Chapter 8: Confessions by correspondence

Hermione woke up early despite barely having rested during the night. Her sleep had been as heavy as her last thoughts before succumbing to it.

She sighed upon discovering that the pressure in her chest hadn't gone away; it was still there, pressing down on her chest with a weight as invisible as it was immense. Did that even make any sense? She tried to get rid of it by rolling onto her side, but the sensation of pressure seemed to be permanently attached to her body.

Damn, she felt exhausted, but she had the disappointing feeling that she wouldn't be able to fall back asleep even if she tried with all her might.

Still, she closed her eyes and tried anyway.

Five. Ten. Fifteen minutes.

She couldn't.

Resigned, she stretched a bit on the couch to wake herself up, but all she managed was the typical pain in muscles that have been stiff for hours.

Great. Her mind wasn't cooperating, and now her body didn't seem willing to make it easy either. Fortunately, since it was Saturday, she had more than enough time to do some stretches before taking off her pajamas and putting on a long skirt and a green linen shirt. She would have loved to go for a morning walk in the castle gardens, but she was terribly chained to a boy who, despite the morning light already streaming through the small windows in the stone walls, was still deeply asleep.

She looked away from him and focused on her cat, who insisted on climbing onto her lap to rub against her and cover her clothes with a myriad of hair. The girl stood up and brushed them off as soon as Crookshanks got tired of human contact and wandered off.

Then, she occupied herself with a textbook someone had left within reach on one of the tables while she waited what felt like an eternity for there to be any movement in the common room.

Strangely, when Malfoy finally woke up, he experienced an unexpected retch. He moved his hand and tried to remove something from his tongue by pinching it with his fingers.

"Ugh! Why is my mouth full of cat hair?" he exclaimed in a hoarse voice, either from just waking up or from the pain of the curse he was bearing.

He looked at Hermione, at the implicit apology in her eyes, and at the traces of orange hair on her shirt, understanding everything instantly. They stared at each other for a handful of seconds, and then, to the girl's surprise, Malfoy got up and let it go.

Hermione looked away when he started to undress, though not quickly enough. She had time to see him pull the pajama shirt over his head and thus could appreciate his bare torso for about two or three seconds.

Two or three seconds of that defined abdomen were enough to cause a rush of blood to her cheeks, giving her a pathetic flushed appearance.

Desperate, she looked around for anything to distract herself with. She didn't find much, so she reached for the book she had been reading again and opened it in the middle, holding it in front of her face to serve as a wall between them.

At that moment, she felt a bit like her cat, who often believed that hiding his snout behind a cushion made him immediately invisible to others.

She wanted to lower her arms and stop making a fool of herself, but they had become as rigid as steel. Luckily, only a handful of boys had left the dormitories to head to the Great Hall, so the Slytherin common room was still not very crowded.

As Malfoy dressed in complete silence, she could hear Parkinson's voice saying something like, "Will you help me with this?" to Harry, and then she thought she also heard her friend hold his breath. Was it possible to hear something like that from a distance? Maybe she had imagined it.

There was the sound of a zipper, and a few seconds later she found Pansy Parkinson looking down at her in a provocative black dress that clung to her body. She had arched an eyebrow in a way only someone connecting certain facts in their head could.

She looked at Draco, who at that moment was pulling up his trousers, distracted, and then back at Hermione with mischievous eyes.

"So, nonsense, right?" she said quietly, repeating Hermione's own words when the Slytherin had insinuated that she would have free rein with her friend once Daphne was out of the way. Just when Hermione had become defensive.

"Shut your mouth," she snapped angrily.

The Gryffindor wasn't one for violence, but she could have strangled Parkinson right there if they hadn't been chained to the boys. She couldn't afford the luxury of someone insinuating she was in love with Malfoy. Where would that leave her? Besides, she wasn't even sure if what she felt was true love, and she hadn't wanted to analyze it in depth because she was scared of what she might discover. She preferred to tell herself it was a simple passing infatuation caused by a bout of crazy hormones. After all, it had been a considerable amount of time since her last sexual encounter with someone.

Someone other than Malfoy and the strange curse that required her intervention the previous day, of course.

"What's wrong, Granger?" the girl continued. "Are you so smart that now you're learning to read backwards?"

"What… What do you mean?"

Pansy laughed and then snatched the book Hermione was using to hide, turned it around, and handed it back to her, this time right-side up.

"This."

Hermione shot her an unkind look and then jumped up, having to maneuver around the Slytherin to get away from her.

Judging by the way she looked at her… it was clear that she had been thoroughly figured out.

Great, another worry. Now she would have to make sure Pansy didn't spill the beans at the first opportunity.

She didn't trust Parkinson, but… well, she would have to put aside her reservations towards her because, apparently, they were going to have to work together to figure out what the hell was going on with Neville and his strange behavior.

Like every Saturday, the owls entered through the windows of the Great Hall, flying over the heads of the students while dropping the week's correspondence. During her first year at Hogwarts, Hermione had learned from Neville to be alert at that moment to avoid surprises or unexpected hits. His letters or newspapers always ended up in his cereal bowl or on the bacon on his plate.

She looked around for him.

He wasn't anywhere to be seen that morning either.

She sighed, worried, but looked back up. There was a certain letter Hermione was eagerly awaiting. She didn't know if it was realistic to expect a response so quickly or even daring to think that woman would bother to write back at all, though she remained hopeful.

She saw Draco receive a newspaper from above just before she had to catch a bundle of letters tied with a string in midair. She was a bit surprised because she generally didn't receive so much mail at once, but a spark of excitement ignited within her because it meant there were more chances one of them was from Beatrice Brown, the woman who had cursed Draco.

She untied the string and began to look at the back of each letter to see who had written to her.

The first one was from her mother. They wrote to each other every week, so it was nothing new for her to find her mother's neat handwriting in the blue ink of a pen on an envelope that was clearly bought in the non-magical world.

She placed it under the stack and looked at the next letter.

It was from Krum.

Wow, that was a surprise. Not that they had stopped talking since they said goodbye after meeting at the Triwizard Tournament; in fact, they had exchanged letters regularly for quite some time. A couple of years. Until she had simply been too busy and stressed with her studies and had forgotten to respond to his last letter.

The communication had ended then, but there was his rough and almost violently written handwriting again. She quickly hid it under the other letters, feeling a slight tickle in her stomach. She shook her head a bit at the warmth of the blood rushing to her cheeks again.

The next letter was also unexpected, but only because with all the mess of the punishment, she had completely forgotten she would receive it. She quickly opened it and took out a small piece of parchment stamped with a seal of a dress floating in the air. There weren't many words, but she began to read:

Dear Miss Granger,

we remind you of your appointment for next Saturday at five o'clock at Twilfitt and Tatting's.

Kind regards,

Madame Moore.

Today was "next Saturday." They must have sent the reminder at the beginning of the week, but she hadn't been in the right headspace and had completely forgotten to stop by the Owlery, as she usually did, to collect the correspondence that had arrived in her name.

"Um…" she said to Draco, who was calmly reading his newspaper while slicing pieces of a green apple with a knife.

The boy looked at her and immediately raised an eyebrow.

"What is it?"

"I need to go to Hogsmeade today. I have an appointment… somewhere."

"An appointment?"

"Yes, with a dressmaker. I had forgotten to tell you. Well, actually, I had forgotten I had the appointment, to be honest."

"A dressmaker…?" It took him a moment to process what she was saying. "Oh, right. Can't you reschedule it?"

"I've had it for a year," she confessed, a bit embarrassed. "I don't usually buy custom-made clothes, but… my mother insisted. For graduation, you know."

"Madame Moore?" Parkinson chimed in, having been eavesdropping on the conversation. "Oh, she's the best. She usually has a months-long waiting list. All the dresses she makes are wonderful, but your mother will have to shell out a fortune…"

"She knows," Hermione cut her off, feeling uncomfortable. She had the feeling she might blurt out what she knew about her feelings and ruin everything at any moment. "She's been saving up. I think it's an unnecessary waste of money, but… well, you can't fight a mother's wishes, can you?"

Draco sighed, twisted his lips a bit, and then went back to what he was doing.

Hermione interpreted that as a "if there's no other choice…" and then put the parchment back in its envelope and continued looking at the remaining letters.

Two of them were advertisements, one from the Weasley twins' shop and the other from a new café in Hogsmeade that had opened its doors to the public that week.

She almost had a heart attack when she looked at the back of the last one. In the midst of forgetting her appointment at Twilfitt and Tatting's, she had almost overlooked what she actually wanted to find in that pile of letters.

Beatrice Brown had replied.

She quickly stashed the pile in her bag and proceeded to pretend she wasn't dying to read its contents. Because she had to do it alone, and in the absence of real solitude, she would have to wait until nightfall, when Malfoy finally fell asleep and couldn't see the sender of that letter.

Hermione would have to rely on all her self-control to resist the temptation until then.

A witch in her early thirties with a fine face and a slightly longer-than-normal nose came out to greet them as soon as they entered the door. She wore a dark beige satin blouse with puffed sleeves and a black pencil skirt that reached her knees. Stiletto heels, which had to be at least fourteen inches high, accentuated her already petite frame.

Her elegance and good presence were undeniable. She was the most sought-after seamstress in the magical community, and of course, Madame Moore knew it and reveled in it.

"Hermione Granger?" she asked in the highest-pitched voice Hermione had ever heard.

"Yes, that's me."

"Wonderful, dear. Come, come this way."

The two of them followed her down a narrow hallway to a door at the end. Then, Hermione turned to Draco.

"You can..."

"Yes, I'll wait outside," he said, finishing the sentence for her, and stayed there while the girl followed the seamstress into the room.

The room where the woman took measurements was immense. It had professional tea and coffee machines, several sofas scattered around the space, porcelain vases with fresh flowers that provided a delicate natural wildflower scent. There were floor-to-ceiling mirrors on much of the walls and a small round platform at the far end of the room.

Hermione had almost reached it when she bumped into an invisible wall. Behind her, the door sounded as if Draco had been distracted and the wall on his side had pushed him towards it.

She didn't know if Madame Moore had noticed, but she pretended as if nothing had happened just in case.

"Um... on second thought, I think I actually want my friend to come in too," she said, taking steps backward.

"Are you sure, dear? I'm going to take your measurements, you know."

"Yes, yes, it doesn't matter."

She went to the door and opened it. Malfoy was rubbing a spot on his forehead where Hermione assumed he had hit, and he entered the room as soon as he saw her appear behind the door. There was no need to say a Word.

"Well, we're all here then," joked the seamstress. "Undress, will you? There are hangers to hang your clothes."

The woman pulled her wand from the back pocket of her skirt and waved it to encompass the whole room. Judging by the sudden warmth they began to feel, she had used a spell to heat the room. After that, she informed them that she would be right back and disappeared.

Draco dropped onto a soft pale pink sofa against the nearest wall, and Hermione began to take off her robe. She bit her lip as she hung it on the hanger. The words he had said to her in that abandoned classroom echoed in her head, making her feel a certain discomfort as she undressed in front of him.

"I love Daphne."

She thought she loved him, although she wasn't entirely sure about that.

What was undeniable was that the strange and subtle trust that had formed between them over the week had evaporated after the Divination class and had not returned.

She perfectly remembered the way they had spoken then, in a low, almost confidential tone. Her surprise at discovering that he wasn't angry but grateful. The way he had pinched the back of her hand. The silence they had shared, which Hermione had felt more intimate than many encounters with other boys she had dated...

All of this made undressing in front of him the hardest thing in the world, even though it wasn't the first time she had done it.

It was hard to undress under the eyes of someone she couldn't have, especially when the nudity made her feel so vulnerable, and she knew his arms wouldn't wrap around her to calm her down.

Hermione hung the shirt over the robe and unzipped her skirt, letting it fall to her feet. Draco watched the curve of her back as she bent down to pick it up. Then, she took off her shoes and let a thick lock of hair cover her face.

The seamstress knocked on the door and entered, followed by measuring tapes, white fabrics, threads, and flying pins.

"You're ready, aren't you? Step onto the platform, please."

Hermione calculated the distance to it and looked at Draco, who had thought the same and had stood up to take a step forward. The seamstress gave them an odd look but approached her and began to ask a thousand questions about how she wanted her dress to be.

Hermione tried to describe the dress that her mother had liked in a magazine she had read over the summer, which she had made sure Hermione saw over and over again so it would be etched in her mind before returning to Hogwarts.

It wasn't exactly the type of dress she would have ordered, but... if she was there, it was to indulge her mother, and in reality, she didn't care much about wearing one thing or another, so she simply gave all the explanations she could and then let herself be measured.

From time to time, she looked through the glass and saw Malfoy's eyes on her, but they both looked away as soon as they realized they had been caught.

The minutes passed with agonizing slowness until the woman gave Hermione permission to get dressed again, and Malfoy and she hurried out of there.

Hermione began to walk toward the castle.

"Wait," Malfoy asked her. "I... want to stop by somewhere before going back."

It was a genuine surprise to discover that the place Draco Malfoy wanted to go was a small flower shop at the corner of two streets.

The shop was full of magical flowers that greeted, released a burst of fragrance if asked, or changed color depending on the time of day, but the boy went straight to the tub containing red roses that did nothing more than simply exist. He examined them one by one until he found the largest and reddest one and had the shopkeeper wrap it in the most expensive plastic paper in the shop and add some baby's breath sprigs as an ornament.

Hermione, who had stood there watching him buy flowers for another girl, didn't make a single comment about it.

She could have said that the rose was very beautiful or that the gesture was very sweet and she hoped Daphne would forgive him, but she couldn't find a way to make the words rise in her throat and come out of her lips. She didn't like seeing him suffer from the breakup with his girlfriend, but... but she would have lied if she had managed to say those words out loud, so she opted to swallow them.

After paying, they both returned to the castle in silence, and the boy began to look for Daphne as soon as they crossed the entrance gate. He… he really looked like someone in love.

Hermione felt her silly heart break a little because, as soon as he found her, he quickened his pace to catch up with her while she remained in a gloomy background.

Daphne, who was walking toward the Great Hall for dinner, widened her eyes when she saw Malfoy intercept her, placing the rose in one hand while holding her other hand between his and bringing it to his heart.

For a moment, he looked at her, she looked at him, and they both seemed like the epitome of teenage love, blending with the pleasure of oxytocin in their brains.

Hermione found herself making a small sound like a plaintive whimper at such a scene, though something inside her knew she had no reason to feel sad and scolded herself internally for it.

"Daphne," the boy murmured, almost with implicit agony in his voice. "Daphne, my love... A rose, your favorite flower. I love you. Please, come back to me..."

But he couldn't keep talking because at that moment his face turned into a grimace of pain, and almost reflexively, he turned his head to look at Hermione. To let her know it was happening again.

Hermione, who had stayed as far as five meters allowed, watched in horror as Daphne misinterpreted the situation and flew into a rage in no time, disdainfully throwing the rose to the ground and kicking it with the toe of her shiny shoe.

"No. Give it to the one who's now doing you 'favors,' Draco," she said brusquely. "Or better yet, ask her to free you from..."

"Please, don't say that..."

But the girl was already running away, and Hermione couldn't help to think of her as a childish, spoilt girl.

She also felt so outraged that she was about to shout some profanity at her, but she completely forgot about her as soon as she saw Malfoy leaning against the stone wall, overwhelmed by the rejection and clearly in immeasurable pain from the curse.

She practically had to drag him to the nearest bathroom, make sure there was no one inside, and secure the door so the Slytherin could get rid of that pain without fear of being discovered.

They didn't go to dinner after that but went straight to the common room, eager to finally conclude that disastrous day.

Malfoy dropped onto his bed and fell asleep within minutes, and Hermione, who was sitting on the couch with her legs against her chest and her arms around them, found herself glancing at him from time to time without being able to help it.

She tutted, annoyed. It was a real headache not being able to control her own impulses, particularly when all of them seemed always directed towards him.

She made a move to go to bed to stop thinking, but then she remembered the letter in her bag that was waiting to be read, so she got up carefully and went to get it, trying not to make any noise as she opened it and unfolded the piece of parchment.

Malfoy might use his last strength to kill her if he found out she had written to Beatrice Brown... but Hermione couldn't hide her curiosity about the reasons that had led that woman to do what she did to him, so she made herself comfortable on the couch and began to read.

Dear Hermione,

Reading your letter has been most interesting. I never imagined a Muggle-born could feel compassion for a blood purist who has it all and still chooses to become a despicable being.

You are right, he may not be responsible for the malicious and vile actions his father took against me, but I can assure you Draco Malfoy is far from innocent. And I am convinced he will eventually follow his father's teachings to take his place when he is gone.

You see, my problem with the Malfoy family didn't start when Lucius pulled the pertinent strings with his dirty hands to get me out of work for, according to him, not having worthy blood. My problem with them goes way back. And I'll be honest, they touched a sensitive topic for me: my daughter. You may know her name. She is Hannah. Hannah Abbott. Yes, I know, we don't share a last name because I wanted to reclaim mine when I divorced her father. The point is, Draco has been making Hannah's life miserable since you arrived at Hogwarts.

From what I've been told, Draco usually leaves mixed-blood children alone to exclusively target Muggle-borns, but he has bullied, insulted, and belittled my daughter since he discovered that her father (a pureblood, by the way) decided to abandon his life in the magical community to become a baker in the Muggle world. Apparently, an adult man choosing to live his life in non-magical London is a betrayal of blood according to his point of view.

That boy is evil, though I'm not surprised; he has learned from his father.

Losing my job at the hands of a Malfoy was just the push I needed to take action against that family of bullies, and targeting the boy seemed a good way to kill two birds with one stone. It was a way to get revenge on the father, who has always bragged about his pure lineage, and to teach a lesson in humility to his racist and classist son.

Do you want to know what he must do to break the curse? Very simple, he just needs to impregnate a woman. But not a pureblood, nor even a mixed-blood like my Hannah. No. A Muggle-born. The people he and his father hate the most in the world.

I want to take away from Lucius the possibility of his firstborn grandson being pureblood, and I want Draco to understand that he won't die by touching a woman born in a Muggle family.

And that he will die if he doesn't.

Please, don't think I'm wicked. I gave him more than enough time to come to terms with what he needed to do, though it must be running out.

By the way, to avoid evidence that could incriminate me (you know, I'm confessing a crime), this letter will self-destruct as soon as you finish reading it.

Best regards,

Beatrice Brown.

Hermione didn't have time to react. The letter burst into flames as soon as she finished reading that last word.

"Ouch! Damn it..." she exclaimed when the fire burned her fingers, and she hurried to let it drop to the floor.

Draco woke up, startled by her scream.

"What's happening?"

The boy sat up, somewhat disoriented, but in time to see a parchment burning on the stone floor until it was completely consumed and left a faint black smoke in the air.

Then he opened his eyes wide and looked at Hermione incredulously.

"You contacted her, didn't you?" he inquired, and for a moment he seemed out of his mind. "You wrote to Beatrice Brown."

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