After an alarmingly dull Herbology lesson where they had spent the better part of an hour annotating diagrams of plans that thrived in the shade, Hermione wearily followed behind Harry, who unlike her, was bursting with energy and practically bouncing with the need to tell her something. Sadly for Hermione, and her growly stomach, Harry walked away from the crowds of students heading towards the Great Hall for dinner and instead they arrived at an abandoned classroom on the second floor.
Hermione crossed her arms and watched Harry expectantly as he dropped his worn satchel on one of the desks with a hefty clunk and then began rifling through the contents, sending all sorts of objects flying at random.
She was about to ask him why anyone would need three practise Snitches on their person at once when before she could open her mouth, a copy of Teen Witch landed at her feet. Hermione looked up at Harry who was still hellbent on finding something in the depths of his school bag so was utterly oblivious to what he had done.
Forgetting about her hunger, Hermione bent down to pick up the magazine and did very little to hold back a grin as she watched the brightly coloured article headings zoom all over the front page, selling the very targeted contents within.
Quiz: are you a good flirt?
An American Witch in Paris
You're obsessed, he's oblivious: How to get over him
"Do I want to know why you have this in your bag?" Hermione asked with uncharacteristic sugary sweetness, and Harry's eyes snapped to hers then he swallowed, heavily.
"That's not… that's not mine. I didn't buy it," he protested quickly, and Hermione scoffed.
"Well, I didn't think you purchased it Harry, but as it's in your possession, I would say that your argument is only semantically accurate at best."
Harry muttered a curse, and Hermione grinned wider. She pulled herself up onto one of the desks and crossed her legs, flicking through the magazine while wondering who had the time to read such a thing every week.
"Do you read it for the articles or the picture editorials?" she asked lightly but she didn't get a response. Harry had now stuck his head so far into his bag it looked as if he was considering living inside it.
"I'm not responding to that," he murmured after a while and Hermione hummed.
"Your choice, though that does mean I will have to make up my own ideas. Could it be the article on kissing that drew your eye perhaps?" Hermione pondered aloud, turning to page forty which had a rather lurid cartoon pair of lips puckering in the middle of it. "Maybe you needed to know that Stephanie, fifteen from Haslemere, thinks that nothing beats snogging someone who's just eaten a cherry popsicle?"
Harry removed his head from his bag and glared at her. Hermione rolled her eyes and decided to stop torturing him, but only because she had a sneaking suspicion that Harry's bizarre choice of reading material might have had something to do with his emerging feelings for Ginny. The image of the boys huddled around their dorm, taking a flirting quiz was funny enough to make her feel magnanimous. She threw the magazine onto the pile with the rest of Harry's discarded stuff and kicked her legs as she waited.
Finally, after tipping out what seemed like every piece of parchment he had been handed that year, Harry found what he was looking for. Hermione eyed him inquisitively before dropping down from her perch and picking up the offered parchment, turning to unfold it on the desk behind her.
As soon as she opened it, Hermione's eyes were assaulted by colour. The backdrop was a vivid purple with splattered sections that twinkled and spun, but though they grabbed her attention, they didn't detract from the story printed on them, next to a rather serious looking, black and white photo of Harry.
"Luna managed to get me an advance copy before the main print run," Harry explained, and Hermione nodded.
Hermione ran her fingers over the logo for the Quibbler printed on the bottom right of each page and then dropped into a low chair to read through the article she'd had to bribe, threaten and cajole Rita Skeeter into writing.
Despite her best intentions, Hermione couldn't help but be impressed. Whatever Skeeter's myriad failings she had taken Harry's tale, that had been repeatedly represented as the ramblings of an unstable mind, and turned it into a hard-hitting factual account of something desperately terrible. An event that a child should never have borne witness to, let alone been in the centre of.
There was a subtlety there that Hermione had never seen in Skeeter's writing before. Rather than hamming up his childhood to make Harry into an object of pity, as she had done so often during the TriWizard tournament, Skeeter had presented him as a leader of men, put upon before his time.
"Well, she might be one of the worst people I've ever had the misfortune of meeting, but she does sensationalism better than anyone in the business."
"I'm glad you're pleased," Harry said wryly. "I'd expected worse. I nearly ruined my school robes having to sit with her long enough to go over it all. I think that god awful perfume she wears has now permanently sunk into the fibres. I've washed them twice, and Ron still retches every time I'm near."
Hermione shuddered at the thought. She regretted not having been there, but it had been decided fairly quickly that she and Skeeter antagonised each other far too much for it to be productive. Hermione had hidden on the other side of the bar they met in while Harry spoke to the 'journalist' and she kept her promise not to threateningly reveal the jam jars she had stuffed into her school bag.
Hermione poured over every word of the article, and as soon as she finished, she began it again. She wondered if she might convince Harry to let her reread it later without raising his suspicions. He'd never gone into so much detail when they'd spoken of that night before. They'd known reliving it was going to be an arduous task for him, but Harry had seen it as a necessary evil. As Hermione read about him first appearing in the graveyard after grabbing the cup-come-portkey, his fear at the time was palpable. Her heart broke for her friend, and for Cedric who Harry had done his damnedest not to leave behind.
"You're looking pensive?" Harry observed, and Hermione clenched her fists under the table and tried to think of happy thoughts to throw him off the trail.
"Luna was right," she said, trying for an unaffected tone. "You can really see the difference with the new printers they are using. The colours are a lot clearer."
She coughed into her hand to clear her throat and then folded up the parchment and handed it back to Harry, who slotted it into the chaos of his school bag. Hermione thought about scolding him; it was such an insecure place to keep something so potentially dangerous, but, given how long it had taken even him to find it, right now it was quite possibly the safest place in the castle.
Harry dumped the rest of his belongings into his bag, and Hermione watched as he rolled on his feet and struggled to suppress his grin. His happiness made her wary. It just wasn't like him. Harry hated the press even more than she did, and that was saying a great deal. She was worried that his need for vengeance was clouding his judgement. Again.
"Aren't you concerned about how this is going to play out?" she asked carefully. Though apparently not carefully enough.
Harry's expression sobered immediately, and his eyes narrowed. "You were on board with this."
Hermione sighed, reminded of the argument they'd had over the DA after Sirius had given their gatherings the thumbs up. "I know."
"You suggested Skeeter," Harry insisted, and Hermione winced. While she appreciated the necessity, it had hurt her to get the witch involved, and she didn't need the reminder.
"I know, Harry, I know," she said placatingly, and Harry deflated. He noisily pulled out a chair and sat down next to her, crossing his arms over his chest.
"So, what's the problem?"
"No problem," Hermione assured quickly. Even if her reservations were more than that, it was too late to back out now. "I'm just anxious, I suppose. This is a big deal, Harry. This is more than just you and Umbridge or the events of that night. You've outed Voldemort's entire inner circle, and these people aren't without influence."
Harry's lips quirked and he brushed a floppy strand of hair back off his face. "Fuck 'em."
Hermione wondered if she would ever be able to make Harry see reason or exercise the barest bit of caution.
If you can't beat them… "Well, as campaign slogans go-"
Harry barked out a laugh and then jumped to his feet and picked up his bag. "Come on, let's get dinner before hunger starts getting the better of your temper. I promise Hermione. It's all going to be fine. You worry too much."
"Actually Harry," Hermione said, rolling her eyes at his joviality. "If history has taught us anything, it's that I worry the correct amount."
Despite Hermione's growing trepidation, Harry's Quibbler article was released in the very next issue, as planned. Within half a day of the first copy landing, the magazine was subject to a non-issue specific ban. At first, Hermione had been terrified of the possible impact on Mr Lovegood's business. But Luna had not seemed concerned, in fact, she had been almost gleeful, in her own, uniquely chilled out way. And Luna had been right not to worry, by dinner time it appeared that not only had everyone read the article but that no one had any other topic of conversation.
The Hogwarts staff did little to hide their delight, and they praised Harry up to the skies using the limited means they had available. Harry's moderately birdlike crow was given twenty points in transfiguration, and while his coin was supposed to have spun in a circle, Professor Flitwick gave him ten points when he only managed to nudge it, and it rolled off his desk in Charms. There hadn't been so many rubies in the Gryffindor cylinder for some time. Unfortunately, but enjoyably, Umbridge did even less to mask her total and complete fury.
Hermione had been expecting a return volley, too much time with Moody and Sirius had her looking for counter-attacks around every corner. So when Umbridge made her move Hermione had been anticipating it; however, she hadn't expected the formation of the Inquisitorial Squad. As counter-tactics went, when compared with 'unmasking' a group of high society figures as terrorists, it was a little underwhelming.
Along with their shiny, silver 'i' badges the completely Slytherin group were given additional privileges that allowed them to override Prefects, deduct points without formal reason and generally make a nuisance of themselves.
Unsurprisingly, Hermione's first worry was Harry. Malfoy had been positively spitting after the article came out and she knew most of them would have loved any excuse to put the boy-who-lived back in 'his place'.
While Pansy, Crabbe and their ilk might not have been much of a threat, Graham Montague and Cassius Warrington were a genuine concern. Graham was captain of the Quidditch team and known for being utterly ruthless. Cassius was among the best and brightest at Hogwarts, and he certainly hadn't put his name into the Goblet of Fire the year before for a laugh. If it hadn't been for Cedric, he would have stood a real chance at being the Hogwart's Champion.
Harry was just volatile enough this year not to back down if one of them pushed him into a corner, literally or figuratively. When mixed with the cockiness he felt after their first real victory; the effects could be devastating.
Hermione made a mental note to mention the situation to Ron, though she feared he would be little help in keeping Harry under control in this particular area, Ron was already on a hair-trigger himself.
Not for the first time, Hermione found herself cursing her lack of forethought. Maybe Sirius was right? Perhaps she did have more to learn about this stuff than she first thought?
When she'd first heard about the Inquisitorial Squad, Hermione had been dismissive, relieved and even a little amused. She'd been expecting Umbridge to expel them, or even threats that she would find a way to eject them from the magical world entirely. Delivering branding for the resident bullies seemed relatively small potatoes in comparison. That was until the Saturday morning following the release of the Quibbler article, when, after breakfast, Draco Malfoy showed up at her dorm looking as pompous as ever and announced that he was there to 'search their belongings for items banned by the High Inquisitor'.
No one asked how he had gotten up the stairs, but the thought that Umbridge had somehow given him a way of overriding that little charm made Hermione feel slightly sick. Archaic and discriminatory as it may have been, it was a layer of protection they apparently no longer had.
After a few moments of debating doing otherwise, Hermione, Pravati and Lavender had let him in. It was foolish to think he would go away just because they asked him too, and who knew who he would bring back as 'reinforcements' if he did so. The idea of Crabbe or Goyle blundering about her personal space was enough to make Hermione silently move out of the doorway, the others following suit.
Malfoy sauntered in very sure of his importance and then curled his lip when he took in their room. Hermione knew it was looking relatively neat, in comparison to what it sometimes seemed like in the middle of a term, so she deduced it was their presence that he found so detestable.
"I think I'll start with you Granger," he said as he loomed tall over her. Hermione rolled her eyes.
"I take it you're searching the whole school, Malfoy, not just me."
Malfoy sneered, and the expression somehow made his face even more angular. "Less of your whining Granger. Your voice is far too much for me to process at this time of the morning."
"Feel free to leave if it is causing you distress." Hermione stretched out her arm, pointing back in the direction of the door and Malfoy's countenance darkened.
"You know what's amazing to me? Everyone thinks you're this incomparable brain and yet, all I see, is someone that cannot grasp the basic social dynamics going on around them. You," he said, his voice beginning to waver with his growing ire, "Are. Not. In. Charge. Here."
Hermione imagined that to some, Malfoy's rage would have been intimidating, for herself, she had seen more frightening displays when Ron had realised that their weekly roast would be served without Yorkshire puddings. She stared Malfoy down and crossed her arms over her chest.
"Open your trunk," Malfoy demanded, and Hermione felt her hair fizz and crackle.
"Hoping to see her knickers, Malfoy?"
Hermione twisted to look past Malfoy who was standing so close he was blocking out most of her view, to Ginny who had appeared, still sleep rumpled and tired eyed, leaning against their door jamb.
Malfoy's cheeks pinked, and Hermione gave her friend a grin, thankful for someone taking the edge off the mounting tension.
"Get out of here Weaslette," Malfoy sneered, and Ginny glowered at him.
"Perve," she muttered not so under her breath before straightening in the doorway and stepping back. "I'll be in the common room when you need me, Hermione."
There was a pause after she left and Hermione risked a glance at Lavender who, while Malfoy was focused on her, was going her best to stuff all of her own knickers under her bed. It would have made Hermione laugh if the whole thing wasn't so bloody infuriating.
"The trunk, Granger," Malfoy spat impatiently, and Hermione felt her magic stretch out in response to what she perceived to be an attack. A prickling and frothing sensation erupted from her core and coiled around her fingers.
She jutted out her chin, gritted her teeth and wished she could punch him again. She wished so hard that she could almost feel it. Unfortunately, Hermione feared she really would be expelled this time, and then there would be no one to help temper Harry if he went into one of his rages. Plus she'd lose access to the library, which was beyond unacceptable.
Instead of her desired violent response, Hermione marched close to Malfoy, stepping forward until they were only a hairsbreadth apart. She had to crane her neck to look up at him; apparently Ron wasn't the only one that had shot up like a weed over summer.
Malfoy looked down his nose at her, and she saw the contempt he always had in his eyes, and she met it head-on. For once, there was no pain lingering behind her indignation. Maybe she had finally grown up, or maybe she had now grown the thicker skin her mother had always promised she would develop? Either way, for the first time, Hermione genuinely didn't care what he, or anyone else, thought of her any more. She hoped her gaze was equally transparent, and that Malfoy could fully appreciate just how justifiably angry she was.
Summoning up everything she had, Hermione flicked her wand into her palm from her holster (a jerking motion that only worked half of the time). Then, doing her best to keep herself calm, she silently ordered her beloved trunk to snap open, biting on her lip to disguise her sublime relief when her magic cooperated. She didn't miss the flicker of surprise in Malfoy's eyes, and it made her perversely delighted.
Keep on looking down at me, you pompous bastard. I'm twice the magic-user you are.
"Have at it Malfoy," Hermione condescended with barely concealed rage. "Do remember to wash your hands afterwards, or perhaps the High Inquisitor has provided gloves? We wouldn't want you to get some nasty Muggle disease."
Hermione saw his fingers pull back as he looked suddenly uncertain, and she plopped herself on her newly made bed and picked up a textbook she could pretend to read. She refused to stand up and watch his progress as if she were part of some military inspection.
After a moment of indecision, Malfoy seemed to get over himself, and then he shoved both his hands into her trunk and thoroughly ruined her careful organisation. Malfoy attacked his task with furious gusto and Hermione would have been impressed if she wasn't so thoroughly disgusted. It appeared she wasn't the only one determined to prove they weren't affected.
For several minutes the only noise was made by Malfoy's rummaging and the occasional book landing on the ground around them. But suddenly all sound stopped, and he levered up back onto his feet, looking impossibly tall and foreboding in the small space. In his grasp, were a stack of letters, all lovingly refolded and returned to their envelopes and held together with a now fraying stretch of pale pink ribbon.
Hermione couldn't hold back the instinct that made her jump up and reach for them, and as soon as her fingers splayed in the air, she knew she'd made an enormous error. She'd let him see how important they were to her. There would be no saving them now.
Malfoy's eyes gleamed, and his mouth twisted into a smirk as he held the letters aloft, comfortably out of her furthest grasp.
Hermione stomped right over to him again, but there was no intimidation in the action now, the balance of power had utterly shifted, and he knew it.
"Writing to your dirty Muggle parents, Granger?" he sneered. "Who knew they could work out something as complex as strapping a bit of paper to an owl?"
After a couple of unsuccessful swipes came to nothing, Hermione balled her fists and forced herself to keep still. Malfoy grinned wider. He ripped open the ribbon she had tied with diligent care and then plucked the letter out of the first envelope.
No, no, no.
Hermione thought back as she found a place on the far wall to focus on. If she looked directly at Malfoy, she would scream. She tried to remember that particular letter and what it might have said, what information Malfoy might now have at his disposal. Talks of summers and tentative sentences about missing each other. Hermione hadn't even been able to let Ginny and Luna read her letters, the thought of Malfoy doing it made her stomach turn to lead.
Malfoy's eyes fell over the parchment, his sneer falling away into a blank expression. After a while, he shoved the letter back in the stack and then opened another, and then another.
"Are these all from Krum?"
As soon as he said Viktor's name, Hermione felt herself get angry, really, really angry. Her wand was in her hand before she knew it, but then, before she could even think of what to do with it, it was gone.
Hermione glanced at Pravati, who was standing by her side, her mouth set in a grim line, and she had Hermione's wand in her fingers. She realised Pravati hadn't even used magic, she'd just taken it, Hermione had been too angry and Malfoy too bamboozled to notice.
Pravati met her gaze, and she shook her head just once. There was a strength and a finality to the direction that Hermione begrudging respected. She understood Pravati's logic. She was even grateful to her roommate for stopping the escalation. Still, at that moment, Hermione really wanted to hex that smug arse look right off Malfoy's pointy face.
Meanwhile, apparently oblivious to the by-play going on around him, Malfoy was still flipping through her letters with growing speed. "Krum?" he asked again, looking up at Hermione and waving the parchment stack in her face. "Are they all from Krum?"
"No, Malfoy," Hermione said, her voice thick with disdain. "I write them to myself and then sign his name at the bottom because I'm mental like that."
"She's his girlfriend you moron," Lavender scoffed, but Malfoy didn't appear to hear her.
"Really?"
Hermione couldn't have cared less about his incredulity; she'd expected it of her friends, from her enemies, it was little more than white noise. Not trusting herself to speak, she only nodded.
"Well, they're confiscated," Malfoy said, seeming to refind his footing.
No, no, no.
Hermione could feel her heartbeat in her throat. If it had been anyone else standing over her, she would have been tempted to beg for them back, pride be damned, but she knew that would only spur Malfoy on.
"What possible need could you have for Hermione's letters?" Parvati asked. "What rule are they supposedly breaking?"
"That's between the High Inquisitor and me," Malfoy replied self-importantly, and Lavender snorted.
"Has our dear DADA Professor run out of erotic novels? Is she looking to get her kicks reading student love letters?"
Malfoy flushed and stammered out some vague threat that Hermione barely even registered. Then he stuffed the letters into his pocket and left in a billow of robes Professor Snape would have been proud of.
Hermione watched him go utterly deflated. She sat back on the end of her bed only this time she felt cold without the rage that had been coursing through her blood for the last half an hour. She wished she hadn't decided to 'treat herself' to egg on toast that morning because now it felt like there was a real chance she could bring it up. She wanted to lie down on her bed, wrap herself in all the blankets and fold herself into a ball. She wanted to tell herself she didn't have to get up. But she didn't.
Hermione reminded herself that she had weathered worse, and then she sucked in a deep breath before kneeling on the floor to pick up her things - things that Draco Malfoy had decided were beneath his interest.
"Bloody ferret, as if I used to fancy him," Lavender sniggered, and Hermione grimaced.
"Oh get over yourself, Hermione," Lavender scolded, bending down to retrieve her underwear now that it appeared it would be safe from prying eyes. "You have to admit that when he isn't doing that pouty thing with his mouth that makes his cheeks hollow out like a corpse, he's bloody attractive."
"Yeah, apart from that," Pravati muttered, and Lavender hit her arm. "What? You know if I have to go over to the dark side I'm picking Theodore Nott."
Hermione spluttered and then two hard pairs of eyes stared down at her. "I've never… I've looked at any of them, like that."
"Well, you don't have to do you," Lavender replied. "But less of your judgement. Not all of us have handsome men waiting in the wings for when we graduate."
"Nor do you," Hermione replied, sitting on the floor and throwing her displaced belongings back into her trunk. She could reorganise it later when her heart was feeling less heavy. "Have to look at Malfoy, I mean. You have Ron."
Lavender shrugged. "It's a bit off and on."
Hermione sighed. She'd heard that of course, Ron had tried to talk to her about his complicated relationship with Lavender on several occasions. Hermione had always stared him down until he went away. She may not have expressly liked Lavender, and Ron was her friend, but she happened to think a lot of their problems could be solved if Ron just found his way to making a bit of bloody effort. She absolutely drew the line at having that conversation with him though. Something told her he wouldn't take kindly to what she had to say.
"You could tell him you fancy Malfoy?" Hermione said in a voice approaching coy, and Lavender smiled broadly.
"That's an idea to consider."
Hermione winced as she opened a book that had landed on its pages. "Thank you for sticking up for me, with Malfoy."
Lavender shrugged as Pravati dropped a load more of Hermione's things onto her bed. "I didn't do it for you," the blonde said, inspecting her nails. "It's the principal of the thing. He can't just march in here thinking he can do what he likes."
Hermione smiled at her noticeable deflection and realised she would have been the same. "Thanks anyway."
Pravati handed her wand back and gave her a small smile. "First time I think I've ever got your wand off you, Hermione. Best not to retaliate too much at the moment."
Hermione spied the small drawstring bag she kept her underwear in, mercifully lying untouched at the bottom of her trunk. Thank heavens for small mercies.
"Sadly, I agree."
As was becoming a habit for her, Hermione decided against heading to the library on her next free period and instead, she gathered up all of her required study materials and went to sit out on the grounds. The castle corridors were becoming even more treacherous than they had been at the start of the year as the Weasley twins doubled down on their own uniquely manic and magically brilliant response to the Inquisitorial Squad's attacks. As a consequence, trips to the hospital wing were becoming an almost daily occurrence for everyone involved. The teachers had too much on their plates to intervene, so they were left to fight in pitch battles by themselves.
Hermione had so far avoided a worse fate than a few tripping jinxes and being knocked to the ground by an extremely overzealous Greg Goyle. Though Hermione still wasn't sure if that had been intentional or just a case of the boy genuinely not having seen her as he hurried to keep up with his friends.
She'd expected much worse, but her normal tormentor in chief was avoiding her. She hadn't seen more of Malfoy than a quickly disappearing tuft of white-blonde hair for days. Usually, that would have been a cause for celebration, but right now, it was putting her on edge. Anticipation, as she had so often heard it said, was worse than the actual thing you were dreading happening. While she waited, her mind conjured up an enormous list of potential outcomes from Malfoy having her letters, each more humiliating than the last.
Hermione had been expecting him to make copies of the letters to distribute amongst his friends, and she'd envisioned Pansy quoting from them when she came into classes. She'd expected Blaise to ask if Viktor had sullied himself with her yet. But so far, none of it had happened.
Not one to be lured into a false sense of security twice, Hermione had watched Umbridge for signs that she had seen her correspondence. But the self-appointed High Inquisitor had no detectable zeal whenever she saw her, so there was a good chance she hadn't seen them either.
What was Malfoy playing at?
Hermione brushed her fingers over the warm grass and thought about opening a textbook, but she didn't. Somehow she knew that even her love for knowledge was not enough to distract her from her current funk. Instead, she took off her outer robe and spread her legs out in front of her and let herself sigh deeply, in a way she couldn't in the castle. Hermione felt like she had let Viktor down, and she couldn't even tell him.
After a while of not so contentedly staring into space, Hermione was snapped out of her circular thoughts by the slight shadow of Cho Chang falling over her books.
"Hello, Hermione," she greeted warmly. But her smile was weak, as if the gesture was unpractised. "Can I join you?"
"Of course," Hermione replied and shuffled over while Cho made herself comfortable. For a while they didn't say anything, they just sat next to each other in the quiet. Not many people came to this small stretch of grass. There was little here to see or do, but it suited Hermione just fine. In the distance, Hermione could just make out the noise of a few students arguing over something or other, but they were too far away for her to hear the particulars.
"I've got something for you," Cho said, and Hermione turned to her as the Ravenclaw pulled a magazine out of her bag. Hermione recognised it instantly as the one she had seen a few of her housemates pouring over from time to time. Yet another publication dedicated solely to Quidditch.
"There's a page folded down," Cho explained, and Hermione felt her heartbeat accelerate, and she swallowed hard.
"Viktor?"
Cho nodded, and her expression was kind. "He's had another injury, but it's not anywhere near as severe this time. I thought you would want to know."
Hermione took the offered magazine and flicked it open to where Cho had indicated. She scanned the page; the detail would matter more later. Her eyes picked up on the words, minor, bruising, and no concern quickly, and the sudden deflation of her nerves made water pool in her eyes. She was becoming rather highly strung of late. "Thank you, Cho, this was kind of you."
Cho rested a hand on Hermione's arm and then she opened her bag, pulling out her books. "Don't mention it."
They lapsed into silence again for a while, Hermione flicking through the magazine as Cho fiddled with a broken quill, but eventually, Cho straightened and turned to face her.
"Did Harry tell you that I…. I don't think it's… us… me and him, that is, that it's not a good idea."
Hermione offered Cho her magazine back, but she shook her off, and Hermione put it in her bag to reflect on later. Cho looked so forlorn she needed to focus on that now.
"Not in so many words, but I figured it out," she said. She'd known they must have called things off as Harry hadn't mentioned Cho for a while. He didn't seem to mope, not like he had around the Yule Ball. But then, when Hermione thought about it, she wasn't sure how much Harry had been invested. He'd obviously liked Cho, but by her estimation, it had been a boyish like. Harry had liked Cho because she was beautiful, smart, and she played Quidditch. He'd not known enough about her for anything more profound.
"Does he hate me?" Cho asked in a lost voice, and Hermione began shaking her head before she spoke.
"I don't think Harry could ever hate anyone, least of all you. He's not always been treated well, and there are lots of people to blame for that, but he always sees the good in people, eventually. He liked you Cho, a lot, but he won't hold it against you if you don't feel the same. More than anything, Harry hates being lied to or being placated. He would have respected your honesty."
Cho nodded and recrossed her legs, so she sat up straighter. "I don't like the idea that I led him on."
"You didn't," Hermione assured quickly. "Harry knew the situation from the beginning. If anyone understands it's Harry." Hermione thought back to the article in the Quibbler, and the words used to describe what had happened that night. "Cedric… what happened to him, why it happened… Harry will never forget it."
"Me neither," Cho replied softly. "I'm not sure I ever will."
"It's not been that long Cho. You need to give yourself time."
Cho scoffed. "I don't know, Hermione. It's been nearly a year, and the pain doesn't even feel like it's muted. I think it's because there was never a goodbye, you know? I don't even know if we'd still be together now if he had… if he had lived. It's the not knowing, all the unanswered questions that make it so much harder. Cedric… he's such a hard person to get over. I think if he were here, he'd make a joke about me being a little desperate because I can't get over him. Then I want to laugh, and that makes me feel worse."
Hermione pulled up a few blades of grass and twisted them between her fingers. "I think we could all do with him here right now. The students need a leader, someone to unite them and reign them in. Cedric would have been good at that."
Cho hummed a faintly agreeing sounding sound and then settled in next to her. "Should we get some books out?"
Hermione sighed. "We should, if only to dissuade anyone else from coming over to talk to us."
Hermione peered around the last corner she had to turn and felt distinctly lighthearted when she realised it was empty. She rarely went anywhere on her own at the moment, but this trip needed to be done solo, and she was distinctly pleased to have completed it without incident. Though she supposed, as her intended destination was the hospital wing, she would have ended up where she needed to be even if she had been ambushed.
Hermione kept the magazine Cho had given her folded up in her bag, leaving it the dorm didn't feel safe anymore and rather pathetically, she found she was becoming strangely attached to it. The article listed his name three times, in three different blocks of text.
Viktor Krum
Viktor Krum
Viktor Krum
It was somehow easier to believe it was all still real when she could see proof of his existence in print, especially as all of Hermione's personal evidence had been cruelly snatched away.
The injury Viktor had sustained hadn't been too bad this time, just a few bruises and a day of rest required to get him back on his feet. Though, as ever, Hermione found she didn't entirely trust what the sports journals wrote about him. All they cared about was the player's ability to get on a broom for the next match. To Hermione, being 'match fit' was very different to being safe and well.
When Hermione closed her eyes at night, she could still feel the slight bump of the fading scar Viktor had on his chest under her fingers. Magic meant that he wouldn't keep the mark, but it wouldn't take away that it had happened.
Hermione tried only to think about his chest in terms of the injury she had witnessed. She tried not to dwell on the fact that she could still taste him on her lips, especially during daylight hours.
The article speculated that Viktor was being targeted during matches with aggressive play as he was one of the biggest names to join the league. It made Hermione furious. What sort of people sought to elevate themselves by attacking others? In some ways it was a good job she couldn't go and watch his games. She wasn't sure what the precedent was for a spectator assaulting a player during an active match, but she imagined it was likely to be jail time, which was a pity.
Hermione pulled her bag up higher on her shoulder and carefully opened the hospital wing doors. It was still early, breakfast hadn't long opened, and she didn't want to disturb the patients that might have been trying to rest.
She had only moved a single step inside when Madam Pomfrey appeared, looking perfectly put together despite the early hour in a freshly starched apron with a clipboard in her hand.
"Oh, Hello Miss Granger, are you here to see Mr Longbottom? He's in bay four."
"Yes, and no," Hermione replied, biting the side of her lip. She had been hoping to see Neville, he had been sent in last night after falling foul of Milicent Bulstrode, but she had other reasons to be there too. Goals that ensured she'd arrived at a time when she was least likely to be seen by any of her peers.
"Oh?" the matron responded with her eyebrows raised, and Hermione let the heavy doors close behind her.
"Actually Madam Pomfrey, I was wondering if I could have a few moments of your time?"
"By all means, my dear, come through to the office."
Sirius sat casually in the kitchen in a woefully empty Grimmauld Place with his chair balancing on two legs and his feet up on the battered table. There was a bit of mud on the heel of his boots, and every time he shifted position, a new smear would come off onto the aged wood, plugging the deep grain with muck. It gave him a dim sense of satisfaction.
Sirius remembered being sat at this very table and being hit with a stinging hex because he'd absentmindedly rested his elbows on either side of his plate. He couldn't have been more than seven. He'd been tired after playing in the garden with Reggie and in his sleepy state he'd forgotten a fundamental house rule. His mother had always been a vicious bitch. Her lessons had been enforced with pain, of one kind or another, from the very beginning.
Sirius reached down to fill his glass and realised that the bottle at his feet was empty. Unsteadily, thanks to the amount he had already put away, he stood up and walked across to the cupboard he reserved for booze. It was empty; he opened another; it was the same.
From the corridor, he heard his mother's voice, and he instantly knew that Kreacher was out there, lingering in the shadows and whispering to his former mistress about her failure of a son, about the degradation he felt at having to serve such an unworthy master.
Sirius slammed the cupboard shut and swept across the room to reach for the door to the hallway. He'd show that elf exactly why he had been blasted off the tree.
But then, Sirius stopped. He had the cool metal in his fingers, and he'd been ready to pull the door so hard he might have finally pulled it off its ageing hinges. But he didn't. Unbidden he saw a tear-stained face under a mop of too curly hair. He remembered Hermione, crying in this very kitchen and looking to him for help. Him, she had trusted him to help her, and to make her feel better.
She'd yelled at him so many times about Kreacher, and pleaded with him to treat the elf with compassion and respect. Sirius thought she was delusional but, he released with a note of surprise that he didn't want her to hear about this. He didn't want Hermione to feel like he had broken faith with her. Sirius didn't want her to look at him like all the others did, with pity, contempt and fear.
He let go of the door handle and stepped back into the room, stopping by the table and picking up his spent bottle before smashing it against the wall. He'd leave Kreacher alone for now, but he could clear his mess up and stay out of his way.
Sirius opened the back door and stepped into the small courtyard letting the meagre wind move across his face. It wasn't enough to make him feel like the house wasn't closing in around him, but it was all he had, for now.
He wanted out of there in the worst way.
A/N: Hello, lovelies, thank you as ever for your tremendous patience. As you can see we are starting to set some of the groundwork for Part Three :) In the next chapter we check in with Viktor to see how he is doing with this enforced separation and things in Bulgaria are going to start getting a little darker. Stay safe.