Not very much Draco and Pansy in this chapter but there will be more of them in the next chapter. It's a bit slow paced still, but I hope you enjoy. Please review and let me know what you think, and check back next Friday for the next chapter.
All in all, Hermione Granger thought that she had been coping rather well with it all. She had, in a becoming regular fashion, received grieving relatives and family friends on a daily basis and accommodated them as if her own home were a five star hotel. She listened attentively as they recounted old, well known stories to her that she had been hearing since she was four years of age. She laughed at their jokes, jokes that were not in any way funny, only told to relieve the grief that was bubbling underneath, yet at the same time being suppressed until they burst into a flurry of tears and miserable sobbing, Hermione in her new role as a hostess, forced to bear it all with all the strength that she could muster to keep her own feelings locked up, would pass them a tissue from a fast emptying box and pat their hands in a comforting gesture, before rushing off into the kitchen to boil the kettle to make everyone tea so that she could escape from their suffocating shock and sadness that seemed to swell in her lounge, threatening to burst into the dining area and invade the haven that her kitchen had become. Always, she offered them an invitation to dinner but wouldn't allow them to cook, instead she let them babble on as they dealt with this completely unexpected situation in their own way. The food she served was delicious, and being the fantastic host she was, Hermione refused their offers to help clear the table, afraid they might venture into the kitchen, where two very visible plates lay innocently on the side, food untouched and cold, there only to remind her who was missing.
Through it all she had not been left alone in her home for more than a minute at a time, and Hermione wasn't sure how she felt about this. She was glad in a way that she wasn't alone, for it would only serve as more of a reminder, causing her to think about it all the more. But then she craved for silence, for solitude, so that she could finally lose control and cry all the tears that had settled in her eyes, making them glisten permanently. She wanted so badly to be left alone, so that she could scream the house down with all of her built up frustration, without someone making a worried call to the therapist, who ironically still had her parents and so could only imagine what it was she was supposed to 'be going through' at this time.
They watched her constantly, never letting her slip away, never letting her escape. She'd been tempted to disappear so many times, to sneak out in the middle of the night through a window, but even that was not permitted. On the driveway sat immobilised as she was becoming accustomed to was a car so similar to her parents it was uncanny (It's for your protection, Hermione, Natalie Roberts, the police officer, had told her every time she'd bothered to ask, how would it look if it were a police car? People would talk, and that would ruin everything. Don't forget, your parents' murderer may still be out there, for all we know they may have plans for you as well…). Words meant for reassurance seemed to lack all but the cold truth and gave her no more comfort than a cold steel knife would; it was not as if she needed reminding about their murder, but what worried her most of all was that the muggle police would never be satisfied with the excuses that the undercover ministry workers came up with. It seemed her logical brain refused to accept everything they told her, because she knew for a fact that they were wrong, sometimes she cursed so much knowledge as a burden. As it were, she'd heard nothing from the wizarding community at all, not even from Harry or Ron. But maybe that was just because she'd told Reginald Hocks the night that it happened that she didn't want to hear from the wizarding world at all, unless it concerned Hogwarts. She'd seen all she'd needed to see that night; she didn't want to know anymore. She knew Harry and Ron would understand. At least she hoped they would.
Their had been limited press involvement, much to her relief, attacks on muggleborn witches and wizards parents were becoming scarily more common and a growing panic was spreading out across the country, so two new murders wouldn't make the headlines anymore. But as always she tried not to think about it as much, only focusing on the task set before her now.
Uncle Jeremy and Aunt Sarah were sat in the lounge, wanting to continue the stormy tirade they had freshly joined. Hermione wondered if there was a queue outside her house and she glanced nervously through to the front door, silently praying that no one would come visiting tomorrow. More than anything she wanted to tell all of them that she wasn't feeling particularly right today, that maybe they should come back in a few days when she was feeling better, but that excuse had failed her several times already. Carrying the tea and cakes like an expert into the lounge where she could hear whispering, she remembered to grab yet another box of Waitrose's tissues in case Sarah starting crying again, she'd been rather fond of her sister-in-law and was finding it hard to cope with the tragedy. Hermione reminded herself not to sit next to Sarah, she had taken to patting her knee furiously when she cried, and she was sure a bruise was forming.
When Hermione had walked up to it, the remains of their car, the place where she'd heard it happen, still unable to forget the voices that plagued her when night came…she'd not imagined that this was how she would be coping with her grief. It seemed that, as the deceased's daughter, her job was to deal with everyone else's grief first and ignore her own. Of course none of them were not so heartless as to not ask how she was, but they took her protests that she was o.k. with a shared glance that said they doubted that, and started off again as they tried, in her eyes, to prove how close or fond they were of her parents, from her dad's corny jokes to her mother's wonderful cooking. They seemed to forget that maybe, just maybe, she wanted to say something about herself and all the stories she had to tell about her parents, but no one seemed to listen. Even all of her grandparents seemed to be oblivious; they watched her like hawks but listened with deaf ears.
Roberts had taken enough interest and had become so involved in it all that she frequently popped over when her shift ended to fill Hermione in on the details about the muggle side of the investigation, (of course she knew nothing about the magic side of the investigation, but neither did Hermione), but her thirst for knowledge had been quenched and she had no desire to know, wasn't it enough that her parents had been ripped away from her, did she really want to know how each one appears to have been killed, or about the dodgy letter that was causing them all concern? Granted, at first she had been desperate to know, but now the shock had been subsiding like a washed out tide ever so slowly, and she simply refused to process what the police officer was telling her, letting the adults instead mull it over and deal with as they should. She wanted to remain the oblivious child whose only concern was coming to terms with the death of her parents.
Her father's parents, Nana Grace and Grandpa Sid, had taken up residency in the guest bedroom seeing as she was still not eighteen and could only then be given residency of the house that had been left solely to her, in a will that had only been drafted weeks before. Her parents hadn't been ones to think too far into the future.
Her grandparents had been the ones to arrange the funeral and invite all the guests, a funeral Hermione couldn't remember much about it, only swathes of black and the far off sound of sobbing. She'd not spoken that day, her gaze only fixed on the two wooden boxes. Her grandparents had dealt with the paperwork and the police, leaving Hermione to sort the relatives out. She wasn't sure which job she'd rather have.
As soon as Jeremy and Sarah had left many hours later, she sank wearily down onto the sofa and rubbed her tired eyes. She was fed up of recounting that nights events to each new visitor she encountered and welcomed into her home, she was fed up of the pictures on the mantelpiece above the fireplace that showed her what she was missing out on, she was fed up of not being allowed a moment to forget about it. Had it only been two weeks?
Glancing up at the clock she realised for the first time that she was alone as she'd wished, her grandparents were still at the solicitors and wouldn't be back, she guessed, for a long while yet. Not quite sure where the thought had come from, or if she should even follow it, she walked to the curtains at the front window. Peeking out behind one she looked at the two police officers sat in the car eating doughnuts and drinking coffee, laughing at something. At least they can laugh, she thought bitterly as she angrily pulled the curtains shut even though the sun was still burning low in the sky.
The house was washed in a silence, but she felt no need to turn the television or the radio on. Her slippers flopped against her feet as she climbed the stairs, instead of heading down the hall to her bedroom she turned left and shut the door behind her. Releasing a breath she'd been unaware she was holding; she sank back wearily against it as her nose was invaded with the smell of her mothers perfume and the sight of her father's briefcase resting on a stool. She'd wanted to come in here for so long, but she'd held back, wanting to be alone when she invaded their space. Feeling for the doorknob with her hand she grasped it and turned the lock, only then satisfied that she wouldn't be interrupted.
Like the rest of their house it was grand in a moderate sense, the large king bed dominating the room with its oversized pillows and crisp duvets in a modern floral pattern that she loved. The built in wardrobes were clean and practical, she ran a hand along the rail across suits and skirts and blouses, eying enviably her mothers dressing table and remembering how, when she was younger, she had snuck in unnoticed and smothered her face in all the pretty colours from the make up box, much to the amusement of her mother who'd sat her down after cleaning the mess off of her face and shown her how to use makeup properly.
Her feet sank into the carpet as she padded across to the en suite bathroom. The door creaked as she pushed it open, her gaze resting a moment on one of her father's t-shirts which had been casually thrown on the floor besides her mother's slippers. Twisting the shower knob all the way round to hot, she slipped off her sweater and jeans and underwear and cautiously stepped into the steaming shower.
At first her skin protested as the scolding water fell upon her, but she let it wash over like a radiating heat that prickled and pinched her skin. The pain subsided as her body adapted to the temperature and Hermione sighed as she felt all the knots in her muscles undo and as all the dirt and grime was scrubbed away, wishing it was as easy for the emptiness and anger that clung to her to be washed down with the water down the drain. She grinned as she washed her hair for the first time in two weeks, immediately feeling refreshed and clean. The minutes blurred as she stood under the pounding water, only lowering the heat when she felt that she might suffocate in the mist.
When she felt significantly cleaner she turned the shower off, and dressed in her father's t-shirt, no longer lying abandoned on the floor. It was far too big for her small frame, but the scent of his aftershave still hung to the cotton and gave her a little comfort. She put on her mother's slippers and walked back into the bedroom. She'd spent so many hours lazing on their bed as she watched her mum tame her unruly bushy hair into soft waves, wishing she could be bothered to do it herself. Of course in recent years her mother's hair had been cut shorter and was no longer so bushy, but Hermione could remember exactly how her mother had done it. She wanted to surround herself with as much as them as possible so that she would never forget memories like those. Time was an enemy of itself.
After several frustrating attempts to get it just as her mother's had been, she finally succeeded in what she thought was a lame (but still plausible) attempt at making her hair resemble the style her mother had worn. Glancing in the mirror she noticed how much she resembled her in that moment, before she turned away and felt guilty, lacking the will to wipe tears from her face.
The frustration and anger had finally found a crack, and was being forced out as if a bomb had just exploded inside of her. Waves of sobs overcame her and she bolted from the chair like a startled deer. She was so tired, the muscles in her face ached and her eyelids were so heavy…she needed to escape and she needed to now. She darted across the room, unlocking the door and throwing it wide open. Her footsteps creaked on the stairs as she ran down them, across the hall, through the kitchen and into the pantry. An icy draught shook her legs and she stumbled, only just managing to catch herself before she fell over.
Hermione eyed the cabinet suspiciously, wondering if she was willing to go that far. She glanced at the ticking clock on the wall as she caught her breath. Without another thought she was there, the sound of clinking glass bottles breaking the silence as she frantically searched for the one that she wanted. Squinting in the dim light she read the labels, going deeper and deeper until her hand grasped the one she wanted. The cabinet doors slammed shut but she was already in the kitchen, running like a frightened child that had been caught looking at something she shouldn't have been. She didn't even stop as she hurried up the stairs, two at a time, and back into her parent's room. There was excitement now, and self praise that she had been clever enough to even think of it. It was so un-Hermione-like, she thought with a sad smile. Her fingers struggled to lock the door as her heart pounded in her chest and her blood soared.
She fell in a heap on the floor, completely washed out. Of course, she'd been allowed to drink before, her parents always let her have a glass of wine with dinner if she wanted it – they had always believed that a good relationship with alcohol would benefit her in the future and stop her abusing it.
Did she want to go this far? Did she know what she was doing? She'd never done anything before against her parents' wishes, she could honestly say she hadn't – did she really want to start now?
A glance at the bed and the clothes and the briefcase brought tears to her eyes. Hermione wanted to forget for just one moment, just one. She wanted to believe she'd fall asleep in their bed and they come back surprised to find her there, wondering why she preferred their bed over her own. They'd chide her for being so daft sometimes, and take her downstairs where they'd order takeaway and watch films on T.V. If she wished hard enough…
The plastic lid scraped against the glass as she twisted it. She'd never tasted this drink before, unsure what to expect. Raising the bottle to her lips she could smell how strong it was and recoiled for a moment. Are you going to be that fickle, Hermione, she asked herself.
Yes was the answer to all of her questions, but she didn't let it stop her. She closed her eyes and took one long gulp, gagging as it burned her throat, trying to refrain herself from spitting it back out again. She coughed at the putrid taste and the clear liquid in the bottle sloshed against the sides, threatening to spill onto the carpet. She felt a buzz, and for a moment she felt free, like a bird flying in the sky with no worries, but it disappeared far too quickly for her liking. She'd only meant to take one sip, but one more couldn't hurt, could it?
A hastily written note sizzled as it burst into flames. Watching it with weary eyes, she wondered why she had been chosen for this, why didn't he get chosen? She was angry; it wasn't very fair why she had been picked. Yes, they were in it together, but as she eyed his dozing figure softly, Pansy wished more than anything that it had been him. She hadn't understood half of what the letter said, or what it meant – only that she was to speak to no one of it, even Draco. Surely he would have been a better choice, Pansy was never one to kid herself that she was something she was not.
Her arm had stopped hurting finally days ago, yet the symbol was always on her mind and in her thoughts, like an eavesdropper who was following everything she did, learning all that she knew. She wasn't smart enough to learn how to shield her mind like Draco could; she didn't have people surrounding her that he had to teach her such things. To them, she was just a measly girl. There were rumours of course, rumours that usually held no truth but these she suspected, did. If it were true, and she prayed for Draco's sake that they were not, then when the time came they'd no longer be together, like a brother and sister they'd become.
Well I don't want that, she thought bitterly as the last of the parchment sizzled into ash. She muttered a quick spell to dissolve the smoke and gathered the ash, pouring into a vial she had kept in her jacket under her robe. Tomorrow they were finally allowed to leave this place, but that meant going their separate ways until school. Home was nothing to her but an empty shell, and not for the first time she loathed those who had a caring family. No doubt her mother would force her to be subjected to more spells to alter her appearance, and her father would ignore her presence entirely. For once, just once, she wanted to show them that she was more than just a silly girl; to prove to Draco she was not some laden waste, and to prove to them all that she could be a great witch.
Well maybe, she thought with her first smile for several days, I can prove them all wrong. She felt the vial in her pocket, and thought of the opportunity she had been offered. In that moment, she was grateful she had been chosen. She was going to prove just how much she was worth, and then they'd regret ever doubting her.