Chapter 9: Useless Things

"The gamekeeper's hut," Draco said. It hung in the air between them like a question, though he hadn't stated it as such.

Imogene shrugged. "You said you wanted to talk some place private."

"I was thinking the Astronomy Tower or perhaps the Owlery."

"The Owlery's not really private," she said. "There are all those…owls."

Draco's lips quirked into a half grin. "Mmm, and the owls are so chatty, don't you think? They can hardly keep a secret."

It was Imogene's turn to grin. "Might have something to do with the fact that they're messengers."

"Regardless," he said, "they can't be trusted." Draco turned, taking in the interior of the hut. It was sparsely furnished and a bit dingy, but the fire in the huge stone hearth went a long way toward making the place more inviting. What little furniture there was loomed large around them; an overscale table and chairs and a formidable bed with a patchwork quilt large enough to sleep a half-giant.

Draco had been here before for detention in the Forbidden Forest and for class, if you could call Care of Magical Creatures a class. He couldn't remember ever seeing the inside of the hut, however. He should have guessed that it would reflect its owner, a bit rough and homespun. He looked up at the dusty rafters which supported the roof, noticing ruddy brown stains along the beams.

Imogene followed his gaze. "That's where Hagrid keeps pheasant and other game birds once he's gone hunting…or so I've been told."

"It stands to reason," Draco said. "Where is Hagrid, anyway?"

"Apparently, he's away on some business for the Headmaster."

"He won't be coming back?"

"Not tonight."

They lapsed into silence. They were standing across from each other in the middle of the one-room cabin. She was wringing her hands. She stopped and turned, looking for a place to sit. The bed rose up before her, indomitable in the far left corner of the room. She chose one of the rough-hewn chairs by the table instead.

"What did you want to talk about?" she asked.

Draco could hardly remember. He hadn't expected to be so alone with her. He hadn't expected that his focus would be drawn to her bare arms and shoulders, to her legs, crossed, where they peeped from beneath the hem of that impossibly short dress. He shifted his weight, thought about sitting, but decided that he preferred to stand.

When he didn't answer, she fidgeted, uncertain what to do with the silence which hung about them, still and sonorous in its own fashion. Finally, she spoke. "Pansy seems to think that you want to break up with me."

He did respond then, with something akin to a snort of derision at the sound of Pansy's name. "And what do you think?"

"I don't know how we would break up. We aren't really together."

Draco narrowed his eyes. "We aren't?"

"We are?" she asked. "Maybe we shouldn't be."

Tension settled in his jaw. "Why not?"

"Something is happening, Draco. You disappear for a day and then turn up horribly injured, snake-bitten. Something isn't right and you won't tell me what it is."

He closed his eyes. "I can't," he said.

"So it's to remain a mystery." Her chin rose in defiance. "I don't like mysteries."

"Really?" he asked, eyes snapping open. "You are one, a mystery." He stalked across the floor, pacing angrily. "Where are you from Imogene?"

"France," she said simply.

"Curious. No accent." His tone was accusatory.

"I was born in England. We lived here until I was eight. We moved to France."

"Where are you really from, Imogene?"

"What do you mean?"

"Did they send you?"

"Who?"

"My father, Pettigrew, them."

"What are you talking about?" Her eyes were large, frightened.

He stopped pacing in the middle of the room, just stopped moving. He let stillness find him, seeking calm. It eluded him. Draco sat down where he was, on the dirty wooden planks of the floor. He leaned forward a bit, arms resting on his knees, head lowered.

He wasn't far from where she sat; his back to her. There was something about the set of his shoulders; labored, as if they bore weight. She reached out, touched the back of his neck, the skin there so exposed, so unprotected.

Draco tensed beneath her fingers. It was the first time she'd touched him since they'd entered the cabin. He'd been thinking about it, about when and how she'd finally touch him, about when he would touch her. He turned then, coming up on his knees in front of her. He ran his hands up along her calves, fingers skirting the backs of her knees, coming to rest at the hem of her dress which lay across her thighs. The movement was quick, unexpected. He barely knew that he'd done it until he'd felt the warmth of her skin beneath his fingers.

He stopped, waiting. She might have slapped him. She might slap him still. He hadn't asked, hadn't even thought of asking in the face of what he wanted.

Hermione stopped breathing. She hadn't even realized it until the pent up breath she'd been holding escaped her lips. He'd touched her so quickly, gently, boldly that it cost her her breath. She looked down at him, at his head, bowed, at his hands against her thighs, flirting with the hem of her dress.

He'd managed to close the distance between them so suddenly. She was unprepared. He was close and he was in danger of stripping Imogene away from her—if she let him. He'd crossed the boundary between the two girls, found territory that was hers alone, inviolate. It would be Hermione he would have in his arms—if she let him.

Her throat was tight, her thoughts swift, cluttered by nerves, by the heat of his hands. She looked at his hands, his wrists, his forearms beneath the shirtsleeves pushed up to his elbows. The skin along the inside of his left forearm was bare except for two pale, round scars, all that remained of his encounter with the snake. There was no Dark Mark. Hermione wondered if it was enough; if the absence of something was enough of a reason to trust. All she had was absence, absence and instinct.

She leaned then, bending to kiss him. Her lips touched his, open, wet, and she covered his hands with her own, pushing them beneath the hem of her dress. He seemed to unfold, pressing up to meet her mouth, limbs shifting, standing and drawing her to her feet. He kissed her, lips anxious, touching her nose, pulling in the delicate skin above her upper lip. Something caught in him, a sudden urgency as he opened his mouth over hers.

His hands found her face, framed it, fingertips bushing her hairline before they trailed along her cheeks and traced the underside of her jaw. The skin of her face was flushed, her lips warm, wet beneath his tongue.

She shifted against him. Her fingers found his collar, then his tie. She touched the soft knot of fabric, worked its folds and pulled until it loosened at his neck. Draco took her cue. He broke the kiss and stepped back from her, tugging the loose tie free of his collar. She saw the color in his face; his lips smudged red, stained deep and full, bruised from kissing her. His eyes were dark, tarnished silver, pupils black and luminous.

His fingers found the buttons on his shirt and unfastened them, hands unsteady. He slipped out of the shirt. Hermione watched him, the way he moved, the way his shoulders bunched and shrugged as he discarded the shirt. He was fluid and yet there was a rigid tension in him, a tension that was dark and daunting.

It was oddly lonely to be there in front of her and yet apart from her. There was something about her eyes, fear; a certain anxious concern that set her apart from him. He did the only thing he could think of. He took her hand, placed it against his chest, thinking that then she would know, she would feel the erratic thump of his pulse beneath his skin, she would know that he was real and that he felt these things.

Hermione touched him, moved her fingers down his chest, over the flat, hard plane of his stomach, her nails grazing his skin. His breath caught, she felt it hitch in his lungs. He shivered. He is real, she thought, real with wanting her, responding to her touch. He crushed her close, trapping her hands between them, kissing her.

She sighed. His fingers caught in her hair, sliding through the dark strands, tilting her head, angling her lips beneath his. Draco shifted, holding her, moving across the floor, moving toward the bed.

The bed was a bit large, a bit ridiculous. He felt a bit ridiculous as he pulled her down with him on to the soft surface—a bit foolish in his need. His hands shook as he moved them along her arms from her wrists to her shoulders. His fingers slipped beneath the thin straps of her dress and pushed them down along her arms.

He lay on top of her. She felt his strength, his weight; traced the lean sinew of his arms, his chest. His head tipped forward as he watched her, pale hair falling into his eyes, bleached in the firelight, more white than blond. It made him look boyish—the hair in his eyes.

He leaned, touched his mouth to her chin; moved his lips along her jaw to the skin of her throat. He was careful of her, or he tried to be. He was thinking that Lucius had taught him many things, but not how to love a girl. He'd taught him to fight, taught him the dark arts, but he hadn't taught him this. He could only hope that he didn't harm her, that he didn't put her in harm's way; because there was a tightness, a violence inside him which would do damage if he let it.

Hermione felt the restraint in him, as if he were trying not to startle her. It was too late for that. He touched her and she was astonished. Feeling him against her, close, was new, startling. He peeled the dress down, pulled the fabric to her hips, kissed her stomach. His fingers slipped beneath the edge of her bra, tracing soft, round flesh. He touched her and she was astonished.

She would remember that he said the oddest thing. He said please.

Yes, she said.

She crossed her arms behind his shoulders and drew his body tight to hers.

OOO

She was wrapped in his arms, her back to his chest, her body stretched along the length of his. Her skin was damp; the hair at her temples wet, the ends slick and beginning to curl. Some of her hair was trapped beneath him, where he lay with his lips at her shoulder. He spoke softly into her back, thinking that she must be asleep.

"We're together," he said into the silence of the room.

She heard him and a voice inside her, a small soundless voice made a silent response.

We are, it said, but maybe we shouldn't be.

OOO

She stared hard at the empty bed. The sun's early morning rays slanted in through the windows of the room, casting a sharp, bright light on the crisply folded sheets and coverlet—turned down just so—which lay pristine and untouched against the narrow bed. The hospital corners were tight and severe, almost mocking in their rigid adherence to the mattress. The bed had not been slept in.

Pansy Parkinson clutched her pillow in her hands. She held it tight in her grasp, nails digging into the soft, plush fabric. Imogene's bed was empty.

It wasn't until the feathers began to leak from the torn case that Pansy realized she'd ripped her pillow in two.

OOO

Hermione kept her eyes lowered as she walked the hall. She had the sneaking suspicion that people could see it on her—all of last night—in her eyes. She knew it wasn't true, wasn't possible. She looked as she always looked when she was Imogene, maybe even a little too similar. The polyjuice manufactured appearance with such precision that it left little room for all too human variables; as Imogene she had never had a bad hair day.

Nonetheless, she felt exposed, unable to hide her identity or her secrets, unable to forget the way he had touched her and the things he had said.

We're together.

She hadn't answered him, only thought her response. He'd kept talking, softly, his lips against her shoulder. She'd felt the vibration of his voice against her skin. He'd been talking, but not precisely to her. There was something about the way he spoke, unfettered; not expecting a response; speaking because he needed to, but not necessarily because he needed to be heard.

The things he said were abstruse and yet intrinsic; that his father had made him a killer, had taught him things, things which he had thought were important. They weren't important. Not one of them. They were useless things. They were the things which made him who he was. When the things which make you are useless, what are you?

It didn't matter what he was; useless, he could still be used. He could be given a task. He could be told to kill. It was what he'd been taught.

He didn't want to. He didn't want to kill, but he knew nothing else. He would have to be taught otherwise. He would have to learn.

And then, so softly that she'd barely heard: would she help him learn?

He hadn't expected an answer. Though he'd lapsed into silence, it wasn't in want of a response. He had simply stopped talking. He had simply finished.

OOO

"Miss LeCoeur."

There was a hand at her elbow, none too gentle, which stopped her progress down the hall.

"A word," Professor Snape said. "My office."

Hermione blinked, her thoughts shifting back to the present. Snape was the last person she wanted to see right now. The thought of facing him, a skilled Leglimens with a vested interest in her relationship with Draco for reasons she could barely understand, was enough to make her stomach clench, especially now that her memories would betray her, bringing a flush of embarrassment to her face.

She shook free of his grasp, leaving Snape to regard her with a kind of controlled exasperation that bordered on annoyance. After a moment he inclined his head, nodding to indicate that she should precede him down the corridor. They walked to his office in silence.

Hermione entered the small dimly lit room with the usual mixture of claustrophobia and foreboding which seemed to overtake her each time she visited Snape's office. The place was just plain creepy, its walls lined with shelves of glass jars that housed rare and unusual potions ingredients. She thought it odd that, even though he'd finally succeeded in obtaining the post of Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor, he had opted to keep this horrible little room as his office, suited as it was for the Potions Master. Her thoughts were interrupted however, when she noticed that Draco stood at attention in the middle of the room facing the professor's desk, his back to her.

Hermione walked over to stand in front of the desk, perhaps a bit further from Draco than was necessary, going out of her way to pretend that nothing had happened between the two of them. Draco cut his eyes to her briefly and then quickly looked away. There was nothing in his eyes when he'd looked at her, nothing save a curious blankness which wounded her. She felt a singular stab of disappointment.

Snape seated himself behind his desk and regarded the two of them carefully. He said nothing for a long while. He simply sat watching them for signs of what he knew must have happened but couldn't quite prove. At last he spoke.

"It has come to my attention from Miss Parkinson that Miss LeCoeur was absent from the girls' dormitory last night."

Hermione let her gaze slip down to the floor lest her eyes betray her. Draco, on the other hand, didn't flinch. He stared straight ahead, not at Snape, but at the glass jars which lined the wall behind him.

"I have further confirmed with Mr. Zabini that Mr. Malfoy's bed was equally empty."

That was enough to provoke a response from Draco. He looked directly at Snape then. "Are we being accused of something?" He tried to ask casually in the sort of lazy drawl which would have passed for nonchalance if it hadn't been for the sharp edge of defiance in his voice.

Snape leaned back in his chair. There was nothing which escaped his notice, neither the tone of Draco's voice, nor the curious way in which the two students avoided looking at one another.

"It is not my job to accuse anyone of anything. I would simply remind you both that rules of curfew are to be observed."

Draco bristled and it wasn't lost on his Head of House. Snape observed the boy closely. It was all there, the usual boredom, arrogance, a studied carelessness that was as much a part of the Malfoy family inheritance as the deed to the manor itself. But today it didn't add up. Draco was changed, different.

He couldn't say exactly how the boy had changed, but it was palpable nonetheless. It read in his stance and in the simmering anger which had surfaced in his tone. There was a fierceness about him—as if he were protecting something.

"Is that all?" Draco asked.

"That is all," Snape replied. "You may go, Mr. Malfoy. You as well, Miss LeCoeur." He didn't rise to show them out. Instead Snape remained behind his desk watching as they turned and Draco reached across to open the door for Imogene.

It was then that he noticed it, the deep flush across the back of Draco's neck. The boy had leaned close to her as he'd reached for the door. Her eyelids fell a fraction of an inch; her reaction to his nearness. It was small, nearly imperceptible. Snape had almost missed it, almost missed the way that Draco had nearly touched the small of her back to guide her through the door. The boy had thought better of it, closed the fingers of his hand. He was careful of her, Snape noted. He was careful of her in a way which indicated that he'd known her.

Severus Snape closed his eyes. He had felt that once, that flush across the back of the neck. It had been a long time ago. He would never feel it again.

OOO

There was something off about Hermione. It'd been that way all day, since the minute she'd arrived late for class this morning. Maybe she was using the Time-Turner again, Harry thought. It seemed a ready explanation, one which she'd supplied, but even that didn't quite seem to explain it. She was distracted, her thoughts scattered. He'd seen her nervous before, anxious, even frazzled, but scattered worried him.

Harry looked up at her. She was sitting across from him in the Gryffindor common room, parchment spread out on the low table in front of her. She dragged her quill across the paper in fits and starts, leaving unsightly splotches of ink in its wake. It had been forty-five minutes and she'd only written three lines. The page looked like something Ron might hand in on a good day.

Harry couldn't figure it out. He'd tried asking her outright what was wrong. Even then he hadn't gotten a decent answer. Maybe it had something to do with the way he'd said it. It'd been straightforward, direct. He didn't know any other way to ask, couldn't speak in any other way than the rough, unsubtle language of boys. It worked with Ron, but Ron was of course a boy; easy and emotionally uncomplicated.

Girls had a way of speaking that was overly complicated, even convoluted. Harry didn't always understand it and he certainly couldn't recreate it. As a result, he was left with her non-answer to his question and his gut instinct that something was definitely wrong.

Oddly enough, he thought of the Marauder's Map and the two Hermiones he'd seen several weeks ago. He'd only seen it once, that strange double on the map. Today it felt like that double was sitting in front of him. The Hermione he knew was somewhere else, and her ghost, her echo, was left to complete the Transfiguration assignment that had dogged her for the past forty-five minutes.

Hermione crumpled up the parchment in front of her. She stood suddenly and snapped her quill in half. Harry dropped his own quill, startled by her actions. He realized that her eyes were wet. She scrubbed the back of her hand across her eyelids and drew in a deep breath.

Harry wasn't sure what made him do it, but it seemed like the only thing that made sense. He stood and pulled her into his arms. Her shoulders shook and she stifled a sob. Just once he'd like to get close to a girl without her bursting into tears, Harry thought ruefully.

He patted her back—a bit awkwardly at first, then thought better of it and tightened his arms around her. After a few moments she calmed and twisted out of his arms, dashing a stray tear from the corner of her eye.

"What is going on, Hermione?" he asked for the second time that afternoon.

"Nothing," she said.

Harry knew that he'd said it wrong. He knew that he'd been too direct, but it wasn't in him to find a tortuous way of saying tell me.

OOO

It was late. She must have fallen asleep on the couch. Hermione rubbed her eyes. A new Transfiguration essay, her third attempt, sat half finished on the table. It was a familiar sight. She'd been struggling with the essay all night.

Harry was gone. In his place Ron sat, leaning forward with his elbows resting on his knees. There was an unusual quiet about him. He wasn't happy, she realized. If anything he looked a bit morose.

"It's him, isn't it?" Ron asked. Hermione looked at him, confused. "I saw the two of you earlier. Together."

She sat up straight. Who had he seen? Draco? Imogene? She was having trouble keeping track of it all. "I'm not sure what you're talking about," she said softly.

"I saw him hug you, Hermione, here in the common room, you and Harry."

"Harry?"

"Don't say it didn't happen. I know it did." Ron stared down at his hands.

"Ron, I was just…having a bad day. Harry tried to help."

"Sure, Hermione, sure, but it's not just today. It's been a while now really that there's been someone else."

"What do you mean?"

"I've been trying to figure it out. Who it could be, I mean. At first I thought maybe Neville, but I never saw the two of you together so that didn't make sense. Then I thought maybe Seamus, but he's not really your type is he?"

"My type?"

"So I figured it had to be someone closer. I just didn't know how close until this afternoon."

"Ron, Harry and I aren't… a thing. Really, we're not." She touched his shoulder.

"Well, who then, Hermione? Who? Because it isn't me." His voice grew loud.

And she heard him. She heard him loud and clear. Somehow, she'd forgotten about Ron; sweet, adorable, comforting, infuriating Ron. She looked at his face; saw the hurt that had gathered there around his eyes and mouth. She had forgotten about Ron.

How could she explain? She couldn't. She couldn't bring herself to say the words. She was frightened of their truth. Truth had a way of transfiguring things—of making them real. In lieu of that truth she had nothing to offer Ron. She had nothing to give to her friend, and so she fell back into the familiar pattern of their relationship.

"It isn't you?" she snapped. "Well, let's be honest, Ron. It's isn't me either, is it?"

"What?" He stirred.

"What about that girl you've been mooning over?"

"The Veela? Oh, come on Hermione! I can't help but like her. She's a Veela!"

"She is not! She's just a girl and you don't have to like her!"

"This is ridiculous! That's never going to happen! She's out of my league! And you're… you're…"

"I'm what, Ron? Appropriate? Available? I don't think you even like me, Ron. You just don't want Harry to beat you at something else!"

Ron jumped up from his seat on the couch. She'd done it. She'd made him angry, so angry that the words came tumbling out. "I saw you! I saw you and Harry. I always thought it was true! He has this photo of his parents. And he looks like his dad; Harry does, in the picture. It's his dad and his mom, smiling, waving. They're happy. They're in love. And then I saw the two of you in the common room and it was like the picture. You're the girl in the picture, Hermione!"

"Ron, you're a brick! How can you be so dense? The girl in the picture. Think! There is someone else, someone who looks just like the girl in the picture—right down to her coppery red hair. It's Ginny, Ron!" she said. "It's Ginny!"

OOO

Ginny Weasley sat on the end of Hermione's bed. Her coppery red hair was caught up in a ponytail at the back of her neck. She was talking excitedly about something, probably the latest campaign to unfold in Operation Get Harry Potter to Notice Me. Hermione was trying to pay attention, but her own thoughts kept intruding on their conversation.

"You okay?" Ginny asked finally.

"Fine," Hermione answered. "Tired, I think."

"You look different somehow," Ginny said. "Did you do something to your hair? It looks darker, not as curly."

Hermione touched a hand self-consciously to her hair. "No."

"You sure? A straightening charm maybe? I saw this great one in Witch Weekly."

"Oh, Witch Weekly!" Hermione groaned.

"What? I read it for the articles," Ginny said.

"Articles? Like the one Rita Skeeter wrote placing me at the center of a love triangle with Harry and Viktor?"

"Are you kidding? That wasn't an article. That was pure fiction. It was great. Do you know what you supposedly said to Viktor when you finally gave him the kiss off?"

Hermione rolled her eyes. "What?"

"'Viktor,' you said, 'these are troubled times we're living in and right now, I need more than just a man, I need a hero. Harry Potter is that hero.'"

"Oh for crying out loud!" Hermione said.

"I know, right?" Ginny laughed. "It's total bollocks, but brilliant all the same."

Hermione sighed. The idea of her being caught in the middle of a love triangle seemed absolutely preposterous. "Ginny, you don't think that Harry and I ever…"

"Of course not," Ginny said. "I know friends when I see them. It's rubbish, the lot of it."

"Good. Ron seems to think there's something going on."

"Oh, Ron," Ginny sighed wearily. "All the Weasley men are horribly jealous."

"Your dad seems pretty normal."

"Sure, it looks that way now, but Mum has the most awful stories about him when they were dating. You know he once suspected her of cheating on him with Regulus Black."

"No!" Hermione gasped.

"It's true! Not that she cheated, of course, but that he suspected her."

"I can't believe it!"

"It's the family curse—on the men at least."

Hermione laughed. She was surprised to hear herself chuckle after everything that had happened lately. "Ginny, do you think that if you and Harry were dating that you'd ever…"

"What?" Ginny asked.

"Well, that maybe the two of you would…"

"Hermione, are you trying to tell me something?"

"No, this is a hypothetical question. I'm just saying, do you ever think about it?"

Ginny stared at her for a moment. Hermione was indeed trying to tell her something, but she couldn't be sure what it was. "You mean, like what it would be like?"

"Sort of," Hermione said. "Or like if it would be okay—right, I mean."

It dawned on Ginny that Hermione was asking her permission for something. "I guess it would be fine," she said, "if I loved him."

Hermione's eyes darkened.

"I mean, I don't know. This is HP we're talking about here, right? He is that hero," Ginny laughed.

Right, Hermione thought, but what if he weren't that hero? What if he weren't so nice? What if he weren't Harry Potter at all? Would it still be fine… if she loved him?

Ginny had the feeling that Hermione was about to tell her something, something big. So she was disappointed when she noticed the older girl shake free of whatever it was that had kept her so preoccupied.

Hermione changed the subject. "So what else does Witch Weekly think the modern witch needs to know?"

"Well, they've given us a list of the top ten eligible bachelor wizards."

"Let me guess. Harry Potter, Viktor Krum, Gilderoy Lockhart." Hermione began ticking off names on her fingers.

"Spot on," Ginny said. "It's the usual suspects, but there's a new addition to the list this year and it's causing a bit of controversy."

"Who?" Hermione asked.

"Malfoy! Can you believe it?"

"Huh. What's the controversy?"

"It's Malfoy, that's what!"

"Well, I guess he's eligible, Ginny. I mean, he has a lot of money and he's not married."

"Yeah, but Hermione I think you are missing the obvious! Malfoy!" she said. "And since when does Witch Weekly add Death Eaters to its list of eligible bachelor wizards? If they're going to do that they may as well just add You-Know-Who!"

"Ginny! Malfoy and You-Know-Who are not the same! One is a Dark Lord bent on wiping out Muggles and half-bloods. The other is just a boy. He's not so… he's much more… eligible."

"You're defending him? And those are your grounds?"

"I'm just saying that—"

"—Oh, Hermione, that dog won't hunt. Besides, from what I've heard Malfoy isn't so eligible."

"What do you mean?"

"Myrtle told me he's been seeing that girl in Slytherin, the exchange student."

"Myrtle's a horrible gossip. And just where did she get hold of that information? Let me guess, someone flushed it down the U-bend."

"She's a ghost, Hermione. Everyone knows that the ghosts in this castle know everything. Anyway, it makes sense. Pansy Parkinson's been beside herself lately. It's the only explanation. Draco Malfoy's got a girlfriend." Ginny scrunched up her face as if the thought were unbearable, even gross. She hopped off of Hermione's bed.

"Where are you going?" Hermione asked.

"To write a letter to Witch Weekly. Somebody's got to let them know that they have one less eligible bachelor wizard on their hands."

OOO

Hermione should have been sleeping. She couldn't of course. No matter how hard she tried, she lay awake, staring into the dark. Lavender was snoring lightly. The girl lay flat on her back with some sort of cream mask on her face which had hardened during the night into a rictus of sleep.

The golem buzzed dully at the back of her mind. She'd sent it to sleep in Imogene's bed. It was an easy enough task, one that required little focus. The golem would not be called upon to walk or speak. It could simply lay there, taking up space, fooling those inclined to be curious.

It was odd being apart from Draco. She felt lonely in a way that she hadn't before. All she could think about was him; lying next to him, on top of him, her hair hanging down in his face, his body beneath hers.

Had it only been last night? It seemed a long way off. He seemed so far away. Maybe it was because they had been so close. Draco had been close to her… to Imogene. What he felt, he felt for Imogene, the girl who wasn't real. The problem was that Hermione was real. What she felt for him was real, only the real girl's feelings weren't returned.

There were too many people in the equation. There were three of them, an odd number; a number that inevitably left someone out in the cold. What would happen if there were two? What would happen if it were just the two of them, the real boy and the real girl?

Hermione didn't want to do it anymore. She didn't want to be Imogene. What would happen if she simply stopped, stopped taking the polyjuice, stopped conjuring the golem? What if she simply stopped Imogene altogether; if she killed her so to speak?

It was an easy enough thing to manage, bloodless, painless. All she had to do was let Imogene go.

Hermione closed her eyes. She realized that that was what she wanted: to let Imogene go. She relaxed her focus, felt the golem dissolve. So easy just to let her go.

OOO

Murder! The thought rose up loud, screaming in her ears. She couldn't breathe. Her lungs. No air. Her throat closing. Tight. So tight. No air.

Hermione's eyes were open, but her vision was fading fast, falling out in spots, blotted out by a creeping, rising darkness. She was being strangled in her bed.

She was dying; clawing at the hands fastened tight around her throat.

Imogene's hands.

OOO

So glad that this chapter is done! I can breathe a big ol' sigh of relief! Thanks for reading!