Summary: Hermione Granger was suffering. She was broken, she was in pain, and she didn't give a damn. This hell was hers to bear. So why was it that when everyone else had left her, he had to show up and ruin what little peace she had left. Heads/DM HG
Hermione/Draco, Heads of House, HBP compliant (sort of, don't expect complete canon accuracy), MATURE
A/N: The first chapter of this story was originally under the title of "Listen To The Rain" which was published in 2010. I have renamed the story "The Serpent's Crown."
Disclaimer: The characters and canon situations in the following story belong solely to JK Rowling, Scholastic and WB. I am not making any money from the publishing or writing of this story.
Story: The Serpent's Crown
Chapter 1
Hermione stared at her blood spattered fingers as she drummed them across the windowsill. She followed her line of vision further up her hand, across bruised knuckles and ripped skin. Tears made their way to the surface of her tired and dark eyes as they travelled over the rest of her battered body, taking in her ripped clothes and the erratic rise and fall of her chest.
She focused on the sound her fingers made as she continued to lightly patter them in a rhythmic motion. She was momentarily distracted from the sharp pains radiating from both the back of her head and her right side, where she was sure more than a few ribs had been cracked.
As she pried her attention away from the drumming of her trembling fingers, her slightly sluggish assessment of the situation clearly dictated a trip to St. Mungos, or any muggle hospital, at the very least. She tried to suppress the surge of nausea that swept through her as she imagined the impossibility of explaining the circumstances by which she came to be in this horrendous state.
"I was mauled by a bear…" she imagined herself telling the Healers. This is elicited a soft, panicky giggle from her busted and bloody lips. She quickly chastised herself-this was no time for amusement. Maybe the adrenaline rush was still in effect, or maybe I've just gone mad, she thought sardonically.
Either way, she needed to get out of this room. She doubted he would be back, but then again—nothing much surprised her anymore. Her belief in humanity was rapidly deteriorating as she quickly catalogued what was sure to have been the worst summer of her life.
Images—images of two gravestones lightly etched with her parent's names. Images of brown cardboard boxes stacked against the walls of a lonely London flat. Images of in-numerous drunkard faces placing order after order at the pub that barely paid for the aforementioned hell hole of a flat. Images of a one Blaise Zabini smugly ordering a gin and tonic, a dirty grin set on his face at the realization of just who happened to be serving his liquor. Images of a one Blaise Zabini fiercely kicking her in the head…
A rap on the window snapped her out of her irreverent daze. Her heart jumped into her throat. An anonymous black owl was staring at her through the rain streaked window. She slowly, and with all the might she could muster, slid the creaky window open and watched as the owl brusquely dropped a small roll of parchment onto the pealing white windowsill.
She shakily opened the parchment, wondering if her circumstances could get any worse—
Mudblood,
I shouldn't have to remind you that however much you continue to deserve my, shall we say "devote affections"—you will speak of this to no one. Next time I will not be so careful.
I will do my best to ignore your horrendously ugly face at school. I strongly suggest you do your best to stay out of my way as I cannot seem to be able to control myself when presented with such a justified reason for ridding the world of dirt like you.
I will be watching,
BZ
Hermione outright convulsed at the realization that she would not be able to simply suppress the horror of Blaise Zabini into a dark corner of her mind. She had fully planned on stuffing him into a mental box labeled Let's-Not-Revisit-This-Particular-Incident. Unfortunately for her, so many of these box-worthy incidents had been happening lately that her brained seemed to forget important information like the fact that Blaise might choose to come back for his seventh years at Hogwarts. He would be there every day—walking the hallways, sitting in the Great Hall, hell, sitting in the same classroom possibly—a constant reminder of the pain.
Not just a physical pain, an emotional pain that seeped into her very soul. She had lost her parents. She had lost her home. She had lost her friends. She had done that all on her own… but Blaise Zambini had taken away her fight. He had extinguished the spark of life that she had once carried like a torch.
Hermione had lost herself.
And she had no intention of going looking for her.
She gingerly rose and stuffed the parchment into the trunk at the foot of her bed. She summoned her wand, trying not to think about all the different ways she could have prevented her present predicament if only she had had access to her stupid wand.
She proceeded to gather what few belongings she cared to keep, and with the help of her wand was nearly packed within minutes. Her physical and mental stability were rapidly deteriorating and she feared she might find unconsciousness sooner than desired if she didn't receive medical attention immediately.
As she haphazardly scanned the room one last time her tired eyes caught sight of the shiny 'Head Girl' badge lying in a pile of papers on the small desk opposite the shredded remnants of what used to be her bed. Once a dream and now a burden, she wasn't looking forward to the extra spotlight and responsibility that the little badge would bring. All she wanted to do was to trudge her way through her final year at Hogwarts as quickly and unnoticed as possible.
She added the badge to the jumbled contents of her trunk and latched it shut; no small feat on her part as she was now gasping for air like a fish out of water. She was fading quickly and judging by the wetness spreading down her shirt, she was sure she had already lost too much blood.
She briefly considered doing nothing at all—just waiting for her injuries to run their course here in her tiny, one bedroom flat. As her mind wandered through the possibilities, she shuddered knowing that she probably wouldn't be found for days, weeks most likely. The stench….
She quickly collapsed next to the trunk, one hand clamped on the iron handle, the other barely managing to clutch her wand.
If she managed to apparate to St. Mungos without splinching her body to pieces, at least she could say something had gone right that day.
Hermione cringed in pain as her body thudded onto cold, hard ground. She squinted at the bright lights directly above her.
Coming to what little senses she had left, Hermione groaned as she forced her hurting body into a semi sitting position—supporting her body weight with her arms behind her while her legs spread unceremoniously out in front.
As she observed the large room in front of her, Hermione was surprised to see that there was only one other person in the room besides herself. She carefully took in the linoleum floors and bare white walls. The only sources of color in the room were the faded purple cloth seat covers on the dozen or so chairs lining the walls, one of which currently housed a sleeping old man, disheveled in appearance and snoring rather loudly.
Hermione looked to the wide oak desk lining the entire front wall and wondered just where the hell everyone was. She had almost convinced herself that she was dreaming when a loud commotion drew her attention to the large double doors, a good fifteen feet and to the right of where she was sprawled on the floor.
"You pestering little fool!" a shrill voice screamed from behind the doors. "You can't just barge in here whenever you please. Your mother is not seeing visitors until she has recovered all mental facilities, and frankly it's going to be a while!"
"Why the fuck not?" came a masculine reply. "I will not sit around on my arse while she withers away in this blasted hospital!"
"Son, you will be my death," came the woman's exasperated reply as the two finally came bursting through the double doors. A stout, middle aged woman with spiky black hair and magenta robes was tersely pushing the perpetrator, her wand at his back.
Hermione managed to gasp and groan at the same time, drawing the attention of the frustrated mediwitch and the piercing grey stare of a very pissed off looking Draco Malfoy.
There was a momentary silence before all hell broke loose. Okay, that was a bit dramatic, but Hermione was seriously unnerved by the obnoxious wailing coming from the witch.
"Oh Gods!" she screamed "I'm gone for five minutes…."
The flustered witch flicked her wand muttering some sort of summoning charm which Hermione assumed was alerting the Healers to her presence and quickly rushed over to Hermione, who still couldn't take her eyes off Malfoy.
He was wearing tight, dark wash jeans and a snug grey v-neck t-shirt. Hermione was shocked to see him in anything other than robes. It made him look almost, normal….
She was losing it. Here she was analyzing his fashion choices when she was clearly not far off from six feet under. She broke away from his gaze and turned her attention to the mediwitch who was now fitfully checking Hermione's vitals.
That was odd.
"I can't feel you touching me," Hermione rasped, looking down to where the witch was gingerly prodding her sides.
"Who did this to you?" the woman asked forcefully. Hermione could see water in her eyes and she could only imagine what she must have looked liked.
"I-I can't…I fell," she finished lamely. God, she was pathetic. She couldn't even come up with a decent reply. She looked into the woman's eyes, silently pleading for her to stop asking questions, especially with Malfoy moving closer to where she was huddled on the floor.
Just then a group of healers in deep blue robes rushed into the room, shouting orders to the woman and Malfoy.
Hermione felt her body being straightened out and levitated into the air. She turned her head to see Malfoy staring intently at her. His gaze roamed her body and came back to her face, silently quizzical as he raised an eyebrow. Hermione, now being moved forward through the air, just opened her mouth and shut it quickly. The pain in her chest made her squeeze her eyes shut tightly and look away.
The last thing she remembered before drifting off into unconsciousness was the distinct image of Draco Malfoy leaning over the spilled contents of her trunk—something she must have overlooked in her panic—and picking up a piece of parchment that Hermione hoped with all her might wasn't the one signed 'BZ'.