I am so glad you guys are enjoying this story. It honestly makes my heart swell when I read your comments/reviews!
I had a three-day-weekend and honestly, I was utterly lazy. I did finish this chapter though, so I guess that's something?
Hope you enjoy! xx
On Saturday morning, Hermione was pulled from a restless sleep, a sleep plagued with hazel eyes and rough caresses, by the sound of rushing water reverberating through the wall beside her head.
She rubbed her eyes, blinking away the lingering dream and leaned over to peak at the clock on her end table.
It was just shy of eight o'clock.
She silently cursed. Damn Candice and her bright-eyed-busy-tailed morning routine. Her roommate was notorious for her early morning exercise routine: "Nothing like a run and a smoothie to get you ready for the day!" was her favorite catchphrase. Judging by the water whistling through the pipes, Candice was back from her sweat session and in the shower.
Hermione groaned, stretching her limbs until her toes peaked from beneath the floral comforter.
She felt like she could sleep another 12 hours, sleep right through this day and into tomorrow, sleep away her memory of the interaction with him the night before.
Blaise Zabini.
An unwelcome rush of heat settled in her lower belly with the thought of him in the alley: the way he had stalked over to her like a predator, so controlled and confident.
The memory of him had haunted her dreams, she imagined he chased her through the dark streets of Soho district. Taunting her at every turn as they raced through the night. When he had finally captured her, his body heavy and hot, pressed flush against her own, he had kissed her. Open-mouthed and hungry, his hands roving over her body.
Reflexively, she rubbed her legs together chasing the ache between her thighs.
She mewled, yearning for friction. Yearning for his hot, hard -
With a frustrated growl, Hermione ripped the covers off her body and pushed herself out of bed.
Stupid, bleeding fool.
Her cheeks heated with shame. The bugger had choked her. She couldn't possibly be deranged enough to be attracted to a man who had attacked her in an alley.
Hermione paused, clenching her bedsheets. She wasn't excusing his behavior, but, she had seen it in his eyes: he hadn't intended to hurt her.
For some reason unbeknownst to her, he had wanted to provoke her. He had wanted her to use magic. It was utterly baffling. Why would Blaise Zabini care about her magic? Could he somehow sense she wasn't using it? Or was it just him being a prat and wanting to see "the Golden Girl" snap?
Or worse, had the Ministry sent him?
Her thoughts spiraled and panic seized her.
It didn't make sense. She barely knew the man. Other than the fact they had shared a handful of classes at Hogwarts, he was a near stranger to her. The Ministry wouldn't send a prat like Blaise Zabini to drag her back to the Wizarding World. And if they had, couldn't he have just stunned her and taken her with him forcefully? Unless this was all a part of some grand, elaborate plan to make her stew in her anxiety, waiting for him to make the next move.
She was no prey.
Hermione shook her head, releasing her bedhead in a cloud of dark curls. She ran her hands through her hair, tugging her fingers through the tangled mess.
She was overthinking this and she knew it. The odds of her seeing the Slytherin again were low.
Practically non-existent.
The throbbing between her legs deepened. She knew what she needed.
A distraction. A release. Something to take the edge off the burning need simmering in her blood.
A cold shower would have to do for now, which was fortunate for Hermione as cold water would be all that was left once Candice finished bathing.
Maybe the bartender from the night before would be working again tonight. Maybe she would wander back into the Thistle & Rose and see if he was willing to forgive her for leaving without a goodbye last night.
If he wasn't, then she would have to return to Plan B: the feared and dreaded dating app. She didn't think she could survive another date with a fool like the Hipster Philosopher.
How difficult was it to find a one-night stand? Bloody hell, she lived in a city filled with horny uni-students for crying out loud. Did she have some kind of neon sign on her head flashing "Don't Fuck Me! Damaged Goods! Just Got Out of a Long-Term Relationship! Left my Fiancé at the Alter and I'll Probably Ditch You, Too!"?
Hermione sighed, standing from her bed and walking to her dresser. She glanced at her reflection in the mirror.
A whisper of a bruise, the size of a grape, colored the right side of her throat; the place where Blaise's thumb had pressed into her trachea the night before. Gingerly, she brushed the purple shadow with her fingertips. A simple healing charm would vanish the mark from her skin.
She flinched, inhaling sharply through her nose.
No matter how she fought to contain the memories of her old life, her old ways, the knowledge bubbled to the surface, her mind betraying her by recalling random facts she wished would disappear.
Facts that she wanted to make disappear forever.
It had been three months. Three months since she had left that note to Ron and Harry. Three months since she had left Crookshanks- she swallowed against the thickening of her throat. Three months since she had left all of her belongings and wandered into muggle London without anything but her wallet and her favorite sweater and worn-out pair of jeans.
Ever since she had left her old life behind, the need, as she called it, sang to her. It sang in ways she hated, ways she tried- and failed- to ignore.
And although she hated to admit it, rebelling against the need, the call of her nature, her… magic- she tripped on the word, ignoring the answering flare of recognition in her blood- was more difficult than she initially thought it would be.
At first, it had only occurred once a week or so. Now, every couple days the sickness repeated itself. The aching in her bones, the boiling in her blood. The longer she ignored it, the worse it got. Her skin felt too tight for her bones, her clothes scratchy and foreign against her flesh.
The urge to cast a spell, to relieve the magic bubbling inside her, pushing at her seams, was… overwhelming, maddening.
It's not that Hermione hadn't prepared for this. Only a fool would assume that forsaking one's innate magical ability would be a walk in the park. There wasn't much printed text or research on the effects of denying one's magic, but Hermione assumed there would be a … transitional period.
She just hadn't expected it would be this painful.
On the worst nights, she locked herself in her room and turned up her music so no one could hear her crying, screaming, begging for it to end. Until she passed out from the pain, slipping into an unconsciousness marked with dreams of destruction: waves crashing, sidewalks cracking, lightening streaking across the sky.
By the time she awoke the next morning, it would have dissipated. She would be in control of her body again, she was able to breath without lungs aching, move her limbs without feeling like her ribs were clenching her organs in a vise-like grip.
It was if somehow the need had found its release. Or, perhaps, just absorbed back into itself. Hermione was never conscious when the pain ended and the relief arrived.
Except for two nights ago, when she had awoken in her pajamas in a neighborhood near her flat. Telephone poles collapsed around her, car alarms shrieking, fallen power lines sparking on the cracked cement. As dazed homeowners stumbled from their houses, torchlights illuminating the darkness, Hermione had fled back to her apartment. The next day, newspapers explained the incident as an isolated event. An unexplainable fluke occurrence- a 6.8 magnitude earthquake that only effected those within a one-kilometer radius.
The incident had rattled her.
She wasn't able to explain it, she couldn't rationalize how she had ended up on that street. Could it be possible she had sleep-walked? That some part of her had sensed that the earthquake was going to occur and had wanted to help those affected by the disaster? Had her subconscious led her to that location on instinct?
The whole thing was what had led her to download that stupid, bleeding app that Candice used. It was what led her to go out with that wanker philosopher the night before. She needed to find control again. She needed to bury her fear with buckets of gin and mindless, meaningless sex.
Hermione was tracing the blossoming bruise on her neck when her bedroom door swung open, revealing her roommate. She quickly pulled her curls over her shoulder, concealing the mark.
Candice had her hand on the doorframe, balancing herself as she shoved her foot into a heeled boot. Her dark hair was still damp, tiny droplets wetting the front of her pale pink blouse.
"Oh good, you're awake! Do these shoes match my outfit?" She flung out her arms and kicked out one of her feet.
Hermione sighed, "Candice, you know I'm not the right person to ask."
"Hermione," the girl leveled her with a stare. "Just humor me, okay?" Her hands soared through the air as if she was painting a picture. "You're walking down the street and you see a gorgeous Asian of Singaporean decent." She paused, flipping her dripping hair over her shoulder and giving another flourish of her wrist. "Dressed like this. What are your immediate thoughts?"
Hermione smirked.
They did this same routine every morning. Hermione had never been one for fashion, always preferring comfort over extravagance, but Candice had helped a bit with that over the last few months. Apparently, the girl refused to bunk with someone whose closest consisted mainly of jeans and sweaters. Three months of residing with Candice and now her wardrobe was filled with all kinds of clothes she had never owned before- shift dresses and gauzy skirts, cropped tops and off-the-shoulder blouses. Somehow, Candice had been able to drag Hermione into current, muggle fashion and find things that suited her body, but also her personality. Or at least, the person she wanted to be.
Meeting Candice had been a godsend, for multiple reasons. After a week of sleeping in a hostel and scouring the local paper for rentals, she had found Candice's posting on the campus bulletin. It had said something to the effect of: "Looking for a roommate who isn't lame and won't murder me in my sleep."
On the day they scheduled to meet at a coffee shop near the flat, Hermione's heart had sank upon seeing Candice's flashy style and designer handbag. She glanced down at her dull clothes and knew this girl couldn't possibly want to room with the likes of her and resigned herself to another day of house-hunting. But, when Candice saw the book in Hermione's hand- a used copy of Jane Eyre- the girl had squealed and promptly started a discussion of the best movie adaptations of her favorite Brontë sister's novel. They had talked for nearly an hour- it turned out, Candice studied classical literature and shared many of Hermione's bookish interests.
It turned out Candice was exactly what Hermione had needed in a roommate: she picked up after herself (mostly), didn't ask too many nosy questions (mostly) and was the perfect person to seek out reckless distraction with: she was always up for a night out on the town and knew of all the nightclubs and dive bars in the city.
She also liked to bake, when she wasn't preaching about the benefits of exercise and cruciferous vegetables.
"You look great, Candy." Hermione replied. "Fantastical! Breathtaking! Sublime! You are a vision in pink." And she meant it. Candice had her father's golden-skin and almond-shaped eyes and her mother's tall, lean frame. The girl was a stunner.
"Ah, thanks, roomie," Candice said with a grin. "I'm planning on wearing these babies to the opening tonight." She looked lovingly down at the knee-high leather boots, then glanced back up toward Hermione. "You're still planning on coming, right?"
When Hermione gave her a blank look, Candice's jaw dropped, her eyes widening in horror.
"The opening of the new club on Fourth!" The girl shrieked, sounding indignant that Hermione could have forgotten.
Right. The new club.
Candice had been looking forward to the opening for weeks now, ever since some famous blogger had dropped hints about its big reveal. The place was so secretive, a name for the club hadn't even been provided yet.
It was the biggest, most anticipated event of the month. There were sure to be loads of people there.
Realization dawned. This would be the perfect event for a steamy hook-up. She would finally be able to find a willing bloke to fuck without using that despicable dating app!
Bless, Candice. She always seemed to know what Hermione needed.
"Yes, of course!" She tried not to sound too eager. "I'll be there! Text me the address."
"Will do! Okay, I'm off, love! Gots to run to class," Candice sang, grabbing her keys and thermos.
Candice was enrolled at the University of London where she was working toward double majoring in British Literature and Language Theory, meaning the girl was taking classes six days a week. It was a wonder she had time to exercise, let alone date.
At the door, Candice paused, bending down to scoop up the mail. She quickly thumbed through the letters, grabbing one from the bottom before tossing it onto the entry table.
"You've got post!" She hollered, slamming the door shut behind her.
Hermione took a breath as she made her way toward the single white envelope.
There were only a handful of people who knew where she lived.
It wasn't as if it were a secret, Hermione knew that with the right…tools…certain people would have no trouble finding her address.
Every week she received another letter, although she was hoping that as more time passed, their frequency would begin to wane.
It hadn't happened yet.
Hermione picked up the envelope, barely glancing at the messy scrawl- Ron's scrawl- before tossing it into the rubbish bin.
Then, she went into the bathroom, stripped off her clothes and let the cold water cleanse her.
Hermione rushed into the University of London's College of Education's library break-room, quickly flinging her change of clothes for the night into an empty locker.
She was nearly five minutes late, having almost forgotten her shift. That damn dream from the night before had left her all distracted and disorientated.
When she had first applied to be a student at the University of London, Hermione's application had been wait-listed. It had been the middle of winter term and the renowned college was not accepting incoming freshmen. It also didn't help that despite her age- she was nearly 21- Hermione didn't have a single reference or letter of recommendation.
Thankfully, the dean of the college had agreed to meet with her and after a fruitful conversation about the current state of politics and their shared interest in foreign film, he had agreed to overlook her lack of references. He had suggested Hermione apply for a clerk position in one of the university's college libraries, as she was interested in applying for the library science program.
She had, and currently worked in the College of Education's library 4 nights a week through the rest of the semester before she began her studies at the start of spring term the following month.
Hermione rushed to the information desk where she spotted her supervisor, Peter, a graduate student in the library science program, assisting an undergrad.
She waited, quickly clipping on her name tag and tucking her hair behind her ears.
Peter wrapped up with the student, handing the boy a slip of paper and gesturing toward the elevators, when he smiled in Hermione's direction, his freckles pulling tight on his cheeks.
"Late start?"
Hermione blushed, "Yeah, I'm sorry about that. It's not usually like me to forget a shift."
"It's fine, it happens to the best of us," the ginger assuaged. Hermione found she couldn't look at him too long, he reminded her too much of her past.
"There are a ton of books that need to be re-shelved in the Archives and Rare Books Collections. Are you up for the task?"
"Yes, I'm on it," Hermione replied, rounding the desk toward the cart of books behind Peter's chair.
With a wave goodbye, she headed toward the elevators and took the lift down to the basement floor. Pushing the cart, she weaved through the library stacks to the Archives and Rare Books section tucked in the back corner. The sound of buzzing, fluorescent lights greeted her. It was the only level without windows, as the sunlight could damage the fragile texts, and students seemed to avoid it all costs.
It was quiet and that was fine for Hermione, as she preferred the silence. There was a peace to it, when your breath and the turning wheels of the cart were the only sounds. It was so contrary to the buzzing in her bones and the thoughts bouncing around her head. She prayed that one day that peace would seep into her skin and flush out her bloodstream, leaving only quiet in its wake.
Hermione slowed, pulling her cart to a stop as she entered Archives section.
A flash of silver caught her eye and she realized she wasn't alone in the stacks.
There was a student standing down the aisle from her, flipping through the pages of a book. His back was turned toward her, but there was something familiar about his lean figure and bright hair.
Hermione's breath caught in her throat.
It couldn't be.
A name, paired with a face of sharp angles and storm-gray eyes, rattled through her mind. A name she hadn't thought about in years.
She clung to reason like a lifeline. Silver hair was a fad raging across the streets of London. Even Candice had toyed with the idea of bleaching her hair gray.
And last she checked, Draco Malfoy- her heart stuttered at his name- was locked behind bars in Azkaban.
Where he belonged. May the bastard rot in peace.
She watched, her heart racing, as the man tucked something behind his ear. Squinting, she made out the slender outline of a pencil.
It was just a student. Hermione loosed a breath.
A laugh escaped her lips, something between a sigh of relief and an exasperated giggle. The interaction with Blaise, along with the tension of the last few days, was beginning to gnaw on her sensibilities.
Hermione turned back to her cart, plucking an encyclopedia from the stack and sliding it into place on the shelf before her.
Slowly, she moved down the aisle, shelving the tomes on her cart and paying little attention to the shadow looming near the end of the stacks.
A buzz echoed in the silence and Hermione plucked her vibrating cell-phone from her pocket, glancing at the screen as she answered the call.
"Hey, Candice," she whispered.
"Hermione! Oh my god," the girl squealed. "I met the sexiest guy on campus today. He literally dumped a coffee all over me, nearly burned my tits off, but oh Lord, it was worth it. He insisted on replacing my shirt and ughh," Candice moaned. "You know how I feel about men who appreciate fashion. He is fucking EDIBLE, 'Mione. I invited him to the club tonight and he said he wouldn't miss it!"
"That's great, Candy," she glanced around, looking over at the student reading just a few feet from her. He didn't seem to be perturbed by the phone call, in fact, he'd barely moved at all, it must be a damn interesting book he was reading. "Does he have a friend?"
"Girl. You know I wouldn't leave you hanging, I'm already two-steps ahead of you. He said he'd bring his roommate! He showed me a picture and honey," Candice sighed into the phone. "He is breathtaking. You two would make beautiful babies."
Hermione laughed, "I'm not looking to reproduce!"
"Yeah, yeah," Candice replied jokingly. "Tonight's going to be grand! I'm on my way home to change now. Where are you?"
"I'm at the library. I forgot I had a shift today, but I'll be off by 10."
"Okay, I'll just meet you there then, yeah?"
"Sounds good. What's the address again?"
"It's 468 Fourth Street. Right across from that one fish and chips place we went to last month," she clarified.
Hermione repeated the address under her breath, committing it to memory.
"Right, okay. I'll see you tonight!"
"Bye, babes."
The screen went dark and Hermione slipped her phone back into her pocket.
She turned back to her cart and pushed it forward to the next shelf, peeking down the aisle.
The student had left.
Hermione stopped at the next shelf, absentmindedly plucking the next book from the stack and turning it over to check the call number. Except, it didn't have one. Curious, she flipped the volume over, scanning the title.
Her face turned cold. The book fell from her hands and dropped to her feet with a loud thump.
"Now, Granger," a voice drawled from behind her, his breath hot against her ear, "is that any way to treat a first edition of A History of Magic?"
Hermione spun in place, reaching for the can of pepper spray tucked securely in her bra.
With deft fingers, she unlocked the safety and pressed down on the lever, unleashing the mist into Draco Malfoy's smirking face.