When school resumes in January, Hermione is prepared.
Everyone knows.
Sophomore Colin Creevey's adult brother worked with her at Taco Bell, which hadn't seemed like a problem, since the degenerate had kept his sallow, tatted face out of her way. But once the sophomores knew, word spread to the farthest reaches of town.
She found out about the leak from Harry, who came by the house on New Years Day.
She knows his knock before she peers through the peephole.
He stands on her back porch, his hands in his pockets, breath fogging in the crisp morning. A studded belt barely holds up his frayed skinny jeans and he has a half-zipped jacket over his tight MCR tee. He flips the hair out of his eyes and shifts nervously.
He freezes when she pushes open the screen. She's wearing boxer shorts and an XL Granger Family Dentistry draped around her curves.
"I told them it was a filthy lie," he says, wincing. His shoulders droop.
Hermione crosses her arms.
"You haven't talked to me since summer."
He kicks at a stale cigarette butt that's ground into the pavement.
"I was angry. With you, but mostly with him."
"I make my own decisions, Harry."
"And that's why it hurt—after everything he did to me! And now… Now…"
Harry gestures at her.
"I won't listen to this," she snarls, letting the screen door slam between them.
"Wait, Hermione."
Harry grasps the door.
"That came out all wrong. I'm sorry."
A burst of chilly air tugs at his dark hair, pulling the curtain of his bangs away from his left eye, a tendril catching on his eyebrow stud. Somewhere, several streets over, a siren wails.
"Coffee?" he says.
She hesitates.
"I'll get my coat."
He's awkward; his movements stunted as he holds open the passenger side so she can haul her changed silhouette into the bucket seat. He gets into the car, ears flushed with red.
When he turns over the ignition she asks,
"Where's Ron?"
His knuckles tighten around the steering wheel.
"His mom, you know. Old fashioned."
"Never stopped him before."
He doesn't have to answer, but she knows. It's hard for Ron.
They're parked at Fifth and Hogsmead, the weak heater rattling from his Honda's cracked vents and their hands wrapped around steaming cups from Starbucks. A rare treat.
Across the street, grizzled people lug hefty hampers and bags in and out of the coin laundry.
"Are you going to keep it?" he asks. Gently.
"I don't know."
He makes a small sound.
"I'm not sure I've ever heard those three words from you," he says, his mouth curling. "Miss AP Everything. Valedictorian apparent."
She interjects before thinking,
"Valedictorian will go to Tom."
Harry reddens.
"Fuck Tom."
Silence tightens between them.
"Monday's going to be a nightmare," she says finally, unspooling a breath.
She takes a long pull from the spicy latte to cover the moisture welling in her eyes.
"Yeah." Harry sets his red cup in the holder. "Fucking Umbridge will have a pop quiz for sure."
They share a glance and Harry reaches across the console and puts his hand on her arm, his nail polish black as buttons on her coat. He gives her a squeeze.
Hermione laughs for the first time in months.
"Of course she'll have a quiz." She wipes her eyes, smiling. "Bitch."
On the first day back, she pulls into the back parking lot and Harry is waiting, leaning against his Honda. Just like last year.
She's shocked Ron is with him.
"'Mione…" His jaw drops. "Are you really… wearing that?"
She stuffs the puffer jacket in her Pinto and hikes up the back of her plaid, pleated mini skirt. Her hair is wild and teased huge with temporary red streaks on the ends like flames. Makeup sharp and decisive, with fierce wings of dark eyeliner. Her beat-up Doc Martens make her look taller, more.
"Won't you be, er, cold?" Ron offers. He worries one of his snakebite piercings with his upper teeth.
Inside her leather jacket, she's tied a sheer collared shirt just below the band of her visible black bra. Her plaid tie is like an arrow pointing to her big, bare albatross. Daring anyone—taunting them: why don't you go ahead and look, bitch.
She holds her head high.
Knocked Up Emo Queen.
She lifts the devastating curve of her brow. Smirks.
"Good to see you, Ronald."
She hikes the strap of her backpack over her shoulder and struts in time with music roaring from the Bose headphones wrapped around her neck.
Ron shoots a silent plea at Harry, but Harry only shrugs.
They follow her, dutifully.
Tom Marvolo Riddle is single minded.
He's neatly sorting the textbooks he brought home over break back into his locker, but he can't be bothered to think much on it.
One of the inane trulls from his class hovers at his elbow. Prattling. Mulciber? Bulstrode—is that her name?
Who cares?
One person is fixed in his head.
Two, actually.
His chest twists with the thought; it's a primal urge coiling deep inside him.
The purest of drives, really.
He's eighteen now. No more constraints on his inheritance. No more firms running his businesses, estates and trust.
It's just him, a shit ton of cash-flowing assets,
and the girl.
The girl with the defiant glint.
The girl always a step ahead of him, with a tongue that could cut him raw.
The girl who unravels so sweetly, caught on his cock.
The girl who's going to fill that big empty house just like he loaded her up.
His fingers clench around the spine of a textbook and air hisses through his teeth. Possessive lust zips through his veins like a burst of propane.
She already belongs to him.
It's his right.
Oh, yes, the silverheaded generation would call it doing the honorable thing, and that's what he likes about the good old days. A man could take what was his—but with silk-gloved elegance.
He's sliding his calculus textbook into his leather crossbody when a scuffling and stirring of voices begins from the other end of the hall.
He looks over his shoulder.
"Holy God."