Chapter Three

Liar

Hermione went home, the rain having chilled her. Straight to her bathroom, shedding her clothes on the way. She shivered as the air swept her skin, her teeth chattering, and she blasted the hot water. She sat in the tub, letting it melt her icy body, but not her heart. She curled up, and she cried for things she should have never done, the past she couldn't change. What no one knew...

She tried to rid the mental image of that manor. It was old, alone, and empty. The lack of life was sad. It was unexpected for her to feel that way about the place where one of her worst memories was born, but it was true. She felt bad. His parents were dead and his home was as well.

Hermione didn't have the strength to return to the book. Maybe Harry was right and she needed rest. With a clear mind she would go back to it in the morning, but when she woke hours before she had to she dressed and sat herself at her desk.

She thought about sending Malfoy a letter. After all, an owl would be able to find him wherever he was at. Somehow though, she couldn't bring herself to do it. Every time she dipped her quill into the bottle she left it there. The parchment was as clean as it was when she brought it out.

Adonis, her gray speckled owl hooted from his perch in the far corner. He was becoming quite impatient with her, his hoots getting shorter and more abrupt over the hour.

"I'm working on it," she told him gently, seeing him ruffle his feathers and settle down with a disgusted air.

There wasn't a worry to what she would write. It wasn't like she didn't have anything to say to him. She had a very important question. It wasn't personal, it was business. If that was all, then it shouldn't have been as hard as it was.

Mr. Draco Malfoy,

Regarding the object that you placed in my possession -

She crumpled the paper up and threw it in the rubbage bin bringing out a new one.

Mr. Draco Malfoy,

If you remember, on the third April you came into my office -

Mr. Draco Malfoy,

I apologize for the inconvenience -

Mr. Draco Malfoy,

I have attempted many spells and hexes -

Annoying Blond Ferret,

You're a git.

She hovered the quill over a new piece of paper, a single drop of black ink splattering it. A messy black dot stared at her temptingly. She stared back as though it would form the words she wanted. It didn't, of course, and once more she set her favored writing tool into its jar.

The sun peeked its rays over the horizon. It was Saturday, which meant that it was her day off. It also meant it was her day to cook breakfast for Harry, Ron, and Ginny.

She wasn't certain how the tradition started but it did, the four of them taking turns to cook a meal. Then there were the Sunday's at the Burrow. Once a month they met up with Neville, Luna, Dean and Seamus at one of their houses, each one bringing a dish.

And so Hermione wasn't surprised to see Harry, Ron, and Ginny downstairs in her kitchen. She said the same thing she always did walking straight over to the cooker pulling out ingredients from the shelf above. As all traditions went there was the sense of routine.

"Ron, get your feet off my table," she half-scolded as was a tradition in itself, but she froze when she saw that Ron's feet wasn't on the table. Ginny wasn't sitting on top of her counter but next to him, Harry at her other side. They didn't appear too terribly upset, they just sat there, all worriedly gazing at her.

She sat down the pepper she had picked up and stepped forward. "What is it?"

"Did you find Malfoy," Ron asked guardedly.

"No... I was going to send him an Owl, but... What is it? What's wrong?"

Ginny held up the Daily Prophet and Hermione closed the distance to see there, on the front page Malfoy's photo, his snide face glaring. It was the photo after his arrest, the one they took in Azkaban before Harry released him and his family for their change of allegiance. For one wild moment she thought he had been arrested again, but the headline above it read in large, bold words: "Wealthy Death Eater murdered in his home. Justice or tragedy?"

She snatched the paper from her holding it closer to her face. It didn't go away. She wasn't dreaming. It was there in black and white. It wasn't a mistake. It was real. The thin paper in her hands, the feel of it made it tangible.

Draco was dead. Gone. Murdered. It shouldn't have made the paper shake or blur. There shouldn't have been pain in her knees. She didn't understand.

Harry knelt in front of her and she realized then it was her that was shaking, her crying, and her knees that hit the tile floor. It was her that was losing it.

At that moment she knew of no greater anguish. She was being torn apart. A million pieces, like that ugly lamp. A Dementor could have been in the room, and it wouldn't have made a difference. The creature could suck out her soul; she would beg for it. She wanted something worse than death. It was agony in the purest form.

"Hermione," Harry asked, holding her shoulders. His fingers dug into her flesh, and she wished he would hold her tighter, cause bruises and pain. It could distract her from the fatal anguish that was a torrent inside of her. "Hermione?"

All she could think and say through her trembling body was, "ex-Death Eater. Re-print. Ex-Death Eater." It suddenly seemed like the most important thing in the world. Everyone had to know. His legacy had to live on, and not for who he had been but for who he turned out to be. It was the most important thing, at least in her world.

She stood and wrenched out a counter drawer. She took out the extra parchment she kept there, ripping it in the process, and the handy Muggle pen. She began writing a letter to the newspaper, but she had only written her first (sloppy) line when the pen was taken from her with such force that her hand was smacked down, smearing ink over her knuckles.

They all looked bewildered, glancing to one another in silent question. Harry held her pen, his hand an inch from her face as though he were going to touch her, but he dropped it. His mouth was a thin line, he was observing every blink, every shake, and she couldn't stop. She wished to scream at him to stop looking at her. Everyone stared, but it was his that burned her insides, because he was reading too much. It was like him to see things he shouldn't have. She never knew he would see the side she was throwing into the open, the one she tried to keep secret. She worked so hard...

"Please," she sobbed. "Stop. Stop this." She didn't know who she was speaking to, the Heavens or her friends. Her poor friends... They sat there, bewildered to dismayed.

None of them knew what to do because no one knew the truth. She never told anyone the truth... No one knew that Hermione Granger was a liar.

A/N: Draco's death is critical in this story, but I assure you, he remains an active part.