Late-December, 1997
Hermione is back in the Muggle Literature aisle, staring at the First Folio, wondering how it came to be there at Hogwarts, of all places. She's been reassured by Madam Pince that the book has been spelled with protection enchantments to assure its pages can never be soiled, ripped, aged by the years, or burned. Apparently, its true worth is well catalogued by the staff, and long ago, they'd taken steps to assure the book's safety.
She reaches out and with great reverence strokes over its spine, letting her fingers follow the stamped letters. Here is a work of true art that can never be replicated. It is one of a kind.
It is safe from destruction, but what of theft? What if it is stolen away one night and hidden in someone's home, never to see the light of day again? What will become of it now that the war's die has been officially cast?
"The time is out of joint—O cursèd spite,that ever I was born to set it right!"
It seems appropriate to quote Hamlet's resolve now, especially after this morning's news in the Prophet.
Poor Susan. Her aunt, Amelia, the last surviving member of her family and a trustworthy and solid face within the Ministry, was murdered by Death Eaters just last night. Voldemort's mark was in the sky above her home, claiming responsibility.
There had been four others as well – names Hermione didn't recognise, but knew had been members of the Wizengamot. The war has stepped up. This is the Dark side's response to the Samhain Sweeps: one of the Light for every one of ours they put in shackles.
She does not brush away the tears from her cheeks. She lets them flow, allows her knees and her heart to shake, and gives herself a few moments to feel the fear and the frustration in this, her sanctuary spot. She has chosen this dark corner of a mostly abandoned library specifically so she can hide from the rest of the school – to prevent scaring the younglings and so she does not dishearten her friends.
Bending her head, she cries in silence, muffling her sobs behind a hand.
"Cry "Havoc!" and let slip the dogs of war."
Hermione's wand is in her hand and pointed at Malfoy in a heartbeat. He has snuck up on her during this sacred moment, and is now defiling it. "How dare you!" she snarls, her depressed emotions giving way before her anger. Her hand shakes for an entirely different reason now, a hex resting on the tip of her tongue and eager to be of use. "How could you be so despicable? This is not one of Shakespeare's plays, Malfoy. There's no jest here. People actually died!"
His smirk drops away. "Thou know'st 'tis common: all that lives must die. Passing through nature to eternity."
He's quoting Hamlet again. She wonders doesn't he ever get bored with such melancholy wisdom? "The difference is this was done for no reason other than for the sake of doing evil! You're smart enough to know why that makes it more important than common natural selection."
He pauses, considering her words, sizing her up from between the fringe of his champagne-coloured bangs. His eyes are dark, unfathomable things that alarm and scare her. Has he fallen so far already, caught up in the bite for vengeance?
She isn't sure why she keeps talking, or why she's bothering at all to try to reach the humanity that she's hoping still exists somewhere deep down inside him, but the words are out of her mouth before she can take them back, salting the air. "This matters, Draco. This darkness… it's a cancer that boils the blood and poisons it, and it's spreading. It'll kill everything once it grabs hold and gains momentum, not just the flesh in its path. Don't you feel the wrongness of it?"
He is quiet and still for so long, she wonders if he's waiting for her next move (especially as she still has her wand pointed at him). When he finally does break their stalemate, his MacBeth soliloquy causes her to grind her teeth with disappointment.
"Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player, that struts and frets his hour upon the stage, and then is heard no more. It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing."
He turns on his heel and struts off with his hands in his trouser pockets.
"Cowards die many times before their deaths," she calls out, finding his answer as wanting and weak as he has apparently become. "The valiant never taste of death but once."
He pauses at the end of the row and looks back at her over his shoulder. His eyes are still too dark to see.
"Julius Caesar died screaming and wondering what it was all for, Granger… just as everyone else eventually does."
He is past the aisle and out of sight before she can reply.
His parting words haunt her throughout the Christmas holiday.
Late-January, 1998
She does not see Malfoy outside of classes or during meal times at the Great Hall this month. On the occasions she does spy him, she notes how he sticks to the shadowy corners of rooms and is oddly silent and withdrawn – as are his cronies, Goyle, Crabbe, and Zabini. She doesn't go out to the Quidditch pitch, however, where Harry insists Malfoy still haunts during times Gryffindor's been scheduled to practise there.
His eyes follow her everywhere, though. At least, it seems so. Every time she glances over at him, he's peeking at her, too. She does her best to ignore him.
Many students did not return from the winter break, among them Susan Bones, Hannah Abbott, Justin Finch-Fletchley, Helen Dawlish, and Pansy Parkinson. As she has not read of their deaths in the papers, she wonders where in the world they might be now. Most likely in hiding, the same as her parents (thanks to Dumbledore's assistance).
Still, she checks the stacks every day that she goes to the library – not looking for Malfoy, she privately insists, but just checking to make sure the First Folio is still there.
It isn't until the end of January that it goes missing. When she reports that disturbing fact to Madam Pince, the woman divulges that the book has been checked out by Draco Malfoy.
Mid-February, 1998
It's been two weeks, and still Malfoy has not returned the First Folio to the library. Apparently, he's checked it out for another two weeks. Hermione starts to suspect that he's taken it just to irritate her.
She confronts him about it on Valentine's night, of all times, when she finds him as she does many other couples: stashed away in a hidden, dark nook with someone of the opposite sex. Docking double House points from both him and his partner, the impressionable Astoria Greengrass, for being out after curfew and for engaging in rule-breaking activities, vindicates her for missing the chance back in October.
Escorting them both back to Slytherin's House portal to assure neither of them 'get lost' on the way, she trades glares with Malfoy. It's only once Greengrass enters and Hermione turns to leave that her rival decides to prick her temper.
"O, beware, my lady, of jealousy! It is the green-eyed monster."
Hermione's jaw drops at such an outrageous comment. "First of all, it's 'my lord', not 'my lady'. Iago was speaking to Othello, who was most definitely male. As to the rest… Me, jealous of you?" She chuffs with cynical amusement. "Please, you're making my sides split. Ha. Ha. Ha-rdly."
A strange glint enters his eye, and he steps closer to her, making her wand hand twitch. "The lady doth protest too much, methinks." He takes another step, closing the distance between them and making her slightly uncomfortable in the doing. "Some Cupid kills with arrows, some with traps."
She pauses in what would have been a scathing and much satisfying rejoinder to really consider what he's just implied. The insinuation is comical. "Are you saying you were intentionally in that nook with Greengrass tonight hoping I'd come by on my rounds and see you two together? Why? So I'd be hurt by the fact that it's Valentine's and I'm on patrol, alone and dateless?" Genuine laughter bubbles forth from her lips. "I'll have you know I turned down Cormac McLaggen tonight to meet at Madam Puddifoot's. I'm lacking for company by choice, not the reverse." She waves him off.
His expression turns dangerous in a flash, and the next thing she knows, she's being pushed up against the stone wall, and her wand is easily deflected by his hand gripping her wrist. His nose presses near her ear and his breath is hot on her throat. "Is whispering nothing? Is leaning cheek to cheek? Is meeting noses?"
This one she knows well, as it comes from the story of her namesake. "Where you're concerned, yes, because I know you're doing it for no other reason than to be cruel." She glances down at the long, strong fingers wrapped around her wrist and considers the best way to break his hold. "Tell truth and shame the devil," she says by way of distraction, and attempts to yank her limb from his.
Malfoy's inexplicable (confusing, nonsensical) anger evaporates in a beat, but his grip tightens, refusing to let go of her. "I don't know that one," he confesses as casually as stating he thinks the sky would be better green, rather than blue.
"Henry IV," she supplies, strangely calm despite the awkward situation. "Not my favourite, but still a solid piece of work. Now, would you like to let go of me and step back before I decide to hex you so hard, you will never be able to reproduce?"
He doesn't budge an inch. "Why don't you make me?" he challenges her instead.
Squaring her shoulders, she raises her chin again and stares him dead in the eye. "Manhandling me is a mistake, Malfoy. Head Girl or not, don't underestimate my willingness to sit in detention just for the opportunity to whack you across the mouth again. And this time, I'll follow it up with a spell I swear will make you think twice about attempting this again on me or any other girl."
As unpredictable as Mercutio, Malfoy's weird mood shifts again. His wicked grin has returned. His hold on her does not ease, though, and his hip is now pressing into her in a way that seems far too intimate for their established hate-hate relationship. Clearly, he's trying to unnerve her by testing her physical boundaries. As if he's the first man to press the advantage of his gender and upper body strength upon her. McLaggen lives to try this same trick on her as often as he can work up the nerve, and every time she disabuses him of the notion.
Hermione stays her automatic knee-jerk reaction (very literally, keeping her heel on the ground), and refuses to be intimidated by the likes of the school bully. When he starts quoting a Sonnet, she works hard not to roll her eyes, too.
"Th' expense of spirit in a waste of shame is lust in action, and till action, lust is perjur'd, murd'rous, bloody, full of blame, savage, extreme, rude, cruel, not to trust, enjoy'd no sooner but despisèd straight, past reason hunted, and no sooner had, past reason hated as a swallowed bait on purpose laid to make the taker mad."
She stared up at him, unimpressed. "You memorised that passage just so you could toss out the word 'lust' at me to see if it made me flinch."
The game up, he snickers and releases her, stepping back. "There's no taking the bitch out of you, is there, Granger?"
Hermione gives him a tight smile. "As profanity will cost you five more House points, you meant 'witch', I'm sure."
"Sure. Slip of the tongue."
She snorts, disbelieving anything that comes out of this man's mouth. "That seems to happen a lot with you snakes. On a side note, tell me if this reminds you of anyone in particular: None but libertines delight in him; and the commendation is not in his wit, but in his villainy. Care to make a guess?"
Malfoy's grin fades, and the teasing glint leaves his eye. The lighthearted air of a moment ago is instantly gone, and he takes the moment to study her. His grey eyes trace her every facial feature, reminding her of how close they're standing and making her pulse race.
"It's from Much Ado About Nothing," she tells him, suddenly edgy for a reason she can't explain. "B-Beatrice is speaking of Benedict. He's in disguise when she…"
She lets the thought trail off, feeling awkward and unnerved by the way Malfoy is staring at her mouth.
"My conscience hath a thousand several tongues," he murmurs so low she has to turn her head slightly to catch his words in her ear, "and every tongue brings in a several tale, and every tale condemns me for a villain." He follows up Richard III with King Lear: "Villains on necessity; fools by heavenly compulsion."
There is something in the way he is looking at her just then, with a concentrated focus that silently begs her to read between the cracks of his life, but Hermione doesn't understand what it is he expects her to see aside from that which has always defined him – his family's legacy.
The moment is lost as she hesitates a little too long to comprehend his secret meaning. The familiar guise of dark cynicism slides back into place upon Malfoy's features, and he steps away from her, proclaiming, "O! I am Fortune's fool."
Oddly, it is his quoting of the guileless Romeo that tips her off.
Is he actually confessing that he's a villain because he's being forced to be, and not because he wants to be? That would be… well, quite impossible to believe, really!
Still, in tonight's play, she glimpses something akin to Hamlet's duplicity in his words and actions-
-But no, such an act would be preposterous for the likes of Draco Malfoy, who is a prejudiced git, and a coward, and too much his father's son to ever want to be a better man.
She glances up at him again, noting a perverse twist to his lips, like he's privy to a joke that she's not.
Then again, he is Slytherin, and if there's one thing she's learned about their kind over the last seven years, it's that you can never trust that their actions speak to their genuine intentions.
"What are you really up to?" she asks, curious as to his true agenda.
His smirk widens, and his eyes burn with amusement. "Well, well. It would seem Miss Know-It-All doesn't know everything after all." He turns away and breaks the spell that has held her enthralled for the better part of half an hour.
She doesn't hear him whisper the password to his House, but when the portal opens to admit him, he steps through it. Before it shuts behind him, he warns her, "Beware the ides of March."
It occurs to her on the way back up, to continue her rounds, that Malfoy hasn't called her 'Mudblood' once over the last two years.
TO BE CONTINUED...
Author's Notes:
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