarded it when they saw her trunk in it's usual place in the bottom of her closet. They were relatively certain she wouldn't leave without it.
It was then, that Mrs. Granger distractedly pressed the button on the answering machine. Their greeting played through, confirming or dissaffirming that the person had reached the right residence. Then a man, sounding frantic, and quite uncomfortable, relayed his heart-stopping news.
"Mr. and Mrs. Granger, this is Constable Franklin Yeary. There's been an incident involving you're daughter. She's been found in the parking lot of Eaton School and rushed immediately to St. Francis's Hospital. It's, uh, it doesn't look good right now. Rush over post haste when you get this message." Beeeep
They made it to the hospital in twenty-five minutes, as opposed to the usual forty.
Evil cliffy wasn't it? I just love cliffhangers. Writing them that is. I hate reading them, but they do insure that, if sufficiently edge-of-seat, that the reader will come back for more. If you read let me know, even if it's to tell me what a horrible person I am.