Chapter 8: The Book Ambush

He was thinking that if he just pulled the neck of her t-shirt then it might stretch and bare a bit of her shoulder. The material was soft—some sort of cotton. It wouldn't put up much of a fight. He was in no shape to fight with the arm as it was, so it was good, then, that the fabric would give, that any conflict would be avoided and he'd be free to place his fingers on the soft flesh behind her ear, drag them lightly along the curve of her neck to her round bare shoulder and never break contact with her skin.

He thought that maybe if he could touch her, then he might figure it out. There was something about Imogene, something behind her eyes. There were moments when he thought maybe he'd glimpsed it, but he couldn't be sure. Whatever it was, she kept it well and truly hidden. There were times when he hated her for it, for the care that she took to guard her secret from him. There were other times when it drew him, when it drove him to know. What would happen if she let it go? Would she—could she—let him in on her secret? Would that she could.

Draco opened his eyes, blinking, coming out of sleep, having thought himself around to the point of wakefulness. She was no longer lying next to him. He suspected that she might be elsewhere in the room, sitting by the fireplace perhaps, and he turned—stiff, cold, his body sore—in that direction.

The figure by the fireplace moved quickly in a rustle of dark robes.

"Cover yourself," said Severus Snape. Startled, Draco pushed himself up to sitting. Snape tossed a cloak to him. Draco gathered the cloak around himself, suddenly aware that the fire in fireplace had died. He shivered.

Snape rose and with a perfunctory nod at the fireplace, kindled a new fire. Draco felt the heat of it on his face, thankful that it might hide the heat of his own embarrassment. After all, it wasn't every day that he was caught naked in the Room of Requirement by his Head of House.

The professor's face was impassive, however, as he crossed the room and knelt down next to Draco. He found Draco's bandaged arm beneath the cloak and silently began to inspect his wounds. Snape's ministrations were quick and efficient. Within minutes he'd cast several spells which allowed him to re-bandage the arm, splint the hand and bind the boy's ribs. Draco's face paled as he felt the bone, sinew and damaged tissue inside him convulse and begin to knit. It was a curious feeling, one that was fraught with the sharp pain of healing. Snape produced a vial from the folds of his robes and offered it to Draco. "For the pain," he said.

Draco removed the stopper from the vial and drank the potion. It was bitter, but within seconds he felt heat blossom in his chest and the soreness in his limbs began to ease.

Snape collected the vial and stepped back to a comfortable distance. His eyes raked over Draco once more, searching for any wounds he might have missed. Satisfied that the necessary curative measures had been taken, he folded his arms across his chest tucking his hands in the sleeves of his robes.

"I asked her not to tell you," Draco said.

Snape arched an eyebrow. "It matters not. I have a great deal of Veritaserum at my disposal."

Draco narrowed his eyes. The thought of Snape drugging Imogene for information left him feeling nauseous. He swallowed.

"There was, however, little she could tell me concerning how your injuries came about. That chore is left to you."

Draco stared at Snape in stony silence. The older wizard returned his gaze unflinchingly. Within minutes it was clear that the contest of wills would get them nowhere.

Snape spoke again. "Do not think that I am here out of mere curiosity. I am here as one who would aid you in your cause, but you must tell me what has happened."

"There is nothing to say," Draco said. And really there wasn't. He had had enough of interrogations and he wouldn't entertain this one.

"I doubt that. Nothing you want to say perhaps." And suddenly, without warning Snape was there prodding at the edges of Draco's mind. It was an almost gentle effort, one designed merely to telegraph his intentions. If Draco wouldn't tell him, then he would sift his thoughts until he found the answers he sought.

Draco let Snape in, beckoned him down the dark hall of his mind, to the first door left purposely ajar. Behind the door stood a young boy no older than seven or eight. His pale blonde hair lay damp and clinging to his forehead and his brow was furrowed in concentration. The boy's father turned to him, wand outstretched. "Leglimens!" he said. The boy squirmed and fought to repel the attack. "Good, Draco," his father said. "You're growing stronger every day."

Abruptly the door slammed shut and Snape was forced out of the dark hall of Draco's mind.

"Impressive," Snape said. "Lucius has no doubt taught you well."

"He is an unforgiving tutor," Draco said. "His lessons are never forgotten."

Snape straightened, drew his heels together and inclined his head in a stiff and formal bow. "May they serve you well," the professor said, before he re-doubled his efforts and forced entry into Draco's thoughts.

Draco's eyes slipped closed—the better to focus. Snape was quick and cunning. He stormed the hall of Draco's memories on a guided mission. The professor was goal-oriented, which made him a vastly different Leglimens than Lucius Malfoy. Lucius had sought to humiliate him, taking possession of any memory and using the act of possession as evidence of his son's failure. Snape, however, in his quest for a specific memory, discarded those which were of no consequence to him.

Draco saw his advantage. He could slow Snape's progress by feeding him useless memories, forcing him to examine them in order to discard them. Draco could buy himself time to lock away those memories of value by flooding Snape with senseless thoughts. He unlocked doors along the hall, allowing memories to slip forth.

It was a tricky tactic. Sometimes the jumble of thoughts led to confusion. Draco weakened under the mental strain. He found himself hunched over where he sat on the floor of the Room of Requirement, sweat beaded on his brow.

Snape had seen such tactics before. He knew that the sudden flood of memories would be of no interest to him; they were too easily offered. He simply ignored them as he continued his way down the hall of Draco's thoughts.

Draco was good, but not quite good enough. Perhaps it was his youth, or a certain naïveté, that caused him to believe that his Head of House would observe the rules of fair play. One would have thought that Lucius Malfoy's son would know better. One would have thought that he would assume the worst in everyone, especially the black-haired Death Eater who stood before him.

Snape took two steps toward Draco where he sat on the floor. It was time for the professor to play his trump and bring this game of dueling minds to a swift and satisfying end. He offered up an image of his own, injected it into the midst of Draco's thoughts.

Draco's thoughts stuttered, creating a breach in his mental defenses. It allowed Snape to glimpse the following memories in quick succession—Pettigrew, Nagini, the Vanishing Cabinet, and Imogene's shoulder—before Draco's focus was drawn to the image which Snape had provided, an image of Hermione Granger.

It was all that the former Potions Master needed to know.

OOO

This visit to the Headmaster's office was different. Albus hadn't offered him candy. The breach in decorum was enough to give Snape pause. He never accepted the candy. He didn't like candy. But the offer was the way of things, it was ritual. There was comfort in ritual; soothing in its familiarity, reassuring in its repetition. That comfort may have been cold, paltry even, but it was all the comfort ever offered Severus Snape.

Dumbledore looked tired where he sat behind his desk, fingers steepled beneath his chin. "Mr. Malfoy is healing nicely then?" the Headmaster asked.

"Quite."

"Youth are resilient."

Snape nodded.

"How did Pettigrew get to him?"

"Hogsmeade. We were careless."

"And she found him?"

"Once he was returned to the castle, yes."

"I wonder how she found him."

"I assume she was following him," Snape said cautiously. "They are often together."

Dumbledore's eyes were sharp. He didn't miss the tension around Snape's mouth. "It makes you… uncomfortable Severus?"

Snape hesitated before giving an answer. "No."

The idea of Draco and Imogene together did not discomfit him in the least. It was, after all, according to plan. It was the thought that Draco might be drawn to Hermione Granger which gave him pause. He had indeed tested this theory twice over and was not pleased with the results. If Draco developed an attraction to Hermione, it could only be because he sensed similarities between Hermione and Imogene. Such similarities were indicative of the weakness of the deception and it was the deception which mattered. It was Imogene. Imogene was all; Hermione merely a prop.

Snape did not share these thoughts. He needn't. He would simply manage them. Albus had given him authority and with it he exercised discretion.

Dumbledore regarded him carefully. "One last question, Severus: are they linked, Draco and Imogene?"

"It is as of yet uncertain," Snape answered with the utmost care, "but I've no doubt they will be."

OOO

Draco Malfoy was thinking about books. There had been stacks of them in the Room of Requirement. No furniture, just books. Imogene had never struck him as particularly bookish, and yet she seemed to know her way around a book or two. It was perhaps what had drawn him to the library, all this thinking about books.

When it came to books, the library, of course, didn't disappoint. Tall shelves filled the room creating cavernous aisles and alleys of them. Draco wandered through the stacks, his eyes registering but barely seeing the titles of the dusty tomes which closed ranks on the shelves around him. He wasn't quite sure what he was looking for, and so he ambled desultorily, errant as a knight in need of a decent quest.

One aisle led him to the next. The stacks were nearly deserted, but he should have guessed that eventually he would find her here. Granger stood in the middle of the aisle, her back to him. He could see, however, that she was hunched over an impossibly large volume which required the strength of both of her arms to support.

Draco walked toward her. She was in the way. If she didn't move, he would shoulder her aside. How did she think she could just stand there blocking the entire aisle with her reading? Granger was insufferable that way. Everything about her was insufferable. Her hair—absolutely insufferable. It lay dark and curly around her shoulders, partway down her back. There was entirely too much of it. Insufferable.

So why he found his fingers wound gently around several soft, insufferable strands, one could only guess. He'd walked right up to her with every intention of pushing past her but something had made him stop. He stood behind her, close; closer than he should have been; close enough to touch her hair. Hermione hadn't noticed. She was engrossed in the book which lay open in her arms. It wasn't until she moved to turn a page that she ducked her head and felt that her hair had snagged in something. Once she determined that that something was Draco Malfoy, and that he was standing very close, practically breathing down her neck, she nearly dropped the heavy text that she'd been reading.

Startled, Hermione overbalanced and leaned against a shelf to keep from falling. It was a bad idea, but she couldn't have known that. She couldn't have known that a large and rather ornery tome by the name of Braithwaite's Modern Bestiary was itching for a fight, simply waiting for an unsuspecting student to lean in its direction. It leapt from the shelf and flapped its fanged covers ominously, fastening itself to the sleeve of Hermione's sweater with a baleful growl.

Hermione yelped and dropped the large book she'd been holding dangerously close to the tips of Draco Malfoy's expensive dragon-hide loafers. She jerked her wand from her pocket, aimed at the aggressive volume gnawing at her sleeve and muttered a spell which slapped the book and sent it flying back to the shelf, mewling like a wounded kneazle.

Somewhere during the confusion Draco had let go of her hair. He stood watching her now as she inspected the damage to the sleeve of her sweater. She poked her fingers into the sizable hole torn by the angry book. Her shoulders began to shake and Draco tensed thinking that she was about to cry, until he realized that she was laughing soundlessly. In less than a moment, sound bubbled forth from her lips, at first a quiet giggle, then a more raucous, rolling tide of laughter. Hermione doubled over laughing.

The situation was absolutely ridiculous and not without its irony. She spent so much time in the library, so much time with books, that she'd finally been attacked by one. Ron would say that it was a sign. Even the books were telling her to get out.

Hermione couldn't stop laughing. Without even realizing it she placed a hand on Draco's chest to steady herself. She laughed so hard that her sides ached and there were tears welling at the corners of her eyes.

Draco knew that she'd clearly gone daft, knew that this was most likely not a laughing matter, but there was something about her laughter that was contagious. And he, whose lips were prone to smirk at any given moment, realized that he was caught up in something beyond his control. He should have known it the moment she touched his chest. A large grin spread across his features. He chuckled softly.

Finally, Hermione's laughter began to subside. She managed to straighten up and when she did, Draco saw that her face was flushed and that she was smiling brilliantly at him. There were several fly-away strands of hair in her face and he reached out to tuck them behind her ear. He wasn't sure why he did it. He couldn't understand.

As soon as he did, her face fell. Something like fear crowded in around her eyes. Her mouth tightened and she pulled her hand from his chest. Hermione took a step back from him, suddenly closed off.

Draco was stung by the abrupt change in her behavior. He couldn't get over the way she'd smiled at him moments ago, like she knew him. And now she regretted it. Now they were strangers. It angered him, so it was with peevish annoyance in his voice that he asked, "What the hell were you smiling at me for, Granger?"

Hermione flinched. His words had struck her. "I thought I was someone else," she said, in a voice that was less than audible.

"What?" He couldn't hear her.

"I thought you were someone else," she answered, raising her voice.

"Don't be ridiculous. Who else would I be?"

Who else, indeed. He was staring down at her, grey eyes sharp, pale blonde hair falling against his forehead. The question was rhetorical, of course, but Hermione answered anyway. "Clearly not who you are."

"Weasley, then? Is that who you thought I was?"

"What do you want, Malfoy?"

"What do I want?" It was a funny question, one that made him step forward toward her, or at least try to. His foot connected with the book she'd dropped earlier. The large, dusty volume sat on the floor between them. Instead of kicking it from his path, Draco stood on top of it. He was standing nearly on top of her now; even more intimidating as he stared down at her with the added height of the book beneath his feet.

"Yes, what do you want?" she asked, feeling very small. "You were the one lurking about in the stacks. Was it your plan to have me attacked by books? Thinking that maybe with me out of the way, you might be the top student at Hogwarts?"

"That's absurd. You think I followed you here, all the while planning some sort of …book ambush for top marks?"

"I don't know what to think."

Draco realized that he didn't either. He'd come to the library thinking about Imogene and the books in the Room of Requirement. What he found was Granger, who had a way of insinuating herself into his thoughts of late. He remembered her in the hall, leaning over him. A fever dream, Imogene had said, but the image stuck with him and it had a certain quality, a certain sharp-edged veracity that he couldn't seem to shake.

He looked down at her. What did Granger know? He supposed that she was the only one who could tell him the truth of it. Either she'd been there or she hadn't. Either he'd dreamed it or he hadn't. And that he, Draco Malfoy, would dream of Granger of all people was patently preposterous.

Look at her. She was no Imogene. She was no Pansy Parkinson for that matter. Imogene had a sleek, sharp beauty that seemed to knife through him and cut the breath from his lungs. It was immediate and stunning. Pansy, on the other hand, wasn't quite the eyeful that Imogene was, but she carried herself with the Parkinson family grace centered at her hips, which did a great deal in terms of making her attractive to the opposite sex.

Granger had none of these things, but as he watched her, he realized that there was a quiet something about her. It was hard to identify. She didn't add up, didn't have the formulaic beauty so easily read in the faces of other girls. Her hair was too curly, too soft. Her eyes were a peculiar shade of brown which seemed to elude adjectives. Her lips were perhaps fuller than they should have been. Nothing about her made sense.

Draco caught her by her upper arms, trying to figure her out. He pulled her in close, his face just inches from hers.

"You found me in the hall," he said.

Hermione blanched. She lowered her eyes. "I don't know what you're talking about."

He released her suddenly and stepped down off of the book he'd been standing on. He picked it up, dusted it off and handed it back to her, but not before he noticed the title printed on its leather-bound cover: An Anthology of Weresnakes by Zacharias Winchell.

"Reading about snakes, Granger?"

"Weresnakes," she corrected. "Largely theoretical creatures not yet proven to exist. Winchell seems to think of the weresnake as a metaphor for the divided mind as opposed to a physical alter-ego." She stopped. "I… have a project," she offered by way of explanation.

"So the snake-man doesn't exist?"

She seemed to sag as she closed her eyes briefly. Finally, she straightened and lifted her eyes to meet his gaze. "The snake-man does exist. He isn't a metaphor. He walks and breathes, lives and eats. And sometimes," she said quietly, "he loves."

It was Draco who took a step back from her. He had to. Suddenly, Hermione Granger had made sense to him.

OOO

She was having what Muggles might call a panic attack, or so she imagined. Hermione sat hunched over on the edge of the bed with her head between her knees trying desperately to breathe. Her heart was knocking against her ribs, threatening to come up through her throat along with the remains of her dinner.

She couldn't say what had caused the acute, claustrophobic sense of terror which had welled up in her mere moments after she'd taken the polyjuice potion. She only knew that once she'd reached the Slytherin girls' dormitory she could barely breathe.

Hermione couldn't do this anymore. She was tired of becoming Imogene and frankly it wasn't worth it. What had she learned of Draco or any of the Death Eaters? What did she know about the Dark Lord's plans? Absolutely nothing. She'd gained nothing from this except a curious attachment to Draco, an attachment that she had neither wanted nor desired, an attachment which could never ever really be hers, an attachment predicated on a lie.

Her breathing slowed. She caught sight of her hands. They weren't even her hands really. They were Imogene's. And she hated them.

She thought about telling him the truth. In the library she'd almost wanted him to know. She thought that maybe he would figure it out; maybe he would guess the way of things. But who could guess such a thing? Who could guess that one girl was another? Who would dream that she lived a shared existence?

Hermione sat up, drawing her head out from between her knees, only to collapse sideways across the bed.

Only a fool could dream such a thing, and only a madman could guess.

OOO

Pansy Parkinson sat with her arms folded across her chest. Her head was tilted slightly, allowing her hair in its blunt cut bob to fall forward toward the point of her chin. There was something dark and decidedly witchy about Pansy. It was no doubt what Draco had liked about her; well, that, and the fact that she liked to play things fast and loose.

Draco stared at her where she sat across from him on a couch in the Slytherin common room. They hadn't truly spoken in months and they weren't really speaking now. They were talking at each other. It was his fault he supposed, though he couldn't say he was sorry for it. He'd let things go too far the night of the Yule Ball, a fact which he decided to blame on Madam Hooch's Merry Wives of Wassail Punch.

"Well, is she in the dormitory or not?" he asked.

Pansy watched him steadily. One brow leapt up on to her forehead in a perfect arch. "And if she is?"

"I'd like to speak with her."

"And what am I to do about that?"

"You could ask her to come down."

"Don't wizards have owls for that sort of thing?" she asked, sounding bored.

"What is it that you want, Pansy?"

She leaned back against the couch and smiled as if the answer were simple. "Death to blood traitors," she said sweetly, "and to make up for lost time."

Draco leaned forward resting his elbows on his knees. He didn't have time for this, but he found himself in the regrettable position of needing Pansy's help. He couldn't go into the girls' dormitory and she could. It was as simple as that. "How does one make up for lost time?" he said.

"I thought you'd never ask," she replied. Pansy stood and walked over to sit down next to Draco on the couch opposite hers. She rested a hand on the back of his neck and stroked her fingers through the hair at his nape. "I've missed you, Draco."

Draco sat very still. He knew precisely what Pansy's gambit would be.

"You owe me," she began softly, "a bit of togetherness."

Draco thought carefully about his response. It wouldn't do to wound Pansy's vanity; truly, it was all she had. "Ah, honestly, Pan, I thought you'd moved on."

"Sweet of you to say, Draco, but surely we meant more to each other than that."

Draco didn't answer.

"So you will meet me here in the common room after dinner on Friday night. I will be wearing something pretty. You will take me out."

"Where shall I take you?" he asked through clenched teeth.

"I don't know. Surely I don't have to do everything in this relationship."

Draco closed his eyes. When he opened them, Pansy was leaning very close to his face.

"Agreed?" she asked, tightening her fingers in the hair at the back of his neck. Draco stiffened. He would never hit a girl, but he wasn't above subjecting one to the cruciatus curse.

"Agreed," he said, grabbing her wrist. He squeezed the collection of delicate bones until her fingers released his hair.

Pansy stood, her face flushed with excitement.

"I'll send her down," she said.

OOO

Hermione woke to the feeling that someone was staring at her. Sure enough, Pansy was stretched out beside her on the bed with her head propped up on her elbow. Startled, Hermione pushed herself into a sitting position. She must've dozed off. Having just woken up she felt particularly vulnerable, especially with the way Pansy was grinning at her—like the kneazle who'd gotten the canary.

"Draco's in the common room," Pansy said. "He wants to see you, Imogene."

Hermione eyed Pansy warily. Ordinarily the news that Draco was looking for Imogene would have tightened Pansy's face into a scowl. The fact that she was smiling didn't bode well at all. Nonetheless, Hermione stood and had walked all the way to the door before Pansy spoke again.

"I think he wants to break up with you."

Hermione stopped.

"After all, we're going out on Friday night."

Hermione turned to look at Pansy, gauging the truth of her words. Pansy was manipulative, devious and she was clearly enjoying herself; that is, until she saw Hermione turn and walk straight over to the wardrobe.

"What are you doing?" Pansy asked.

"Well, if he's going to break up with me, I can't go looking like this," Hermione said, gesturing to the Slytherin uniform that she was wearing. She opened the wardrobe and began rifling through Imogene's things. "I have to wear something that will change his mind."

Pansy paled. The expression of smug satisfaction she'd been wearing only moments ago drained from her features. Hermione couldn't even take delight in it, she was far too angry.

She'd never liked Pansy Parkinson and even that was putting it mildly. From the moment they'd met first year, Hermione had found her to be nothing but a horrid, mean-spirited creature completely devoid of any kind word or feeling. One of the toughest things about being Imogene had been pretending not to hate Pansy on sight. Fortunately, Pansy had given Imogene a reason to dislike her—their supposed rivalry for Draco Malfoy's affections.

Hermione let her hand drift over the clothes in the wardrobe, using the fleeting reactions on Pansy's face to determine what she would wear. The tighter the line of Pansy's lips, the more inclined Hermione was to select the particular item of clothing which had provoked that response. It wasn't until she reached for a particular dress, and saw a small vein pop out in Pansy's forehead, that she knew she had found the right thing to wear.

"I wouldn't if I were you," Pansy said. "I mean, if he doesn't like you, then he doesn't like you. A dress won't change his mind."

"You're right," Hermione said. "The dress alone won't do it. I'll probably have to do something else." She unzipped her skirt, let it drop to the floor and stepped out of it. "Any suggestions, Pansy?"

Pansy narrowed her eyes and clamped her mouth shut.

It was Hermione's turn to feel a certain sense of satisfaction. Pansy would never have been threatened by Hermione Granger, but Imogene was another story. She was taller than Pansy, prettier, more worldly. She was also smarter. And Pansy knew it. Hermione decided to press her advantage.

She turned her back to Pansy as she stripped off her sweater—not that she had any qualms about changing in front of her rival. After all, it wasn't her body, it was Imogene's. Let Pansy see what Draco would see and let her eat her heart out. Hermione peeled off her shirt and tie and slipped into the dress. She ran a brush through her hair in several long, powerful strokes and then, without looking in a mirror, made her way to the door.

"Don't wait up," she said.

OOO

Draco was sitting on the couch when he finally heard footsteps coming from the girls' dormitory. He'd been waiting a while. He was beginning to think that Pansy had gone back on her word when Imogene emerged from the stairwell into the common room.

He blinked. He'd seen Imogene before, but not quite like this. Usually she was wearing her uniform, but tonight she was wearing some sort of dress, no more than a shift really, dark in color, maybe black. It had no sleeves, just thin straps, which divided the expanse of skin between her neck and shoulders. She's gone and done it, he thought. She'd whet the sharp edge of her beauty and turned it on him. It stung him, cutting and keen.

Hermione saw Draco's reaction, the way his eyes darkened. She hadn't been nervous until that very moment. She'd been so angry with Pansy, so busy trying to intimidate her that she hadn't quite thought the whole thing through. In theory she knew what would happen, but in fact she wasn't prepared for the way he looked at her. She felt her thin layer of bravado grow brittle and fall away in flakes, leaving her exposed. She had to act before she lost her nerve.

"You wanted to speak to me?" she said. "Come on." Hermione grasped Draco's hand and led him toward the entrance to the common room. She could hear Pansy behind her; Pansy, who'd followed her from the dorm; who couldn't help herself; who, like any rival, could not resist the chance to see the competition play out.

Hermione spared one quick glance over her shoulder as she and Draco left the common room. Pansy Parkinson was the last thing she saw; her pug face watching them anxiously from the shadows.

OOO

This chapter is dedicated to Paddington. May you never be saddled with a boring book ever again.

Thanks for reading!