By Meruna
Disclaimer: Don't own the wizarding world or any of its living/non-living contents, thank you.
A/N: It would only proper to tell you that this fic will be totally disregarding the sixth book. And, to be honest, this fic is also a bit on the side of pointless. But pointlessness and honesty aside, I do hope you enjoy – and enjoy it enough to review!
A Draco and Hermione Fanfiction.
I. Broken Beads
It was winter already. The weather was at its prime, fluctuating between snowfalls and blizzards. At the first snow of the year, Hogwarts students were thrilled. During the summer holiday it'd rained, and proving the climate's defiance towards the weathermen, not only did it rain – it rained relentlessly. Gardens were ruined with the vicious downpour while adolescents remained imprisoned inside their homes, looking solemnly out at the insistently dribbled streets, waiting for the clouds to finally drain themselves of the vindictive water.
So it was a relief for snow, even if snow was just frozen rain. But after the pleasantries of nature's soft white blankets and friendly snowball fights (and some not quite so friendly), the weather revealed its rebelliousness once again. Hogwarts castle was thrashed with an outstanding series of snowstorms and blizzards. It created inches of frost on the windows that precluded the possibility of any beam of natural light shining through. To say that Hogwarts was completely iced over would be the understatement of the century.
Thus, due to the sudden barrage of frigidness, many students were tackled by a vicious bout of influenza. Among them were Ernie Macmillan, Terry Boot, Dean Thomas, Jolene Fitzward, Romola Rollins, Pansy Parkinson, Colin Creevey and many others. The list was simply too extensive to go over thoroughly. It'd start out as a mere cold – sneezing, coughing fits, runny noses, the works. Then it escalated to record-breaking fevers, ear-infections and deliria. Soon, the hospital wing's beds were occupied with writhing, febrific young adults. Then, more kept coming even with Dumbledore's announcement of no more vacancies that Madam Pomfrey had to borrow another classroom, which Minerva McGonagall, their notorious Transfiguration teacher, had to help turn into another infirmary.
Now, Madam Pomfrey had always been capable of curing the flu within the blink of an eye. She'd been around for as long as they could remember and beyond, and thus knew just about every remedy for every sort of ailment. What also helped that every year they were required to stock up on serums, but this year chaos struck: The W.A.M.D.N.T.S. (Wizarding Association of Medical Distribution of Necessary Tonics and Serums) had received a limited amount of tonics from its suppliers and had quickly run out. At first the staff had figured it was not a massive deal, for they still had one of the best Potion masters in the country, Severus Snape. But unfortunately, all of the other schools thought so as well. Within twenty-four hours of the news, the ingredients for just about every possible flu-curing potion had been sucked dry from the shelves.
And so, to say Hogwarts was quite in a dilemma was an understatement.
Within a fortnight thirteen students had been hospitalized. Madam Pomfrey begun to succumb into temporary insanity for a while for it seemed there was an endless queue of ill students just waiting beyond those big oak doors. Students from every House and every year came in with scorching foreheads or pain in their ears or dangerous amounts of mucus blocking up their lungs or throat. People started to fear for their lives – and immune systems, which was certainly justified in anyone's opinion. It was like a sort of epidemic going around, and with Hogwarts seventy-eighth in the waiting list of the W.A.M.D.N.T.S., people had the right mind to cast immunity charms on themselves.
Though even those weren't a sure case anymore.
"Ron, don't you understand the graveness of this situation?" Hermione hissed as Ron sloppily chomped down on his third chocolate frog. "Here – eat an orange," she said, grabbing one from the bowl beside her and throwing it to him. "You need to build up your immune system."
"I'm just fine, Hermione," he said, having caught the orange that had been purposely aimed at his face. He looked at her with a begrudging expression, his oceanic eyes dark and scowling, setting down the fruit. "Us Weasleys were born with a strong immunity system, so don't you fret about that. Now leave me alone and let me eat." With that said, he took another noisy bite, then proceeded to wash it down with pumpkin juice.
"Does nothing get through to that brain of yours?" she asked. "Ginny had a fever last night! Her temperature was a hundred nine!"
"Well, that's only because she's a girl," Ron shrugged.
"Ron," interjected Harry, "I don't think it matters if you're a girl or not."
"Harry's right," said Hermione. "Influenza does not seek its target based on gender, or skills, or family surnames, all right?" She picked up another orange and threw it at him, Ron letting out a yelp as it hit him square on the shoulder. "Why else do you think they've been placing out these fruit bowls?"
"I thought they were only out for display," he said, glaring at her, rubbing his shoulder blade. "Health week. And I wouldn't go around throwing fruit if I were you."
"If you're not going to eat it I might as well," snapped Hermione. Narrowing her eyes at him, she bit loudly into her apple, looking back down at her book with one final (and reciprocated) glower from Ron. Ron and Harry, their eyes flickering alarmingly behind Hermione, quickly ducked down their heads, pretending to be engrossed in their essays as Severus Snape swept by, writing nonsense on their papers to keep up the convincing pretense that they were actually doing something.
When the menacing figure of Snape had continued onto the other tables and they heard the low murmurs of his monotone threats in the distance, no doubt practicing his impeccable skill of handing out detentions (though why he had to practice was beyond Hermione – he'd already reached a perverse sort of proficiency in the ability) to a poor student three tables down, Hermione looked up from her book. Her eyes rested on fellow Gryffindor Parvati Patil a couple of seats down who was having a coughing fit. She watched as people beside her awkwardly fidgeted in their seats, scooting away, and Parvati hung her head, pressing a napkin tight against her mouth as her body convulsed with her hacks.
"I don't understand what's going on," whispered Hermione. "It's never been this awful before."
Harry nodded, putting down his quill. "It's as if someone released it out into the halls."
"But what if someone did?" Ron wondered aloud. "Think about it: who really hates students enough to want them to die from natural illnesses? Filch? Snape? Although, my guess is, it couldn't possibly be the greasy-haired git. Natural illnesses would be too nice."
"Snape's also the one who's making the cures," added Hermione.
"Yes, but you do sense the urgency of the predicament the school's in. If he was sweating his bum off over a boiling cauldron to make those tonics, then how on earth could the monster still have time to monitor study hall?"
Hermione opened her mouth, but closed it again. Her shoulders slumped. "You've a point," she admitted reluctantly.
"You're forgetting that we've run out of the ingredients needed for those serums," said Harry. "Hogwarts is simply just waiting around. Trying to keep the sicknesses at bay until we get new supplies."
"But this whole massive outbreak is almost terrifying unnatural," Hermione whispered, a currently subdued but growing panic in her voice. "How could—"
"Incoming," Ron interrupted hastily, his eyes somewhere to Hermione's far right. Hermione closed her mouth and the three of them quickly diverted their attentions to what they had in front of them; Hermione to her textbook and Arithmancy essay, and Ron and Harry to their Beetle Wings Vs. Slug Entrails: Which Is More Effective In Potion-Making? Essay. Due to their sudden lapse into silence, her ears boomed with Parvati's coughs again as she glimpsed the girl's trembling figure from the corner of her eye. Then, Hermione's breath caught in her throat as suddenly with a voluminous flush of dark robes, the monstrous Severus Snape had hindered her view.
She could hear his snarling undertone just paces away.
"Patil, I advise you do something about that cough of yours," said an irritable Snape. "Wouldn't want you to be coughing up any of your miserable tonsils, now would we? Get up and go to the infirmary. I don't want you infecting anyone else. Go." There was a distracted and tense quiet as she could see Parvati fearfully staring up at him. "Now!" he barked, and she scampered up to her feet, gathering her things in meant urgency. She rapidly walked down the aisle as pairs of eyes followed after her, and when she began to cough again, she hurried into a run and slipped out the doors without a single moment to spare.
Snape looked at all of them, tense in their seats with their eyes glued to the doors, disdain clearly scrawled all over his sallow complexion.
"Well?" he said aloud, making all of them jump in their seats in surprise. Neville fell over the bench in all his shock, his papers and book falling all over his lap as he landed with a hard thud on the floor. Hermione watched him with a look of sympathy as he noticeably winced. "What do you think this is? A show? Get to work now or the first person I see whose attention clearly needs redirecting will receive detention for a month." His upper lip shriveled upwards like a slowly roasting worm. "And ten points from Gryffindor for overexcitement," he said, sending a look of revulsion towards Neville, who flushed an unflattering shade of crimson in mortification. "Now, get to work, all of you."
Hermione heard a shuffle of footsteps and parchments as Seamus Finnigan and Dean Thomas helped Neville up, muttering to themselves about their feculent Potions master. Not quite catching their words (but indeed having enough wits about her to know they wouldn't be anywhere near pleasant), she simply let a soft sigh elude her lips, tilting her head heavenwards to the enchanted ceiling, where snow fell, but never reached her.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Due to the intolerable weather, Care of Magical Creatures with Hagrid was instead to be held in the Great Hall. Many objections arose about this controversial topic. Then again, Care of Magical Creatures had always been something if not controversial.
"Don' yeh worry," said Hagrid smilingly, where he then proceeded to tell them that all sanitary measures were to be always performed by a professional. There was a nervous tittering about the students now who looked almost nauseous as they stood in a cluster of black robes and light golden uniforms. Hermione saw many crinkled brows and quizzical expressions as she looked around with arms wound tightly across her chest, quite worried herself.
It seemed anything but a good idea to her. After all, this was where all of the students ate their meals three times a day. Though spells with a wand could be much more thorough than any house-elf work, the thought of furry, smelly beasts being brought into their dining room was a stomach-turning notion. She couldn't get over the image in her head of someone finding a fur ball in their stew, or a stringy piece of scraggly hair in their pudding. It was enough to make her whole body shudder.
"But animals are so filthy!" said a shrill voice somewhere in front of her. Hermione reckoned it had been a Slytherin girl. There was a surge of new murmurs that waved over her class as people exchanged disturbed looks. Hermione looked over at Harry and Ron, who were too busy looking exasperated with this entire mess. "And—and, we eat here!" continued the girl.
Hagrid frowned at them, his beetle-dark eyes sad underneath his bushy eyebrows. He began to stutter – quite pathetically, though Hermione would never say so out loud – as he mentally scrounged around for another way to say that the Great Hall would be cleaned by a wand-owning individual with a soi-disant expertise in the area. Hermione, fed up with this discussion that was only intended to last a few minutes but had quickly transformed into a humiliating and overextended battle of the prissy germaphobics, sighed impatiently. Before Hagrid could stammer out another vowel, Hermione had spoken aloud, her thinning patience riding on her voice like a sharp winter draft.
"Would you leave the poor man alone?" Her voice was crystal clear as it crackled through the stick-straight spines of her peers. "How many times are you all going to make him repeat that it's going to be magically and thoroughly cleaned by an expert? Because he's been speaking in the same language as us for the past twenty minutes and the irony's not lost on me because it seems as if you're the ones who can't understand simple English!"
But instead of scolding some good sense into their brains, Hermione caught the strong whiff of strengthening, crackling tension like the acrid smell of a rotting, carnivorous flower.
And then the crowd began to part like the Red Sea, and out swaggered their Moses: Draco Malfoy. Hermione simply rolled her eyes at him while she felt Harry and Ron protectively scoot closer to her.
"Look here, Granger," his pale face sneered. "Just because you're used to eating with the animal waste all over your food doesn't mean we are."
"Malfoy, with the wealthy foods you eat, I bet you don't even know half of what they put in there," she retaliated, "so believe me when I say you should be the last person to say anything at all. You'll only be setting the trap to contradict yourself."
"Oh, Mudblood," he said, tilting his head, as if entertained with her. His malicious silver eyes sparkled. "How amusing you are. You talk so bold and possess such a gallant self-assurance, isn't that right?" His eyes flickered to Harry and Ron beside her, then returned, meeting her gaze. She almost felt frost form on the back of her neck as their gazes connected. He stepped closer, and Hermione didn't move. "If I were to catch you alone in the hall, I bet you couldn't even stutter out an excuse of a vowel like your little friend the oaf over there," he said spitefully. "Your bravado isn't fooling anyone, Granger. Just because you've got your two little bodyguards now doesn't mean they'll be around forever."
Suddenly, Ron stepped up, threateningly. His voice suppressed rage. "Leave her alone, you prick, or I'll break your neck."
"Yes, Weasley, but at least I can buy another one."
"Only you'd be dim-witted enough to think that you can buy a new neck, Malfoy," hissed Hermione.
He smirked at her, an evil, guileful smirk. "You'd be surprised at just what you can buy, Mudblood. I wouldn't talk so surely about that."
Floor-rumbling footsteps caused the crowd to loosen and disperse, yet Hermione, Harry, Ron and Draco remained rooted to the floor. Hermione could feel the entirety of their animosity towards each other, all meshed into one. It caused goose bumps to peak all over her skin, pinching her tendons, stretching the skin tautly across her face.
"All righ', all righ', you four," said Hagrid gruffly. "Separate."
And although Hagrid had begun to lead them away from their adversary, Hermione didn't turn her back until Harry nudged her, and even then she felt the scalding traces of his smirk sizzling on her back.
"It's best if we just ignore him," she quietly reminded Harry and Ron as they paired up together again.
"Yes, and you did an exemplary job of doing that," snorted Ron.
"It wasn't my fault," she argued. "Didn't you see him? Being the prat that he is, I could have scorched his face off if I'd really said what was on my mind—"
"All right then, so we all know that it's easier said than done," said Harry, though Hermione could hear the iron wiring in his jaw. "Let's just get this done with, okay? We'll deal with Malfoy later. We don't want to get any of our eyebrows singed again. Baby dragons, Hermione, Ron – you remember how it is. If this one hatches before our chart says it's supposed to, then we're going to be carrying along a failing score for the rest of the term."
At the mention of the possibility of possessing a failing grade, Hermione sobered. They all looked at the glass cube Harry set down on the table, which they'd wisely made certain was all the way across the room from the Slytherins. Harry turned the lock and Hermione helped to lift the top off, and feeling the warm, smooth surface of the enchanted glass sent a torrent of pleasant tingles through her body. They all looked at the cushioned dragon egg for a moment. And as Harry and Ron began to casually talk again, carefully turning the egg over as was instructed, they felt the knots of tension in their shoulders and backs slowly begin to rub away as they slowly forgot about their encounter with the vile Slytherin.
But as Hermione inspected their chart, thoroughly checking over their solutions and the approximated time their egg was to hatch, she couldn't help but see Draco Malfoy's patronizing, smirking face staring right back at her again, as if all of the ink blots and numbers had gathered up to form the insufferable image of his face.
And when she blinked hard, convinced that she was going mad, it was gone.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
It seemed that even Harry's infamous scar couldn't ward away sickness, either, for two days later he had to be taken to the hospital wing for a very bad case of strep throat. At first Harry'd just insisted his throat was sore because they'd been quite rowdy in the boy's dormitory the night before (Fred and George had probably sent over one of their sample sweets again) and had done a fair amount of shouting due to bunk rivalry. But when it was clear it was beyond the matters of screaming one's vocal chords to temporary sabbatical, with Harry not being able to talk at all without tearing up and wallowing in deep pain, they'd sent him away.
Ron was quite miserable without Harry. Not only was he stuck with Hermione (though he did insist she was a peachy girl); it simply was just not the same. For one, Harry would let Ron copy his notes when he fell behind doodling stick figures and Quidditch plays on his parchments. Hermione did not. Harry also did not yell at Ron for wanting to copy assignments. Hermione did until his ears began to ring.
To make things worse, during Care of Magical Creatures, Ron had dropped the dragon egg on the table and produced an inch-long crack along the side, which Hagrid looked at them rather disappointedly for. Draco Malfoy had also had the nerve to stride along by with Crabbe and Goyle dawdling not too far behind, remarking something stupid about the health of Harry Potter. With Hermione already in a horrible mood, his little imperious statement had caused quite a temper flare-up and she would have rightly given him what he deserved (with her fists) had Ron not caught her in time and held her back.
"I can't believe this," Hermione fumed. "Weren't you always the one encouraging physical retaliation against Malfoy?" She was straightening herself out, brushing out her skirt over at the side Ron had pulled them to.
"It's different for you, Hermione," said Ron, almost regretfully. "You're a girl. He'd crush you. You've seen him at Quidditch. Besides, with Harry in the hospital wing, I don't think we should risk it. He could sic Millicent on you," he said with a pleading ginger brow and a shudder.
"I don't care," Hermione spat. "I could take Millicent."
Ron looked moon-struck for a second. Then he shook his head, chuckling. "No, you can't. Believe me, Hermione, you can't. I can't even take Millicent. She's… neither male nor female. That's the worst of the lot you ever want to brawl with. You don't know where their vulnerabilities are."
She glowered at him, her hands planted on her waist. "All I've got to say is," she told him menacingly, "you'd better hope our dragon hatches right when it's supposed to. Because if it doesn't," she threatened, "I perfectly know where your vulnerabilities are and I won't waste any time making you feel sorry for your clumsiness." And then she brushed past him, her nose in the air.
Ron stared at where she had been standing for a moment, mulling over her words. Then he turned around, watching her as she closely inspected the crack on their egg again.
"Cruel woman," he muttered as he walked back, cautiously sitting very far away from her.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Overnight, four more people had been sent to the infirmary. That summed up to twenty-three in the last two weeks. That was what, Hermione figured, propelled the announcement on Thursday morning during breakfast.
"I apologize for the interruption," said Dumbledore, who had almost been shoved up to the podium by a frizzy Madam Pomfrey. "But I ask for your attention for one short moment. As you know, there has been an outbreak of illnesses going around. We do not know the cause of this sudden upsurge, but we are investigating. Unfortunately, our supplies of tonics and serums have run out. We are on the waiting list for just about every medical distribution company, but the river is still at its driest. Severus Snape, our Potions master, has agreed to cooperate and attempt to figure out another way to cure the ill students.
"However," he said, "the numbers are not decreasing in our two infirmaries, and yes, are instead increasing. Madam Pomfrey has requested an urgent need for a helper that will assist her in tending to her numerous patients. Now, in return of the student's special services, he or she will gain extra credit that can go towards any of their class scores."
Hermione's ears perked up as her eyes widened. "Any?" she whispered to herself, her mind suddenly skittering back to their dragon egg.
Albus Dumbledore only nodded and smiled, as if he had heard her. "The helper must be qualified, however, for the job. What is meant by qualified is that one must have proper grades and orderliness when dealing with people. The assistant can only be from the sixth or seventh-years" – many sighed in relief – "and will be needed during afternoons and evenings, including additional weekends. I trust many of you will sign up in an effort to help our school and your peers, and to do so; the sign-up sheet is in the hospital wing. Thank you for your attention."
Dumbledore walked back to the Staff table, soothingly patting Madam Pomfrey on the shoulder, who nodded in what seemed like massive relief. Stringy tendrils had eluded her nurse cap, which also hung quite haphazardly from her muddled hair. Her eyes were glossy as she sniffed and Hermione felt a slight pang of pity for the Medi-Witch. She could only imagine what sort of pressure she was under now. With no supplies at hand, it was enough to drive anyone barmy.
Hermione slowly turned back to her meal, absentmindedly stirring her tea and not taking a single sip until it had turned ice-cold and it was finally time to leave the Great Hall.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Hermione shivered against her warm covers, staring up at the high-rise windows. Though there had been warmth charms cast all over this room, she could feel drafts from them sometimes – the ice from outside radiating inwards. She stared at the foggy and almost murky surface of the once shining pristine glass, now covered completely with snow and frost. There wasn't a single spot on the windows that had been left untouched by nature's brutal retribution. Except, calling it "retribution" would be foolish, wouldn't it? Hermione didn't know what they'd done to justify a full-fledged snowstorm that went on for days at a time, rested, and then came back up twice as strong. It was almost malicious the way the blizzard pounded on their windowpanes and blocked out the light.
Hermione could not sleep tonight, although it had been rather easy those other nights. Everyone had agreed sleeping was one wise way to escape – if not only for a few hours – from this frigid castle and its potentially harmful germs. But tonight, a first of many of the same nights ahead, her mind was preoccupied with the thought of signing up to be Madam Pomfrey's assistant.
Would it be wise? Would it be foolish? After all, she knew how to enact an immunity spell most effective and she ate right nowadays what with her daily servings of fruits and vegetables. It was not like Hermione to be ignorant to a serious issue that was clearly not to be ignored. And so it was quite fine to say that she wasn't concerned about getting sick, which she knew was currently a rarity around these halls. And with Ron cracking their dragon egg, almost guaranteeing it to be a stillbirth or its hatching date to arrive far too early, causing defects, or perhaps maybe even allowing it to freeze to death with that sodding crack, Hermione was almost certain that they'd be failing that assignment. She couldn't bear to receive a failing score for anything, most especially if it wasn't even for her wrongdoing in the first place!
She needed that extra credit so that her scores wouldn't take an immense plunge. At least if she were to put it towards her Care of Magical Creatures class, the blow wouldn't be as devastating.
She sighed, staring up at the ceiling before closing her eyes. She felt herself floating in the in-between for a while, a feeling she recognized as being caught right amid the soothing transition of consciousness and unconsciousness. She felt another weightless draft intrude their dormitory from one of the nearby windows and only slightly stirred as it inched its way up her body, causing her skin to lethargically hum in response.
But as she fell into a deep sleep, drifting away from her last latch of consciousness, she began to writhe in her bed, entangled in her sheets, her face slowly clenching in agony and pain. With a whirling, sickening sensation pounding in her skull, she sat up, drenched with cold sweat, breathing labored breaths. Her weary eyes were wide. She could hear the soft murmur of the snow outside. The blizzard had weakened.
She tiredly collapsed back onto her sheets, recalling her wild and ambiguous dream in bewilderment. She'd dreamt of broken shells, baby dragons hatching already dead, and the feverish faces of her peers. Then she remembered walking into a room. She'd even strangely dreamt of peering into a face – which face, she couldn't remember even when she tried her hardest to – and feeling an overwhelming swell of sadness. And then a deeper feeling, more morose and definite. Eternal.
At this inkling of memory, she felt a prick of fear in her chest.
Death.
Please Review! A short chapter, indeed. Please also excuse the possible grammar mistakes and typos. Though I do try to look over this at least a few times, this I post unbeta'd, so it will be nowhere near perfect. But that's okay. Because we don't live by Perfect, now, do we? I'll try my best to update soon.