― CHAPTER ELEVEN ―
Crouching Lion, Hidden Dragon
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Hermione sat in the Gryffindor common room, on a squashy armchair before the roaring fire, with her customary pile of books and fresh-scented parchment sprawled out on the table before her. She had been studying non-stop for the past –she glanced at the watch she had recently acquired –five hours since dinner, and could do with some refreshment and fresh air. It was late, far past curfew; but tomorrow was Saturday so she could sleep in, and she wanted to get her Arithmancy essay done tonight. That way I can devote my whole weekend to Ravenclaw-Gryffindor quality library time.
There were only a few people still up, two fifth-year boys engrossed in a game of Wizard's Chess in a corner (reminding her fondly of another pair), and Romilda Vane lounging on a sofa with her new boyfriend, McLaggen. Great match, Hermione thought dryly, as she started up the dormitory stairs to her Head Girl room at the top of Gryffindor tower. Its oaken door featured a plaque with her name engraved on it, and though the room was modest, just big enough for a four-poster and an armoire, it was nice to have privacy. Not that I need any … an image of Viktor Krum's darkly brooding visage arose briefly: her first and last kiss. An inelegant and rather chaste meeting of lips, on the lakeshore by the Durmstrang ship, right after he had asked her to write to him. No wonder I was spiteful at poor Ron. He was the better student in Snog 101. She still maintained correspondence with Viktor, but it had turned platonic; he was seeing a Scandinavian veela-witch, and she was not really wooed by the Byronic gloom thing anyhow.
Hermione pulled on a Hogwarts-crested jumper and carefully took out the Marauder's Map from its hiding place between the pages of The Wizard World Atlas, Harry's gift for her seventeenth birthday. She then headed back out downstairs, keeping the map folded under her arm until she had crawled from the portrait hole to the corridor outside. Poking the Map she muttered, "I solemnly swear that I am up to no good." Technically, this was untrue, since prefects were allowed to roam the school after hours, but it was handy as it revealed those who shouldn't be night-prowling. After checking that all was in order (Filch and Mrs. Norris, yes, Peeves, not nearby, McGonagall in her quarters, Friday patrols at their posts), she set off towards the underground passage ending in a painting of a silver fruit-bowl that giggled when she tickled its green pear.
As founder and chairwoman of S.P.E.W., Hermione felt a bit guilty that she hadn't looked in on the kitchen house-elves yet this year, and was glad to find most of them asleep on little cots lining one side of the huge room. Those awake, however, were as enthusiastic and attentive as ever, rushing over with a large milk-and-cookies tray. She gently chided them for not taking rest ("Oh, but who would be serving Miss midnight snackings when Miss is hungry?"), and too tired to argue, settled for a firm thank-you. Leaving the tiny curtseying elves (–sigh– slaves), Hermione carried her plate and glass upstairs, crossed the empty, torch-lit Entrance Hall, and headed outdoors to the courtyard to sit in her favorite on-campus spot. She would come here in her O.W.L. year to watch sunrises to calm pre-exam jitters: a wide stone alcove under an east-facing archway that overlooked the grounds extending to Hagrid's cabin and the Forbidden Forest.
The courtyard was deserted; it was a moonless night with a cool wind that lifted her hair refreshingly as she climbed up on her ledge. Setting the plate beside her, Hermione leaned into the column, took a sip of the warm chocolate milk, unfolding her legs out luxuriously –and spluttered as her feet touched a solid something in the alcove's shadowed recess.
"Insomnia, Granger?"
Malfoy's black-clad silhouette materialized out of the darkness as he leaned forward from the column on the opposite side of the ledge against which he was seated, one leg dangling down and the other bent at the knee (which was the one Hermione had collided with and now quickly retracted from, wiping her mouth angrily as she recognized the owner of the voice).
She had not been alone Malfoy since their disastrous detention. He had spent the remainder of that session testing her familiarity with Dark theory (fortunately, her photographic memory had supplied her with just enough from her skim-through of Harry's M.M.E. copy in the summer to satisfy his inquisitiveness), concluding that her interest in seeking Dark Knowledge was 'paradoxically bold and un-Gryffindor.' She then corrected him to the fact that her intentions were 'purely academic'; he dangerously warned her not to 'patronize' a Malfoy; she snapped something about the illustrious Malfoys as 'minions' … and things downspiraled from there, curtaining on shoulder-shoving out the door on Mudblood-Ferret terms.
So Hermione was surprised to hear him back on a surname basis.
"Oxygen and sugar, au contraire," she answered, raising her glass.
"And I, for solitude," said Malfoy. "On which you've so gracelessly stampeded."
His tone was mild, almost lazy. Hermione couldn't help a curled smile, then caught herself, then, remembering her aims, relaxed into it again. Malfoy had barely acknowledged her presence in classes this past week, and though not one to shirk from duty, she had been unable to come up with a way to cross the chasm into Slytherin territory. It was a 'mission impossible' –short of sauntering up to his table and suggesting that she dine with him, which would probably have resulted in a dinner-knife wound …
Thus, failing to check the Map just now could be construed not as a lapse of 'constant vigilance' so much as a Felix Felicisesque serendipity …
"Solitude is overrated," she said, affecting a small sigh.
"Missing your beaus?" Malfoy cocked an eyebrow. "Did Potty and the Weasel finally admit they're gay and run off to a Sodomite colony?"
"Did Crabbe and Goyle sprout brains and die of shock?"
"Touché," he said easily. Without asking, he reached over and took a madeline from her plate. When he had finished it, he looked away and added, "And tact … for not making it about my mother."
Hermione stared at him. Had he so little faith in people, to except such a low blow? For her to be witty about his deepest loss? She restrained an instinctive impulse to touch his hand. "I –I would never."
He glanced up at her sharply. "Above retribution, are you?"
"Malfoy, it's not about my integrity," she said, a bit breathlessly, shocked that he wasn't grasping the gross underestimation of human instinct for compassion. Her eyes bore into his. "It's about yours."
Something unidentifiable flicked in the pale gaze before he lowered it; then the full-blown patent smirk that she hadn't seen for a long time, made its debut. "Deep, Granger. I've come over all shivery and you look pretty starry-eyed … I suppose you'd like me to kiss you now?"
She shook her head disbelievingly. "You know, your ego lives up to Narcissa's name."
Malfoy was unfazed. Hermione knew that he knew she meant it as a truth about his narcissism, not an insult to her memory. He shrugged, "Yes, and you can't deny my looks take after my father's name."
Luciu –? she thought in confusion. Oh … luscious. Luscious! well … she looked at Malfoy critically. His well-cut robes accentuated a lean build, and in the nighttime absence of light, his silver-blond hair gave off a sheen almost like a halo, contrasting with the icy-smoky shade of grey eyes as it fell in soft waves around the angular cheekbones and flawless skin … Why did they name him dragon, her analytical mind wondered idly, when he looks like an angel? The resurrection of an arrogant smirk dragged her back to reality. Eew, no. Smirk, sneer, Dark Mark, pureblood-manic, possible spy, enemy …
"My turn," said the Slytherin quietly.
"What?"
He nudged her leg with his knee. "To ogle."
What the hell? Malfoy flirting? When he had made it clear that he loathed the idea of touching Mudbloods … was he mocking her? A new, more ego-bruising way to insult her? Why am I nervous? Hermione tried to ignore Malfoy's eyes traveling slowly, intently over her body … be cool. It's just Ferret-boy getting his sick kicks … but when he reached her face there was no trace of mockery on his own. For a moment, Hermione had the hallucination that she was laying eyes on Draco Malfoy for the first time. There was – loneliness –under all that veneer of overconfidence; naivety, beneath the carefully groomed 'worldly' exterior. But then the mask was back and he was the boy who had wanted to send flowers to whomever had given her a black eye. Malfoy's a Malfoy. His father's son. Family title, mal foi: evil faith. Voldemort-worship, in fact. And a passion for the Dark Arts. Don't let the 'I'm so lost' act fool you.
"And?" Hermione said, tilting her chin up. "Do I look 'muddy' or what?"
He made no answer.
Then again, she could play him right back: feign falling for the act. What better way to penetrate his defenses than to let him think he had penetrated hers? She would out-Slytherin him.
Another night. Tonight was progress enough. And it was two in the morning. "I'm going up," she said curtly, pushing off of the ledge. "It's late."
Malfoy nodded, wrapped in silence.
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The next morning Hermione woke up with a headache. She had slept badly, dreaming odd, fleeting montages of being lost in the Forbidden Forest, playing Quidditch with Malfoy, and receiving flowers from a purple-eyed Krum … I don't need 'The Dream Oracle' to know this isn't a good sign, she mused while taking a long, hot shower in the prefects' bathroom, but even the eucalyptus aromatherapy steam didn't assuage the dull throbbing in her temples. Disgruntled, she walked into the Great Hall for a late lunch, and spotted mail waiting for her, care of Neville Longbottom who was attempting to flag her down with it.
"Hermione," he said brightly. "From our DA teacher!"
"Malfoy?" She glanced at the near-empty Slytherin table.
Neville gave her a mortified look. "Harry!"
"Right, of course," she said with a feeble smile as she took it from him. "Thanks."
News from the sane world, she thought gratefully, unfolding the letter. It wasn't news, however, but a laconic line:
Common room fire, 12:00 tonight.
Something bad must have happened … Hermione felt her the hammer in her head beat harder … Well, there was only one cure worth trying left. She drained her coffee and rushed to the library.
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Ramakrishna, Rasputin, Ravel … Ravenclaw. Hermione's finger stopped on the yellowed page in Nature's Nobility: A Wizarding Genealogy. She scanned the paragraph; usual statistics: the family's origin in Camelot, intermarriage with other aristocracy, Orders of Merlin received, Rowena one of the Founding Four at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, et cetera, et cetera … Then, the sensationalized short biographies of a son martyred in the Giant Wars, a daughter disowned for eloping with a half-breed, a child prodigy who graduated the Academy of Sorcery in Switzerland at age fifteen but threw away a brilliant future by becoming a creature-rights activist … Hermione's eyes widened. Oooh! She strained to make out the features of the young girl in the accompanying picture.
Ligeia Ravenclaw had midnight-black hair and large dark eyes that gave her an aura of mystery, but she also seemed vivacious, smiling broadly and toying with a fine chain around her slender neck. Hermione checked the date of birth … she might still be alive, she thought excitedly. I would love to meet her and ask her advice on –on –the word 'elf unions' died on her lips as a phrase jumped at her from the footnote beneath Ligeia Ravenclaw's photo. On the Amulet of Avalon?
For according to the book, that was precisely what hung on the fine chain worn by the great-great … grand-daughter of Rowena Ravenclaw.
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Hermione's headache had evaporated to be replaced with a frenzied restlessness for the hours to go by until she could tell Harry about her hunch. Looking up the amulet had verified that it was indeed an heirloom handed down through the line of female Ravenclaws, and a prized magical antique both as a semi-precious jewel and as a powerful talisman against fatalities. She was so certain these qualities would have drawn Voldemort like a moth to a flame, that she was willing to bet her –er– maidenly virtue on it … with Mundungus Fletcher.
She spent the rest of the afternoon wandering around the castle, walking off her surplus steam. She wished she could pay a visit to Hagrid but his place was off-limits now … so instead, she visited Sir Cadogan's portrait in the North Tower, half-tempted to ascend the silvery ladder to Professor Trelawney's attic for a spot of crystal-gazing … O clairvoyant Orb, reveal to me where art the amulet Horcrux … Hermione harrumphed at the memory of being told by the old fraud that she had 'a mundane mind,' which had really, more than anything else, caused her to snap and drop Divination. But the prediction about Wormtail … the lightning-struck tower … No, she reflected firmly. Nothing is Written.
By dinnertime she was ravenous, having skipped two meals, and all but attacked the lamb chops and Yorkshire pudding. Her gusto provoked nostalgic puppy-eyes from Nearly Headless Nick and lifted eyebrows from Ginny, who declared, "Ron would be proud!" Nodding over the rim of her pumpkin-juice goblet, Hermione shifted her focus across the room to the table where Malfoy sat at one end by himself. He looked drawn and paler than usual, and seemed uninterested in his food, preferring to frown down into the goblet clasped in his hands. What's eating him? She watched as he pushed away the untouched plate and trudged out of the Hall.
Weird.
Later, upstairs in her room, to kill time, she took out her favorite quill (the peacock-feathered one reserved for 'special' transcriptions) and began copying excerpts from the book she had checked out earlier onto a scroll. Vita Merlini –The Life of Merlin –alluded to the Amulet of Avalon thus:
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From time immemorial, the Isle of Avalon, in the Summerland (Somerset, England), has been home to nine Faerie Queens skilled in the magical arts of creation and death. It was here that Merlin came with Arthur (Muggle title; 'king') and a hand reached out of the water and offered him the sword Excalibur. Its power of invincibility sheilded Arthur well throughout his life, and he returned to Avalon to die. He was ferried to the enchanted Isle by the ruler of the Faerie Queens, Morgan le Fey Morgan the Fate; Morgana; Mother Death, who took from Excalibur's jeweled hilt one blood-red garnet before casting the sword back to the waters. It is said that this gem carriesis gifted with a sheathagainst mortal wounds; it is the only known surviving Amulet of the Merlinic era …
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Hermione, sitting cross-legged on her bed, looked up from her writing at the tap-tap sound of beak against glass. She saw a magnificent eagle-owl soaring away as she leaned over to open the window; there was a letter lying on the sill. Mystified, she took it and closed the window. Night mail was rare; and she didn't recognize the waxy seal on the unaddressed envelope. As she made to slit it open, it unsealed itself and a sheet of vellum fell to her lap.
Granger,
Meet me at the Astronomy Tower at midnight. I need to talk to you about what happened there.
It was unsigned, but you had to be blind to miss the silver DM monogram.
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A/N: To all who have read this far, thank you! I changed the story title becausethe phrase Draco Dormiens Nunquam Titillandus ('never tickle a sleeping dragon')can be considered the epigraph of the whole HP septology:Harry is the sleeping dragon that Voldemort made the mistake ofprovoking ...sinceJK's seventh book will be the 'climax' ofthismagical series, I thought its best toname my version afterthis Latinproverb, todenote 'where it all began' ...