CHAPTER THREE
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Scotland
Friday night, November 28, 1997

Hermione had never been more depressed in her whole life.

For four weeks, she'd thrown herself full-tilt into her studies, working like the devil to drive the pain of her first true heartbreak from her chest, to no avail. Every time she so much as closed her eyes, she heard his voice in her ear, or had a flash memory of how she had felt being initiated into adulthood by her nameless, faceless lover. His touches, his scent, his taste, his words – calling her "my sweet girl" as he thrust away inside of her - all of it haunted her until she felt run-down and her health began to suffer for it.

Harry noticed, of course. He always saw, even when a person didn't want him to. It was one of his more annoying talents.

"Who is he?" he asked, cornering her that evening in the library, speaking in low tones so as not to upset Madam Pince. He'd learned his lesson years ago, when the stern, short-tempered matron had taken him by the ear, dragged him out in front of everyone, and tossed him out on his bum for speaking in a raised voice: you never upset a librarian without consequences.

Hermione stopped scribbling with her quill, but didn't look up. She was afraid he'd see too much in her face. "I am afraid I do not know what you are talking about," she feigned ignorance.

Her quill was taken from her fingers with a quick flick of his wrist and tossed across to the far side of the wide table. "The person who's got you running yourself to ground in an attempt to avoid him or her." He perched his backside on the table, crossed his arms and stared down at her. "Give me a name, Hermione, and I'll make that person stop harassing you. Is it Malfoy again? Parkinson or Bulstrode? Zabini? Just give me a name."

She clenched her jaw. "No one is harassing me, Harry, except you. Now, if you do not mind…"

"Actually, I do," he countered, setting his stubborn streak against hers. "I mind it when I see my best friend hardly sleeping, not eating, nearly fainting in class, and cowering away in the library when her usual routine at this hour of the day would be to be in our common room, hanging out and relaxing with the rest of her friends. You've been acting odd since Halloween, and I know you disappeared that night from the Great Hall. No one knew where you went. Something happened that night didn't it? Did someone hurt you?"

Now her ire was up. "I am not cowering!" she hissed, ignoring the rest of his accusation, trying to keep her voice low. "I am studying! N.E.W.T.s are coming up-"

"In five and a half months, 'Mione," he countered. "And you're already well ahead in every subject. You could pass them all tomorrow with O's. This" - he waved at the stack of books next to her and the rolls of parchment she'd already completed – "is unnecessary work, and you know it. It's keeping you busy so you can either run from or forget something. So, spill it."

She straightened her spine, sitting tall in her chair. "I am not running from-"

"Can it," he cut her off with a slashing motion. "After seven years, I know your tells. When you lie, you get defensive, you don't look me in the eye, you repeat the accusation made against you, and you speak without contractions – 'I am,' 'do not'."

"I do not-" she began, but realized Harry had just accurately called her out. Still, she didn't have any intention of telling him this most private secret, as she'd promised her unidentified companion that night that what happened between them would not be repeated. She abruptly switched tactics, knowing he wouldn't leave this one alone until she made it clear she didn't want his help or advice. "Harry, I appreciate your concern, really, but this is one issue I need to resolve on my own." She pressed a hand to her heart. "It's something only time can make better."

She risked a glance up through her lashes to see the light of understanding entering his eyes. "Ron's an idiot."

He mistakenly thought she was still pining for their friend. Well, she supposed that was better than the truth, so she encouraged it. "When is he not?"

Harry put a comforting hand on her shoulder. "Your health is more important. Sleep more, eat, and don't work so bloody hard. And, you know, if you need a shoulder to cry on…" He left the rest unspoken, as there was no need to finish it between friends as close as they were. Harry was the brother she'd always wanted, and they understood each other in many ways that didn't need verbal expression. A furtive look, a shrug or a smirk usually was enough to convey chapters of information.

It was for that reason that Hermione felt horrid lying to him, but a promise was a promise. So far, her unknown lover had kept his end of the bargain, as far as she could tell. There had been no backlash upon her - no rumors buzzing about her loss of chastity, and no suggestive looks thrown at her from any of the eyes she met as she passed by to indicate they felt any different about her. She'd honor the bargain as well. "Thanks. I'll take better care."

"Pinky swear?" he asked, holding out his pinky as the Muggle superstition required.

She raised her own and locked onto his, and they shook up and down on it, striking the bargain. "I pinky swear."

He tossed her a grin and unhooked his finger from hers. "Right, then see you back at the common room before curfew."

She nodded and he walked off with a wave over his shoulder.

With a sigh, she stood up and walked around the table to grab her quill where Harry had thrown it. Honestly, was she that obvious? She'd have to learn to school her features better if she wanted to get through this.

Just as she reached out and touched the feather, there was movement from her peripheral vision. She glanced up to find the bane of her Hogwarts academic career, Theodore Nott, lounging against a bookshelf. His arms were crossed, giving him an air of lazy disinterest, but the narrowed, assessing gaze he threw her spoke of a desire to pick a fight.

It was funny that of all the people in school she'd expect to have a hot rivalry with, it wasn't Malfoy, who tended to save his nastiest behavior for Ron and Harry. It wasn't Zabini, either, who liked to sneer down his nose at her, or Bulstrode, who'd blocked doorways with her massive girth in a passive-aggressive attack, or even Parkinson, who loved to poke fun at her on occasion in a very shrill, loud voice. No, it was Nott, number two student in their year.

The contention between them wasn't overtly antagonistic or cruel; the boy didn't say much, in general, and he'd never been impolite to her as far as she could recall. Instead, it was in the way he silently challenged her at every subject, attempting to best her scores at every turn. In many classes over the years, he'd earned as much praise from the professors as she did, and he'd scored one more "Outstanding" grade in his O.W.L.s than her (the one she'd coveted for Defence Against the Dark Arts, having earned only an "Exceeds Expectations" on that one test). Because he'd passed on the Head Boy appointment this year, allowing the number three student in their grade, Ernie Macmillan, to take the slot, Nott now had more time to study. If only she'd been so wise! He recently seemed to be pulling ahead in the tally as a result, and Hermione now had to work extra hard just to keep hold of her first chair. The added stress that was causing, on top of her other personal problems, was the reason for her lack of sleep and declining health.

Maybe Harry was right. She should call it a night and go back to the Tower for a little socializing with friends. One night wouldn't hurt and it might even help to get her out of her funk.

Grabbing her quill, she turned her back on the Salutatorian, and started gathering up her belongings to leave. Deciding which books she'd borrow for the weekend, she placed those into her satchel. The others, she carried to the cart at the end of the aisle for restacking.

"Potter's right: you look terrible."

Turning her head, she gave Nott a frown. "What's it to you?" she challenged.

His eyes roamed her from head to toe, making her uncomfortable. "Wouldn't be right to trounce you in Potions Lab on Monday if you don't get enough rest this weekend," he drawled.

She lifted her satchel onto her shoulder, found it to be extremely heavy and spent a few precious seconds adjusting the weight. "Fun though dream land is, don't you think you should come back to reality now, Mr. Nott?" she sniffed in disdain and moved in a wide circle around him, headed down the aisle towards the exit. Nodding to Madam Pince on the way out, she ambled towards the Grand Staircase.

Theodore was at her side a moment later, his long-legged stride easily catching up. "Admit it, you like the competition. Who's left if I'm not here, dogging your heels – Macmillan?" He snorted. "The guy's a twink with half my smarts, and you know it."

She shook her head, amazed at his audacity. "I think you've been hanging out with Malfoy a little too much, Nott. Careful, his arrogance is terminal."

He kept at her side all the way up to the seventh floor, egging her on with comments about how he was the only person in school who could match her brain cell for brain cell. It occurred to her as she neared The Fat Lady's portrait that he seemed to be implying that they were good together. The idea struck her as…

"Weird," she hummed in thought.

"What is?" he asked.

At the entrance to her common area, she stopped and looked up at him. "Why do you care one way or the other whether I get enough sleep, or eat enough, or how well I perform in class? And why have you followed me up here?"

Their gazes met and there was a glimmer of something heated in his. Before she could protest, he grabbed her wrist and pulled her after him down the hall and around the corner into a small, shadowy alcove. "What do you think you're doing?" she indignantly demanded, trying to yank her arm away, but his grasp was unyielding. "Let me go or I'll hex you to bits!"

"As you wish."

They stopped, and he dropped his hold on her, and Hermione felt a trickle of fear at his words.

"What did you say?" she asked in a stunned whisper.

He turned on her and in a quick rush, had her backpedaling until she was flush against the dead-end of the narrow recess, her satchel fallen to the floor in the ensuing attempt to flee. Arms caging her in on either side, he leaned down to her eye level and smirked with triumph.

"Told you that I'd find you, my sweet girl."

Oh, God. Oh, GOD. OH, GOD!

Her mysterious lover had been Theodore Nott!

TO BE CONTINUED…

Author's Notes:

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