"Ah, Right then. Hm… Right. Okay." With pensive amusement, the Sorting Hat pondered on one of the many decisions it had to make this fateful evening. And though the frizzy cascade of hair the ancient artifact sat upon came from a young girl that could stand to benefit from any house the hat could sentence her to, its decision came with utmost certainty and resounding cheers. "Slytherin!"
The dining hall burst into a happy buzz of fervent congratulations as the girl looked down at the two boys she had met on the train. Almost as if she knew it a departure from how things should have turned out, but none the wiser to any deviation from the path she was meant to tread on. No. The hat had sorted her, as it had done for thousands before her, following the guidelines of her nature, talent, and inner-desires. Yet, through the loud cheering and beckoning of her new house-mates, the Sorting Hat was pulled off her head as it whispered inaudibly to the girl whose fate it had sealed.
"Farewell, my Lady…"
Hermione turned back for just a second, before professor McGonagall hurried the young Slytherin along, having taken her share of time on the small stage already, with many more students to come behind her. As she rushed to the Slytherin table, she sat with her house-mates and settled into idle conversation as the sorting progressed. Draco Malfoy, a loud-mouthed, snobbish looking boy was sorted into her house with a cursory thought from the Sorting Hat. He sat beside Hermione amid more cheers as she watched the red-haired boy — a smudge of dirt still on his nose — that she had met on the train be sorted into Gryffindor.
And then the boy who lived. He appeared to murmur something to himself as the hat pondered for an extended period, presumably on where to place him. The room was dead silent. Hermione could practically hear her heart beat within her chest. And though she wasn't particularly hoping he would be placed in Slytherin, she did feel a sense of sadness when the hat proclaimed, "Gryffindor!" The entire hall erupted into frantic yells and intense chatter. The Harry Potter had been sorted into House Gryffindor. Professor McGonagall attempted with futile result to hush the hall as Harry leaped off the stool and into the awaiting huddle of Gryffindor students, all visibly elated to have him sit among them.
"So are you half-blood?" Hermione turned to the pale-haired boy beside her. Draco stared a silver glance into her brown eyes. "I've never heard of a House Granger before, so I just figured you might be half-blood."
"Oh.." Hermione glanced back at the Gryffindor table for just a second as Harry took a seat next to Ron and McGonagall continued to hush the students. "No," she answered plainly. "My parents were both muggles." Draco's frown was comment enough for Hermione to understand his thoughts.
"Crabbe! Can you believe that self-important twit, Potter? A Gryffindor. Should have sent him down to Hufflepuff with all the other losers." The extra few inches of space between them as Draco scooted closer to the round boy next to him brought up an all-too familiar feeling of pinching pain in her mouth as Hermione bit the inside of her lip, ignoring that sense of awkward humiliation she was so familiar with. Instead, she turned to Pansy Parkinson, a confident first year sorted before Hermione.
"Pansy. What do you—" Pansy had her back turned to Hermione, near a foot of space separating them despite elbows touching not but moments prior. Pansy didn't turn to Hermione. She wouldn't, no matter how much Hermione called to her. Hermione didn't bother. Even here, where magic made the impossible become possible, reality was inevitable. No amount of pixie dust and incantations could change what she was. An outcast. A freak. A weirdo all her life. And now, a muggle-born, a mud-blood. Worthless.
Hermione's first year at Hogwarts was nothing short of miserable. Her dorm-mates included Pansy Parkinson and her three minions: Millicent Bulstrode, Tracey Davis, and Daphne Greengrass. From sun up, to sun down, they never failed in reminding the muggle-born witch of her inadequate blood-line. Malfoy and his gang of Crabbe, Goyle, and Blaise Zabini had ensured that any brave knight in shinning armor that dared step up in her defense was beaten down as a traitor to the ever superior pure-bloods. Soon enough, Hermione had fallen to the lowest point of her life. Even the recklessly brave Gryffindors and justice-driven Hufflepuffs cared not to defend her.
She was, of course, not the only muggle-born in Slytherin, let alone the entire school. Yet, those who should have stood beside her did not. Whether it be out of fear of taking her place, indifference of her situation, or disgust born from the dozens of rumors around her, Hermione stood alone.
"M- Ms. Granger, if you're g- going to sleep in my class, I suggest you do it when there are other s- s- s- students here to occupy m- my attention."
Hermione jumped in her seat, eyes darting up at the looming figure glaring down at her and recognizing the head-dress immediately. "Professor Quirrel! I- I'm sorry! Oh my gosh, I must have fallen asleep near the end of your lecture… I'm sorry! I hope I didn't miss anything important!"
"Dear, please calm down. Anything you may have missed you can find here." Quirrel tapped with a pointer stick at a set of parchment on her desk, lectures notes in his own writing. He placed a hand on her shoulder as Hermione had stood in her frantic apology, signaling to her to sit back down.
"T- Thank you, Professor." Hermione took a moment to collect herself and her things, gathering Quirrel's notes and putting them within a notebook of hers before storing them in her satchel.
"I- it's n- n- not okay to mimic my s- stutter, M- M- Ms. G- Granger."
"I- I'm sorry! I promise I didn't mean to!"
Quirrell laughed. "I know, I know. I'm just t- teasing. N- Now, Ms. Granger," Quirrel continued. "There is something I wanted t- to address with—"
"I know, Professor Quirrell!" Hermione interrupted, bowing her head at the man before looking up at him with pleading eyes. "I- I- I promise I won't sleep in your class anymore. I don't know what's come over me, but please don't take any House points away… Please!" There was more to it than just House Points. Quirrell could tell from the look in her eye, one of desperation and fear: fear far greater than any child should have for inconveniencing her house-mates with the loss of a few meager points.
"This isn't about House P- p- points, Ms. Granger, so please settle d- down."
"Yes, sorry, sir." Hermione didn't look at him. Instead she lowered her head and sat quietly in her seat, likely awaiting her punishment. Quirrell could see her small body trembling.
"Ms. Granger, this isn't the first time you've slept during m- m- m- my class, correct?"
"…Yes, professor…"
"B- b- by m- my estimation, this is the fifth time in just as m- many classes, is it n- not?" Quirrell didn't need to ask. He knew it was. And though neither her grades nor Hermione's apparent understanding of the topics discussed in his class seemed to be negatively affected by the growing trend in her snoozing, he couldn't exactly allow the problem to get to a point where it did.
"I'm sorry, p- professor…" She whispered, a hushed tone as her voice cracked and a drop of sorrow fell from her chin to the desk. A second tear followed, but this one landed on a piece of soft, white cloth. Hermione's head tilted up and her gaze shot quickly towards the professor. Quirrell smiled warmly at her, extending his handkerchief in a show of good faith.
"I p- promise I'm not angry," he assured, nodding for her to take the handkerchief. "Just curious."
Hermione took the peace offering with a shaky hand and wiped the tears from her face, puffy red eyelids encircling the coffee tone of her iris. "Curious?" Hermione questioned, handing Quirrell back his handkerchief, noticeably more damp than before.
"Mhm. And perhaps a bit worried, if I m- m- must admit. Herm- mione, I spoke with Madam Hooch and she s- spoke of you falling off your broom on m- m- more than one occasion recently during her flying lessons." Quirrell lifted his pointer stick and directed the girl's attention to a pair of small band-aids neatly placed just below her left cheekbone. "Is that where you got this?"
Hermione nodded in agreement. A lie. She did receive a pair of nasty bruises and some scratches from her fall, but Madam Hooch had forced her to visit Madam Pomfrey for medical attention. The cut on her cheek was instead courtesy of Pansy's minion Millicent who had slapped her just this morning for sleeping in and not having all of their clothes, items, and schoolwork prepared prior to departing for class. The ring on Millicents finger dug into her cheek and cut deep, the pudgy girl's laugh still ringing in her head as Hermione panicked from how much it bled, and kept on bleeding. When it finally stopped, Hermione had missed breakfast and she didn't have time to make it to the infirmary before first period.
"Scared of M- M- Madam Pomfrey? She doesn't bite, I s- swear it," Quirrell chuckled.
Hermione shook her head. "No." Yes. Not of Pomfrey. But of what she would tell the other professors if Hermione came in every time she was hit, or cut, or bruised, or beaten. Everyday, every morning, every night. It would raise too much suspicion. And she feared what Pansy would do if she thought Hermione had tattled on her.
Hermione felt a poke against her cheek, not Quirrell's pointer stick, but his wand. "Episkey." Gone was the slight numbness in her cheek, the sensation of something not being quite right. And it's place, a slight warmth that faded quickly. Quirrell reached his other hand up and carefully pealed the band-aids off her cheek. "I've always thought these an interesting m- muggle invention. S- simultaneously m- m- medical aid and a fashion statement at times," he quipped with a slight exhaling laugh.
"Thank you… Professor." Hermione quickly tapped her cheek to find it without injury once more.
"M- Ms. Granger. I do hope you know that m- m- myself, and all the staff at Hogwarts, wish only for the s- success and happiness of our students. Please, if you ever find yourself needing an ear to speak to, m- mine particularly enjoy lending a bit of time. As well as a guarantee in discretion." Hermione nodded. Quirrell couldn't quite tell if that was a nod of understanding or perhaps to take up his offer one day, but either way he simply nodded back to her in kind. "N- n- now, go on. It's lunch period and you are a growing young lady. I think they've p- prepared some p- particularly decadent sweets today for dessert." He smiled to her again, stepping back and giving her a slight flick of his pointer stick insinuating she should leave.
"Yes, professor. Thank you. I'll be on my way." She picked up her satchel and and gave him another curt bow. Hermione rushed out, feigning her way toward the dining hall and turning back instead to make her way over to the Slytherin common room.
Draco Malfoy was so self-assured in the supremacy of pure-blooded witches and wizards, that he hardly ever spared a thought for those of lesser social standing. And if mingling with half-bloods were not bad enough, the fact that they would even allow mud-bloods to enter Hogwarts was a crime in and of itself in his eyes. They were the lowest of scum. At least muggles themselves were too ignorant and low a species to ever bother him. But mud-bloods? They had the gall to call themselves equal to his kind. Utterly despicable.
Or so he had always been taught. And nothing throughout his as of yet immature life had shown him otherwise. That is, until he met her. That frizzy-haired girl snacking in the common room alone while everyone else played and ate happily with their friends. Hermione Granger, whose deep brown eyes often glared at him for just attempting to speak to her. Sure, Malfoy knew his taunts and tricks on her were likely unwelcome, but his was a station far above hers. She should be happy he would even deign her with an afterthought of his attention.
But little did Hermione know that her visage was far more than just an afterthought behind the rowdy Malfoy's silver eyes. He often dreamt of sitting idly beside her, in that shaded corner she always chose at this hour. And when she had chosen to stay over winter holidays, information that cost him an evening gossiping with Pansy and her vapid troupe, Draco learned that she did not have a proper home to return to. Hermione Granger was an orphan going on 7 years now. Thus, if not here and now — with all these children chatting about and making friends — when did she ever spend time with someone to gossip and relate like they did ever so often in his dreams. Seemingly never, it appeared. A pitiable existence. But Draco was not kind-hearted enough to set aside decorum out of pity. Yet, here he was sat alone in the common room pretending to read just to lay eyes on her. How was he any less pitiable than her, he thought to himself.
The truth was, he wasn't. A truth he was neither ready, nor sage enough, to admit. And if he did, he would be admitting that they might not be that different. But Draco knew her to be so diametrically opposite an existence to his own that they couldn't possibly be similar in any way. Yet here he was, pulled to her by some force he had no control over and did not comprehend in the slightest. When she cried, it stung his heart. When she smiled — rare as it was — it warmed his icy veins. When she paid him any attention what-so-ever, Draco felt more alive than ever before. He wanted more of her attention. He wanted her eyes to be permanently locked on his. He wanted her to see only him. Those brown eyes, that meek voice. He was addicted. So he did whatever he could to draw her focus to him.
"Do you really do nothing but study all the time?" Draco now stood in front of her, palms sweaty, but balled into fists so that she would never know it. Now that he was in this corner of the room, it didn't seem as dreary and drab as when he first stepped into the common room. He wasn't sure why, but Hermione often chose to sit here and most people hardly took notice of her, let alone bothered muggle-born. Even he frequently didn't see her sat in the corner on many days. But today he had spotted her immediately, like someone had shed a spot light on her typically darkened safe-space. "Even a mud-blood like you must have friends. Don't you sneak around with that Potter freak and the red-haired charity case? Why don't you eat and study with them rather than here?"
Hermione closed her eyes for just a second, throwing her gaze up at Draco reluctantly. A cold, dead stare. Was he kicking her out? "They're… not really my friends.. At least, I don't think so. Plus, they're in a different house. Pansy says I shouldn't be seen consorting with students from other houses all the time. It makes us look weak and divided, apparently."
That was something Draco had said months ago to the first years, and clearly something Pansy had taken to parroting around like gospel. He didn't think at the time that it would come back around to burden Hermione. Draco had just figured that she would likely spend more time in the common room, and thus with him, if he kept her away from other houses. Less competition for her time. And in a way, it worked. Though Draco had done little to take advantage of that time she spent alone here.
"Are you just going to stand there, or can I go back to studying?" Hermione's gaze was still on him, and that made Draco's heart beat a little faster. But in the same way that he had found her with ease today, Draco felt her more receptive to his presence than usual despite her standoffish attitude and desolate stare. And that struck courage in his heart, a rarity for him. "Come with me."
"What?" Hermione must have been hungrier than she thought. Hearing auditory illusions of Draco Malfoy asking her to follow him must be some sign of malnutrition.
"I said come with me. I want to show you something." Draco took her hand, sweaty as it was and gripped tightly, though not enough to hurt her. He pulled her up, light as she was, and started for the door out of the Slytherin common room.
"W- wait! W- w- where are you taking me?!" Hermione was flushed and exasperated. Part of it was the sheer oddity of the situation. Mostly, however, was that being taken somewhere by force — and by no less than Draco Malfoy himself — must be a trap of some sort. Likely some cruel ploy by Pansy and her gaggle of brainless snakes. "D- Draco! Where are you t- taking me!"
"Does it matter? Anything is better than that dusty corner. Now stop whining and follow me."
There was fear, without question, driving Hermione's legs forward. Whatever Draco had planned was undoubtedly going to be unpleasant. But to defy him, and thus everyone who revered him, was social suicide. Yes, her social life was on its deathbed regardless, but not all was lost. Those little moments where she could spend just a few minutes chatting with Hagrid, Harry, Ron, or Neville. The Patil sisters, or even the Weasley twins. Even that moment of sincerity and comfort she shared with Professor Quirrell. All of that was worth protecting, little as it was. They were the crumbs that fed her soul. She couldn't lose that too.
They arrived soon enough to Draco's destination, no longer holding Hermione by the wrist. They had both realized part way through how sweaty Draco's hand was and a silent agreement between the pair that she would follow obediently — without contact — was awkwardly formed. Draco tapped at a brick on the wall three times with his wand and whispered under his breath, loud enough for Hermione to hear. "A place to sit and sip, imbibe and hide. A place for two, for me and you."
Brick after cold, stone brick folded in on itself, steadily opening up a doorway in the otherwise solid wall. Draco stepped in and motioned for Hermione to follow. She hesitated, of course. But Hermione knew she wouldn't get far if she ran anyway. May as well face her fate head on. And so she did. She stepped in, closing her eyes and ducking her head and bedraggled mop of hair despite being far shorter than the doorway. As she heard the bricks closing up behind her, she opened her eyes once more. Hermione found herself on a patio of sorts, high up above the ground. There was a bit of space, enough to not be cramped and pace about somewhat. And there was a small circular table with two chairs and what appeared to be a luxury tea seat. It was quaint, serene, and had a lovely view of the grounds and lake. It was shaded, roofed. So neither rain nor sun could dampen the peaceful aura it maintained.
"My father told me about this place."
Hermione swung around to face him, Draco had his back against the now closed wall and looked out towards the lake. "He said he would often come here to be alone and study, or just take in the view. I come here every now and then and nobody has ever bothered me."
Hermione didn't quite know what to say. This was, in some sense, Draco Malfoy of all people sharing something personal and perhaps important to him. He had no reason to bring her here and — while she still thought there was a possibility he would push her off the balcony at any moment — this was the first time any Slytherin had ever given, or shown, her anything of legitimate value. Now, while in now way did she believe that gifts were the be all, end all of personal relationships, they still had significant value. And this place, what it meant to him and would it could come to mean to her, was of incredible value.
"It's amazing." Hermione moved up to the edge of the balcony, placing her hands on the railing and feeling the breeze against her skin, staring at the glittering lake and landscape below with shinning, bright eyes.
"Beautiful…" Draco murmured, though his eyes held a different sight to hers. One far more alluring to him than a lake and some grass. He caught himself, however, and turned away from her just as she turned back to face him.
"Isn't it? Draco this place is… What's the catch?" Hermione's eyes narrowed as realization dawned on her. This secret could not possibly come without a price. Though, she did hope it was a price she could afford. It was a secret worth much to her.
Still, Draco didn't much like the insinuation. "What do you mean? There is no catch."
"Malfoy, please. We both know that isn't true. Just cut to the chase and tell me why you brought me here." The sparkle of life he had seen in her eyes, looking out onto that view, was gone again, replaced once more by the cold, deadpan stare she normally wore for him.
"Everything isn't alway some conspiracy against you, Granger. Don't go thinking so highly of yourself."
Her mouth twisted up slightly at that. The insinuation that she always played the victim card. One of many rumors and one that often discredited any plea for help she long ago gave up on. "Don't play dumb with me, Malfoy! You might surround yourself with them, but you, at least, are not an idiot. What. Do. You. Want?" Hermione's stare was bone-chilling. She was convinced this had to be a play to mess with her again. Another one of his tricks or games she was so often a target of.
Draco was dumbfounded. He does something bad to her, she yells at him. He does something nice, she yells at him again. And no matter what he does, he ends up feeling guilt over some mud-blood no-name girl that should be insignificant and irrelevant to him. She was just like that Potter boy. Some would-be pretender occupying too much of his time and patience. "Fine then, you filthy dog." Anger built inside him. "You want a catch so badly, I'll play catch with you then. Bark, girl! Bark and maybe I'll let you use this place to hide away in, useless mud-blood bitch!"
Hermione's fists were tight, her nails digging into her her palm threatening to pierced through her skin, her boney knuckles paper white. That frizzy hair fell down over her face as she stared at the hard floor below her, seething. "Is that what you want?" He voice was low, gruff. Her eyes stung and blurred as frustration boiled within her. "Another lackey? Another pet to play around with. Does that make you feel strong? Powerful?" Draco watched as the stone floor directly beneath her drooped head darkened with the stains of her weakness. His own tight fists releasing all the tension immediately. He had gone and done it again. Hurt her, and this time perhaps beyond repair. Draco made to leave, turning to the wall as he moved his wand to open the door and leave. He shouldn't answer her. If he did, he would only make things worse. He had to give her time and space. His father never made brash decisions. His mood was always calm and controlled. And whenever he had seen his parents fight, Lucius had always left the situation and returned with a level head.
"Fine. I accept." Her tears didn't drop anymore. And as Draco turned to face her, she glared at him straight through to his soul. There were streaks of tear marks on her cheeks. And her eyes were red as could be. Even with all that anger and hatred directed towards him, his heart skipped a beat. "But I will not hurt anyone," she continued. "I will fetch, I will grovel, I will please. But I will not hurt my friends."
Hermione could hardly understand the leaps in logic she had made to reach this conclusion. But the fact of the matter was, Draco Malfoy was at the top of her Slytherin class, far above the likes of Pansy and her gang. And Hermione could never defy or rise above Pansy as things stood now. If she was to be bound to someone against her will, than she may as well gain something out of it. A place to find quiet reprieve and be truly alone, that was nearly invaluable to her. Plus, Draco at least had some sense of brains and leadership, even if he was a coward. Pansy was nothing but a nitwit.
Draco was a hurricane of emotions. Glee, anger, confusion, fear. But as he laid eyes on her, truly receiving an unadulterated blast of her real self for the first time. That defiance, self-assuredness, conviction, and bravery. He knew now why she so often crept into his thoughts. This dirty, unworthy mud-blood had charmed him. Not with magic, but something far more fearsome and all-consuming. And he was caught. Wholly and deeply. Her offer was to fall under his ranks, become one of his lackeys, of which Draco was proud to say he had many. But in accepting that offer, the terms were all messed up. Because in his heart, no matter where she went, he would have no choice but to follow.
"I thought they weren't really your friends… Potter and that bunch."
Hermione showed obvious confusion now before replying. "They're not. Draco, I don't mean them. I mean you. And Crabbe, Goyle, Blaise, and even Pansy. You have a tendency to hurt the people closest to you. All the time. Whether by accident or on purpose, you do it frequently. I will not partake in that kind of self-sabotage. I may not like them very much now — and they certainly do not like me — but if I'm with you, helping you and them all the time. Maybe one day they'll be my friends too."
Hook, line, and sinker. Malfoy was caught in a trap of his own making.
Professor Quirrell sat in his quarters undoing the long violet cloth of his turban, a soft, yet sturdy material meant to hold in place regardless of his daily movements. Undoing the final bit, the sound of his skin and cranium adapting to the subtle stretching and settling of the face behind his head echoed softly in his otherwise quiet room.
"My Lord. I believe her situation grows more dire by the day. Must we really allow her to continue experiencing such toil and dishonor?"
"Silence…" Voldemort hissed from behind Quirrell.
"My Lord, I apologize if I offended. However, I believe—"
"I said silence!"
Quirrell halted immediately. Stunned by the command of his master. Voldemort stretched again, the sound of writhing skin fading as he settled in place. "Quirrell, from now on, take her under your wing. Find out more on who she consorts with and who among her peers we can convert. If we are to nurture a new crop of Death Eaters against the ever-growing faithful within the Ministry and under Dumbledore's auspices, they will need to learn to fear and respect the Queen that will lead them."
Quirrell smiled, satisfied by his master's wisdom. "Yes, my Lord. As you command."