As Hermione lay awake that night, staring at the canopy above her head, her mind was a total mess. It wasn't the separate dormitory for eighth years. In fact, she thought that was quite considerate of the Headmistress. Having a space she didn't have to share was already proving to be an unexpected gift.

It wasn't the fact that Neville and Hannah were going to be using the Heads' dorms, thus leaving her and Robert being the only ones using the new quarters. Albeit, it did feel like an awful lot of wasted effort for just two students. It wasn't even seeing Professor McGonagall standing where Dumbledore once stood or Professor Slughorn smiling where Snape once scowled. Seeing Hagrid back in his old post was nice, though.

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It was Draco-bloody-Malfoy staring back at her from the professor's table with that cold, unreadable expression on his stupid ferrety face. What was the Headmistress thinking? What possessed her to put him in charge of innocent students? As the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, no less? The very post that Remus Lupin once held, when Malfoy fought on the side that killed him!

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Is this some sort of punishment? A penance, perhaps?

On another note, when did Malfoy get his N.E.W.T.s?

Hermione swallowed the lump in her throat, willing the knots in her stomach to subside. Tomorrow evening, she would be sitting in—ugh—Malfoy's classroom as a student. The idea of addressing him as a professor did not sit well with her at all. Perhaps she could just drop the class. She had been able to drop Divination and Muggle Studies...

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No.

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That singular word roared in her ear, louder than the symbol of her own house. Once more, she had to shake away the train of her own thoughts.

That's right, Hermione forcefully told herself. Malfoy cannot force me out of any class. He doesn't have the power to make me change my own plans. He's not running me off anywhere!

Determined as she was, she nodded to herself. Maybe it won't be so bad. She sighed, instantly deflating. Alright, maybe that is a bit too optimistic.

Hermione irritably sat up and pounded on her pillow with all the strength she could muster. She huffed, still unsatisfied, but fluffed her pillow back out before literally flopping back down and turning over. No matter how hard she tried to shut off her racing mind, sleep continued to elude her.

She glared at the serene moon outside her window. Anxious rage coursed in her blood when a new thought process derailed the internal argument she'd been having all night.

In all fairness, someone with first-hand exposure to, and practice of, the Dark Arts would best know how to defend against them.

With another huff, she curled on her side to try, and fail, once more to get some sleep. If the Headmistress saw fit to hire him, I will simply have to trust that the ferret can do the job. However he managed to get it.

It did nothing to help her relax.

She had known her endeavor to sleep without an aid would be futile, but didn't she need to at least try? "What on earth is shaking under my bloody pillow?"

Hermione shot up, ready to lift the offending object when something quite disturbing caught her eye. Right there, in front of her face, was her own arm shaking with tremors. Reflexively, she tried to hold her arm, but what she saw made her eyes widen in horror. Her other hand had been shaking, too.

Without another moment to lose, she bounded out of bed and darted towards her trunk at full speed. She carefully used the hand that trembled less to fumble with the lid and snatch up a Draught of Peace. Practiced ease allowed her thumb to pop off the cork so she could down it in one swift movement.

Hermione tossed the bottle into the trunk in a fit of both panic and disgust. Wrapping her shaking arms around herself, she practically glided over to her beautifully crafted desk and eased into the cushioned chair.

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Shame. Guilt. Fear.

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Every single instance of succumbing to her dependency flashed through her head, one after the other. Hermione squeezed her eyes shut against the images, demanding herself to take deep breaths and calm down.

It was fitting that her own mind would defy her. The more she willed herself to breathe and calm down, the more she was reminded of why she turned to them in the first place. The war. Voldemort. Her parents.

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Two bodies fell from a balcony with a thud. It was impossible not to identify Greyback, horrible and terrifying, sinking his teeth into Lavender's unconscious body. Hermione's heart flew into her throat. At that moment, all she could see was a normal girl who lived and loved loudly and unashamed. Even if the person that she loved was Ron. The girl who knew who she was and never once tried to be anything she wasn't. Alive. Smiling.

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Hermione's hands flew to the sides of her head as a basketball-sized knot formed in her throat.

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She represented everything Hermione once wanted and everything she would never be.

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Scalding hot tears brimmed under her eyelids. She gritted her teeth harshly against her fierce desire to scream at the top of her lungs. This did not need to be happening. Her jaw clenched and flexed under the pressure.

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She didn't hesitate. This girl could not die. "NO!"

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"Not now," Hermione growled.

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She regretted not casting the killing curse, just that one time, as Greyback flew backwards into the castle wall. The sound of the crunch from his bones would just have to be enough.

The only other thing she regretted was not being able to check on Lavender, as Death Eaters were around at every turn. Ron's ex-girlfriend stirred, though it was weak. Had she survived?

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Hermione barely registered the wetness on her hands that finally stilled. She wrapped her arms around herself and leaned back in her seat. Now that her missing former classmate inadvertently barged her way to the forefront of her mind, any notion of going back to sleep could be written off.

This was one train of thought that lingered every time.

To this day, Lavender Brown has been presumed dead. The problem with that is the fact that no one ever found a body. She deserved more than just being another name on the floor. Her parents deserved closure. How many more families never got closure? How many more "Lavender" cases were there? Unsolved and written off?

A glint of blue light caught in the corner of Hermione's eye and sparked her first bit of inspiration. This would have to be done quietly. Perhaps some good could come of this year, after all. With renewed purpose, Hermione snatched her Twinned Quill and a sheet of parchment and began to write:

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Ink, are you awake?

To Hermione's surprise, the response was instant.

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Unfortunately. What do you want?

Hermione bristled.

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No need to be so rude. Gods, you sound like a bloke when he's hungry.

So, you're a woman, Blood? Good to know.

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Hermione rolled her eyes.

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Go get some food and then come back. I need to ask you something.

Are you always so bossy? Besides, I don't know how to get into the kitchens.

.

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For Hermione, it was becoming increasingly difficult not to smile.

.

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Stop being so rude, and I might tell you. If you swear to keep it a secret.

How would I know that you're telling the truth? You could lead me in the completely wrong direction out of spite.

I guess your stomach will just have to decide how alright you are with taking a leap of faith.

.

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A lingering pause left Hermione with enough time to think. The more she pondered over his words, the more Hermione wondered about her pen pal's chosen alias. Was it a tribute to his studies? Maybe it was simpler than that.

Did he have a tattoo? That would narrow down the potential student identities considerably. She was nearly absorbed in her thoughts when the next elegantly written message appeared on the page.

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You didn't answer my question. Furthermore, what did you want to ask me?

Fair enough. Contrary to popular belief, I am not bossy. I merely communicate in a direct manner. Also,

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A sudden thought made Hermione pause. She had no clue what year "Ink" was in. For all she knew, she could be communicating with a first or third year. As unlikely as it seemed, it was still possible. If she were to start asking questions about Lavender or theories about tracking charms, her pen pal could blow any ideas she may have formed right out of the water.

No, if Hermione was going to find Lavender and get answers, she would have to find them herself. Gods, that was close! What had she been thinking, going to a random individual with yet another spur-of-the-moment plan?

Hermione folded her arms on top of the desk. Her head fell heavily on top of them. Habits formed from being around the boys for nine years were going to be hard to break.

It was several moments before she pulled herself up and tried again. This time, for a much more harmless train of thought.

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I wanted to ask you what year you are in. You see, it's strange, not knowing anything about the person I'm speaking with. For all I know, you could be a third year.

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A long, pregnant pause filled the space then. Hermione laid her head down again. She regretted picking up the pen to write. What sort of idiot bothers a stranger in the middle of the night to ask what year they're in? Any progress she may have made toward unloading her burdens must have been shot. Hermione decided right then and there that if things went south with her pen pal, she would just have to go see the school's psychiatrist.

An increasingly louder part of her thought should go see him or her regardless. She couldn't continue like this. Logically, she knew that. The idea of blundering things up with someone she didn't even know shouldn't affect her to this degree.

.


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On the other side, Ink stared down at the parchment, scrutinizing Blood's words far too much for his own liking. It took her too long to simply ask what year he was in. What had been her true intentions? Why does she keep reaching out to him—in the middle of the night, no less? What did she want?

Worse, was it this stupid program or her that kept him writing back?

He ran his hand down his face in frustration. One minute she's giving him a spirited debate; going as far as to be a bit cocky in her jokes at times. In the next, it becomes apparent that she pulls back into herself, reverting to being a bit formal in her wording. Sometimes, even a bit cryptic. He closed his eyes, resting his head on top of the desk with a deep sigh. If his father knew how he currently sat with such poor posture, he'd likely throw a fit. Ink smiled at the thought.

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I don't sleep much if that's what you're asking, Blood had written just two days before. Duty to the ones you love comes with a heavy price, doesn't it?

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The girl's words ran through his mind over and over again. They hadn't left him since they first appeared. Ink supposed he could answer her question. It seemed to be a habit for her to make valid arguments, even if it hadn't been her actual intent to make the point in question. With her earlier words in mind, he had no doubts she had been involved in the war against the Dark... Voldemort.

Maybe it was her wit. Maybe it was her good-natured bossiness. Maybe it was those blasted words that resonated so deeply within him. Regardless, he decided then and there that he would get the clues that would help him piece together who was on the other end of the quill.

He swore he wouldn't take this project of McGonagall's seriously, but it was times like this that his curiosity got the best of him.

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I'm twenty if that's what you're asking. No third years on the other end of this quill, though I find it disturbing that you would associate someone who would have barely mastered the levitation or lighting charms with having been to war.

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Ink smirked. This would be fun. If he didn't shut the conversation down soon, though, he would be late for his first class in the morning. And so would she.

A frustratingly long pause left Ink time enough to sit back and think. What could she possibly be doing during the silences? She was the one who reached out to him! Before he could get to the point of pacing, her sloppy scrawl appeared on the page once more.

He rolled his eyes with a slight upward twitching of his lips. Every time this script appeared, he imagined the other quill practically flying across the page, for fear that her thoughts would get away from her if they didn't. She really should take an extra moment to think about penmanship.

Not unlike other girls who have a horrendous habit of stopping him in his tracks. Other girls who have no idea of the power they hold to turn his world upside down. Other girls who wreck his mind, save him, and then invade his safe haven, tormenting him just with her presence...

Other girls whose existence would likely wreck him as long as they lived.

Ink shook away the turn of his thoughts and turned back to Blood's messy scrawl. She would likely prove to be a good distraction.

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Neither Dumbledore nor Voldemort discriminated based on age. One molded, created if you will, child soldiers and one gladly killed them.

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Ink sighed. Before he could come up with a response, she was writing again.

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I'm an eighth year, too. That's good to know. It's strangely comforting and yet terrifying to know that it's not a stranger on the other side of the quill.

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Terrifying? Terrifying how? This girl has likely looked the Dark L... Fuck! Voldemort... in the eye, and yet this is terrifying?

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Explain?

It means the chances of you being a friend of mine are very high.

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Ink, in a very uncharacteristic show, snorted. While she isn't wrong about the chances, Ink was probably the furthest thing from her friend in existence. Still, he couldn't help himself.

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How is that terrifying? Shouldn't that be a good thing?

It means that everything I'd hoped for just went out the window.

What did you hope for?

A no-strings-attached sounding board. Someone I could vent to without having to see the guilt in their eyes. Someone who wouldn't be hurt by my words or outbursts. I was prepared to reciprocate the favor once we got to that point. However, when all this is over, and it will, and everyone finds out who they've been writing to, there is no way I could possibly look at a friend the same way after that.

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Ink stared at the parchment in front of him in amazement. He couldn't believe his luck. However, he couldn't seem too eager.

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Why not go see that new Mind Healer?

A pen pal doesn't have the authority to send me to St. Mungo's.

I see.

Exactly. Goodnight, Ink. Sorry for bothering you.

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Just like that, Ink began to panic. He'd expected some form of explanation. Maybe even a bit of begging. Girls tended to do that. He clearly underestimated this one.

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If you were bothering me, you'd know. Who says we have to reveal our identities, after?

I suppose you're right. I didn't see anything in McGonagall's letter regarding the end of this project of hers.

Your proposal is actually quite intriguing. I could use a "sounding board" too.

Alright, then. I accept your condition of keeping our real-life identities separate from our pen-pal identities indefinitely. How do you propose we terminate this arrangement when the time comes? If, say, one of us wants to end these exchanges?

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Ink didn't expect his heart to drop through his stomach the way it did. She was already thinking about ending this? What kind of person is she, to be planning the end just as it was beginning?

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I take it you're used to people ending things with you?

Surely you must be aware that nothing lasts forever. Everything comes to an end, eventually.

Fair point, Blood.


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Hermione turned in her chair, absorbing the fading light of the moon. Soon, the night would turn to day, and the figurative spell caused by their exchanges would fade. She couldn't explain it, but she felt an indescribable need to live outside of parchment, ink, and quills. At least for a moment.

Tomorrow, she could go back to being her bookworm-ish self, dive into her studies, and work harder than anyone else to get her N.E.W.T.s. That's what she was here for.

Who says we have to reveal our identities, Ink said. He made a fair point. He may have been referring to remaining anonymous, but his words struck a different cord.

Why couldn't she be pre-war Hermione for a little while? Why couldn't she tap into those lost parts of herself? If nothing else, releasing some of that bitterness could, in fact, free her mind and help with her studies.

If the Room of Requirement still worked, it could provide her with all the tools she needed. If she was painting, she didn't have to be Hermione-the-world's-biggest-swot-and-Gryffindor-war-veteran Granger. She could just be... Hermione Jean.

If anything in life was worth taking a risk, reconnecting to a neglected part of herself was certainly it.

A few minutes later, draped in Harry's invisibility cloak, Hermione tiptoed through the tastefully decorated eighth year common room. With a perfect blend of Gryffindor red walls with Hufflepuff yellow trim and artistic designs, as well as neutral-colored furniture around a merrily crackling fireplace, Hermione smiled to herself as she slipped out. She couldn't wait to try out the little kitchenette off the main gathering area in the morning. That is, after a good, long shower.

Harry's words filled Hermione's ears just as her foot touched the corridor floor. Try not to get into too much trouble without us, okay?

"This doesn't count, Harry," she whispered.

She was utterly astonished at how easy it was to make her way to the seventh floor. That is until she rounded the corner and found someone leaning against the wall directly across from the Room. The figure let out a deep, exasperated sigh.

Chills ran down Hermione's spine. She didn't dare to breathe. She knew that voice.

"Either you're highly skilled with the Disillusionment Charm," Malfoy drawled, "or you have an invisibility cloak." He lazily turned his head towards her.

Though he couldn't physically see her, the silver of his eyes bore directly into her brown ones. "That fact alone narrows who you are down to a handful of people. Knowing where this room is narrows down your identity even further. If you're smart, you'll turn around and head back to your dorm. Your classmates won't thank you if your House has negative points in the morning."

Fuming, Hermione turned and tiptoed back down the hallway. Why, of all the people she could have run into...

"Oh, and Granger?"

Hermione stopped dead in her tracks.

"You walk too loud. Quiet down your stomping before you run into Filch. McGonagall will stick you with me for detention, and I don't want your bushy head in my classroom more than you have to be."

"Trust me, Ferret," Hermione seethed, "the feeling is mutual."

"Tsk, tsk," Malfoy lightly chided. Something new and foreign showed itself as he stalked confidently over to where she stood. Hermione reflexively took a step back. She reached for her wand, ready to fight if necessary.

It wasn't the frightened little ferret boy that reached over and grabbed the cloak off her head without any preamble. The man who held Harry's cloak whispered in a hushed, deliberate drawl, "Is that any way to address a professor?" With that, he smugly leaned against the wall.

Hermione, never one to back down from a challenge, crossed her arms over her chest and glared back at him defiantly. She should have expected the way his lips curved into that signature smirk she loathed. "Hand over the cloak, Malfoy."

Malfoy's smirk grew wider. "You know, I'm not sure I will. It would seem I've caught a student out of bed past curfew. How shall I handle this?"

Hermione rolled her eyes. Malfoy already showed his hand by expressing he didn't want the likes of her in his classroom any more than necessary. "Do you want an apology? Is that what you want? Because you've already expressed not wanting me, the mudblood, in your classroom any more than I want to be there."

Malfoy's earlier demeanor shifted instantaneously. His body went rigid, stiff, as his smirk shifted into a sneer and his eyes hardened into steel. "That's not what I said," he spat. "I said your bushy—"

Hermione aggressively stepped further into his space until they were nearly nose-to-nose. She was armed and ready to fight right there on the spot. Possible expulsion be damned. Draco Malfoy was going to realize his days of making her life hell were done one way or another.

"When you walked into my bookshop," she said in a sneer equal to his own, "as soon as you saw me behind the counter, you couldn't wait to turn around and get out the second you were able. As soon as your pureblooded little girlfriend showed up to rescue you."

Malfoy opened his mouth once more, but Hermione wasn't done yet. "Sitting at the Head's table tonight, don't think that I didn't notice you completely shut down the instant I walked into the room. Your actions so far completely defy the very public apology you made at your trial. The very one where I—"

Malfoy then did something he'd never done before in his life. All of Hermione's words dried up in her throat as soon as his hands gripped her shoulders. "I'm aware you spoke at my trial," he hissed. "I was there, in case you've forgotten."

"Well—"

"I'm not done. Don't you dare use that word again. Do you understand me?"

"Why not? You taught me that word." The pair continued to glare at each other in heated silence. "Don't tell me you're allowed to use that word to describe me, but I can't—"

"No. You're…" His jaw snapped shut as he averted his gaze. Another long stretch of silence filled the small space between them. Finally, Malfoy grit out, "If I hear you use that word again, especially to describe yourself, I will give you detention and dock at least fifty points." His head snapped back sharply, and what Hermione saw was enough to give her chills. His face, contorted with black rage, twisted him into someone nearly unrecognizable. "Understand?"

Hermione had no idea how anyone could pack so much venom into a singular word. Yet, there was something about their exchange that stood out to her. Could this possibly be the same Malfoy? Had he been polyjuiced?

Harry's cloak was still in Malfoy's loose grip. With a single, steady breath, she took a final step toward the D.A.D.A. professor. For the first time since they met, their chests touched.

Malfoy's rage slid completely off his face, replaced by shock. His body, wired with fury and tension mere moments ago, shot completely straight. "What...?"

Hermione swallowed down her nerves. She hadn't expected her blood to pound harder in her veins. She hadn't expected his scent to invade her senses, reminding her so much of...

No. She wouldn't think it. He couldn't make her.

"Malfoy?" Hermione's body betrayed her. Her voice cracked on the last syllable.

His Adam's Apple bobbed. "Granger?"

Her eyes flashed to his, leaving them both working to keep their voices level. "When was the true moment that we first met?"

To her surprise, he sighed. "You think I've been polyjuiced." Malfoy took a step backward, angling his face toward the ceiling, and ran his hand over it with a frustrated groan.

"Answer the question, Malfoy," Hermione bit out.

Malfoy's jaw flexed one, twice, three times. His Adam's Apple bobbed once more, his eyes ablaze with his free hand fisted at his side. "Take Potter's bloody cloak and get out of here, Granger."

"Fine. Wouldn't want to be stuck with each other in detention, would we, Professor?"

As Hermione stomped back towards her dorm, she vaguely heard Malfoy's cries, "Are you deaf? Quiet it down! That cat of Filch's is a bloody menace!"

Hermione couldn't help the smirk that tugged at her lips as she draped the cloak over herself. By deliberately making more noise, Peeves found the exact spot where Malfoy stood. The feeling alone was worth getting points docked.