Chapter 3: The Light of Day
Sunlight streamed in through the narrow window, illuminating the room and waking its occupant. The war weary teenager, body trained to be on high alert, was instantly out of bed and assessing their surroundings for any possible threat. Upon seeing none, the student prepared for the day, grabbing uniform and robes, bath kit and towel and exiting the bedroom, their only thought on washing away the dried sweat, fear, and shame that were the trademark of a night filled with bad dreams and very little sleep.
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Hermione gently closed her door, mumbling spell after spell to set locking and protection wards on it, before turning towards the one and only bathroom. She came up short when she spotted Malfoy standing outside his bedroom door, kit in hand, obviously with the same intention as she.
Be the better person, Hermione.
"Good morning, Malfoy," she greeted as cordially as she could. Her eyes burned, her head throbbed, and she felt sticky and sore. And none of those were due to pleasurable pursuits. She was a mite touchy but trying really hard to make her impossible living situation somewhat bearable. Perhaps if she was cordial to him he would be…
"Piss off, Granger," came at her in a low snarl.
Guess not.
"I call dibs on the shower," Hermione claimed. Fuck the high road.
"Dibs? What are we, twelve?" was his retort as he spun on his heel, clearly headed for the loo, which was closer to his bedroom than hers.
It really was too bad for him that she had spent a year on the run, climbing over fallen debris in the woods and sometimes having to hurdle herself over downed trees if they were being pursued. She was certain she could outrun him. She darted two strides across the room, in front of the couch before turning and running right over it to land on the other side, just in front of the door. She stepped inside and turned to smirk triumphantly at the blonde snake.
"You must have forgotten I'm a Gryffindor, Malfoy. We don't back down from a challenge," she said in her haughtiest tone.
Malfoy took a step into the doorway, crowding her back towards the vanity sink, and leaned in, until he could bring his eyes level to hers. "You obviously forgot I'm a Slytherin. Let me show you what that means."
Suddenly, he shot his foot back and kicked the door shut, closing them both into the bathroom that was much too small for two people. With the flick of his wrist he had sent his bath kit to land atop the toilet lid, his towel to hang on the rod, and his uniform and robe hung themselves neatly on a hook behind the door. His hands were now free and he quickly put them to work unbuttoning what was undoubtedly a silk pajama shirt.
"Wh-what are you doing?" Hermione asked, trying to sound braver than she felt right now. She was practically locked in a room with Draco Malfoy, Slytherin, Death Eater, and bully, and he was stripping naked in front of her. She was feeling less and less like a Gryffindor with each button that popped free of its probably hand-stitched hole.
"Taking a shower, Granger," Malfoy answered casually. "Unless you plan on joining me, I'd suggest you leave."
His shirt hit the floor and Hermione was transfixed by his pale, toned chest and dusty pink nipples, nestled in downy white curls. She followed some of those curls down the hills and valleys of his stomach until she saw his hands reach for the waistband of his sleep pants. Hermione quickly shoved Malfoy to the side, wrenched open the door and was gone, his laugh trailing behind her before he shut the door again.
Hermione fumed as she stalked out of her dorm and down the hall towards the Prefect bathroom. How dare he? A gentleman would have…but he wasn't really…or maybe he didn't think of her as a lady worthy of…of course he didn't…how dare he? By the time she was finished bathing and preparing for the first day of classes, she was in a right strop and ready for a fight.
Too bad he was already gone when she arrived back at the dorm to return her bath kit. She resigned herself to having to wait until that evening to really let him have it and so shook it off and steeled herself to face the day ahead. First challenge: breakfast.
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Draco woke pissed off after a restless night plagued by nightmares that were really memories. It was Granger's fault that he had to relive that night in his dreams. All her damn fault. And then she had the gall to wish him a good morning and call dibs on the shower? Fuck. That.
He regretted his decision to close them into the bathroom together instantly, as it put him close enough to her to notice the freckles across her nose, the green flecks in her eyes, and that damned smell that he was quickly associating with her. He was thankful for his baggy sleep pants as he was half-hard before he started taking his clothes off and he got to witness her cheeks flush and her eyes widen at the sight of his bare chest.
He was a Slytherin, though, and damned if he was going to let her get the best of him. So even though he wanted to shove her out of the room and lock himself in until he could get his body under control, he instead dropped his hands to his pants, fully intending on dropping them and showing her exactly what it meant to play with a snake.
Luckily, or not so luckily, she had fled the battleground and left him to a cold shower, because there was no way in hell he was going to wank to thoughts of Granger. What the hell was happening to him that he found himself attracted to the crazy-haired, bossy swot that had made his life hell for 7 years, whether she knew it or not?
"A mudblood has bested a Malfoy? How…disappointing," his father drawled, refusing to look at him or speak to him the entirety of winter hols his first year.
"You let a filthy child raised by filthy muggles lay her hand on you? I thought I had sired a Malfoy son, but you are a disgrace to the Malfoy name." This accompanied by a backhand to his face after third year when she had slapped him.
So many other times he had been called a disgrace, a disappointment, all because of her and her friends. And after the Dark Lord…Voldemort… had moved in, he prayed to go back to the days of isolation. Anything would have been better than the repeated rounds of Crucio he had to endure every time word got back home that Hermione Fucking Granger had beat Draco Malfoy again. Couldn't she have taken a break? Couldn't she have just settled for something other than first in every Merlin damned thing she ever did?
So, yeah, he turned the water to just this side of frozen and stubbornly refused to even acknowledge the heaviness between his legs until it gave up and went away. He washed himself on autopilot, or whatever the wizarding equivalent was since he was unfamiliar with the muggle term, and dried and dressed with a charm. He didn't really want to look himself in the eye and so finger combed his hair and decided to go with the windswept, just fucked look the action gave him.
Not wanting to see the insufferable pain in the arse that was Hermione Granger in close quarters, he high tailed it out of the dorm and down to breakfast, where he sat by himself at the end of the table, carefully and deliberately using sectumsempra to slice a green apple into thin strips. If he reminded the others what he was capable of, then they might just leave him the fuck alone. They didn't need to know he would never actually use the curse on them. They just needed to know that he could.
He had just finished mutilating his apple when a familiar head of bushy brown hair came sauntering into the hall, like she hadn't a care in the world. Except…except her smile was stuck to her face like she had been hit with a freezing charm, there on the surface but not reflected in her eyes. Her eyes darted around the room, taking in the stares, the pointed fingers, the sheer hero worship on the faces of her younger cohorts. It also very clearly noticed that her friends were tightly sat in the center of Gryffindor table, happily engaged in conversation, no spot obviously saved for her.
Without missing a beat, the witch sat in the first empty seat she came to, as if it didn't bother her that her supposed friends were happily moving on without her. Or that they didn't even notice she had entered the room when every. Single. Other. Witch and Wizard. Noticed. They were freezing her out. But why?
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Hermione stepped into the Great Hall, mentally prepared for the stares, the whispers, the poorly concealed looks of hero worship or hatred, depending on if Hermione was the savior of the wizarding world or the cause of a loved one's demise. What she wasn't quite prepared for was the absolute lack of attention she received from her...friends? She wasn't particularly close to Dean or Seamus or the 6th year Gryffindors but she was definitely friends with Neville and Ginny and it hurt, just a little, that they seemed to be deliberately ignoring her. Almost like they had on the train ride.
She thought, at first, that they were merely trying to make her feel more comfortable by ignoring the stares and whispers around her and carrying on like Hermione Granger's entrance into the Great Hall was no big deal. But then she noticed that there was no space saved for her in the clearly tightly knit group and that Neville's eyes, when they darted to hers, were full of shame and apology, before they darted quickly away again. She brightened her smile and sat in the first spot she could, acting for all the world as if she had planned on sitting there all along, to be nearer the large bowl of fruit overflowing with apples conveniently located directly in front of where she sat.
She skinned and diced the apple with a quick spell, vanishing the core and skins with another before mixing the cubes of apple into a bowl of porridge she summoned herself from the kitchens. Stirring in brown sugar accio'd from the other end of the table with a quick twirl of her finger and preparing a hot cuppa with the wave of her hand, she resolved to enjoy her breakfast, resolutely ignoring the awed silence at her expert use of wandless magic.
What she couldn't quite ignore was the not quite whisper of "Show off, thinks she's so great, probably in a right strop for not being named Head Girl, eh Gin?" that came floating down the table. She waited to hear the response of her best female friend, the girl who she had shared a room with at the Burrow every summer before term started, the girl who had given her advice about Ron and taken her advice about Harry, the girl she learned hair charms from and tutored in Potions. The girl who had been named Head Girl because she earned it, which Hermione had told her when she squealed in excitement and hugged her, assuring her she didn't want it and McGonagall had definitely made the right choice.
"I think we'll hold Quidditch tryouts earlier this year, give us more time to train any newbies in our maneuvers," the fiery redhead answered, effectively changing the topic but very obviously not defending Hermione to her circle of admirers.
For the sake of her sanity, Hermione chose to view it as Ginny simply being non-confrontational about it. She didn't validate her friend's comment and she didn't alienate her friends either. So what if Ginny was as confrontational as they came? So what if Hermione would have set the record straight if the tables were turned? So what if, once upon a time, Ginny would have, too? Hermione was sure that later, maybe back in her room which was more private, Ginny would explain what the hell was going on. Ninety-nine percent sure. Okay, perhaps more like seventy-five percent sure. Whatever.
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Draco watched his dorm mate's casual use of wandless magic. Unlike his calculated use of magic with his own breakfast, hers seemed to be completely subconscious, the act of someone incredibly powerful and skilled and incredibly comfortable within their own magic. He was impressed. As, apparently were the ickle firsties and 2nd years she was surrounded by.
Not so impressed was a spotty-faced twit sitting uncomfortably close to the she-weasel. Draco grinned internally as he waited for the fiery witch to tear the pimply prick apart, only for that grin to disappear when she merely changed the subject, not even looking in the direction of the other witch Draco had thought, up to that point, was like a sister to her.
Interesting, Draco thought, the Slytherin in him already thinking of how he could use this to his advantage later. The possibilities…! He chanced a glance at the thorn in his side and could tell by the stiff set of her shoulders that she was just as surprised as he was by her friend's actions. Interesting, indeed.
"Being a blood traitor isn't bad enough, Malfoy? Now you're friends with Mudbloods? What's next? Gonna fuck her? Have little bitty muddy babies?" Urquhart hissed in his ear. The seventh year had managed to avoid time in Azkaban next to his father merely because he had been in St. Mungo's due to a difficult Quidditch injury during the final battle and apparently felt that his position at the top of the Slytherin food chain meant that he could speak to Draco however he pleased.
"I severed a man's hand once. It's really no different than slicing an apple, when you get down to it. The trick is to slash quickly and precisely, you know, so they don't have a chance to pull away." Draco kept his voice level, almost as if he was having a polite conversation over afternoon tea. He didn't even look at Urquhart, letting him know that he wasn't even worth his full attention. To drive home his point, Draco sent a silent sectumsempra towards the bowl of fruit between him and the Quidditch captain, slicing the shiny green apple at the top of the pile neatly in half. Only then did he flick his eyes towards the younger boy's, one perfectly arched blonde brow raised in contempt.
Urquhart's normally sun-kissed complexion paled considerably and he darted his eyes left and right to see who was paying attention to the exchange. Seeing the eyes of a few interested snakes, the unofficial head of Slytherin sneered and spat a "Watch yourself, Malfoy" before picking up one half of the apple and biting into it, as if to convince the masses that it was he and not Draco who had sliced it to begin with. If breakfast were any indication, the first day of classes was going to be hell, for both himself and the swotty lioness.
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The day did not get better. McGonagall pulled all of the 8th years aside to discuss their schedules, as some of them had attended part, if not all of their 7th year already and desperately needed a do over, while others had not attended at all, and still others, namely Hermione, had far surpassed the 7th year curriculum. They each got their tailor made schedules and set about to their first classes of the day. Hermione was scheduled for advanced N.E.W.T level arithmancy first, followed by double advanced potions, lunch, and individual tuition in transfiguration and charms. She also had independent study in DADA and ancient runes and advanced study in astronomy and herbology.
Though Hermione loved arithmancy, the logic and complexity of it, she found herself easily distracted. The formulas and equations swam in her head, flitting together like puzzle pieces from a jumbo set meant for primary school children. Potions wasn't much better. After spending a year brewing in less than ideal conditions with scraped together ingredients, the safety and security of the dungeon classroom was a bit of a letdown.
Her classes were boring, covering material she had long since mastered and not challenging her enough to keep her mind from wandering back to breakfast. She absentmindedly stirred her perfect Draught of Dreamless Sleep while trying to find something else to focus on besides her cool reception at breakfast. She thought back to that summer, when they were all finally free of a madman's threats and trying desperately to forget the blood and death that marked them all. They had slept late in warm beds for the first time in nearly a year. They had eaten…and eaten… and eaten.
Days were spent lying in tall grass and talking about hopes and dreams of the future. Evenings were spent laughing around a dinner table, filling the space with tales of Fred, refusing to allow him and the laughter he brought to die, bringing George out of his depression one tale at a time. Late nights were spent sneaking past Harry on his way to Ginny while she was on her way to Ron. And then soft kisses and rough hands, murmured words of love that didn't make it past the sweaty nights.
And through it all there had been Hermione and Ginny, sisters in all but name. Surely she had an explanation for breakfast, and the train. Surely. And there she was thinking about breakfast again. She didn't want to think about it, wanted to give Ginny a chance before she jumped to conclusions or gave herself an ulcer thinking about it.
It didn't help that when she went to lunch the scene repeated like a bad case of déjà vu. There Ginny sat, surrounded by Hermione's year mates and her own friends, holding court like a queen, her Head Girl badge shimmering brighter than any crown. Fuck waiting, you're Hermione Fucking Granger.
Hermione sauntered, head held high, down the aisle, stopping just behind Ginny and clearing her throat meaningfully. When the younger girl turned to look at whoever had dared to interrupt her riveting story about a one-on-one match with the Harry Potter, Hermione arched a brow, and tilted her head towards the Great Hall door before calmly pivoting on her heel and strolling right back out, not bothering to check if the other girl followed.
She didn't.
And wasn't that telling enough?
Hermione waited, in case Ginny had to make her excuses to her friends, maintain her cover, but the girl never showed. Used to loss and disappointment, Hermione shrugged, refusing to cry, and turned towards the hall that led to the kitchens, intent on getting lunch away from the drama she didn't need.
Unbeknownst to her, a certain platinum-haired Slytherin had followed her out, disillusioned, of course.
"Some friends you got there, Granger. Looks like you don't have anything to lose either, huh?"
