The Hurting Kind

The boy darted gracelessly into the grove of black poplar trees with nothing but moonlight to illuminate his path. Branches and thorns caught on his skin and clothes, tearing fabric and slashing skin indiscriminately; distantly, jagged howls ripped the warm summer evening open like a mortal wound. 

He did not pause his desperate scrabbling through the thicket, but ran with renewed vigor, trying to put as much distance between himself and the keening whines that spelled danger in the primal, instinctual part of his brain. Logically he could accept that no amount of sprinting would deliver him from peril, but he could also logically accept that there was nothing to do but try. Somewhere in his subconscious he knew that the wolves were closing in, and fast, and his only choice was to turn and fight—but his father raised him to be not a brave man, but an enduring one. He halted his mad dash and picked a tree at random, scrabbling up the ancient limbs in a last-ditch effort to evade the predators swiftly closing in. The boy managed to conceal himself in the fork of two giant boughs, and attempted to quiet his heaving breaths; it was properly night, now, on the nineteenth of June, 1996, and never before had the boy found the mild, sweet scent of barley and meadow-grass on the summer breeze so disconcertingly antithetical to the reality of his situation. 

Sixteen was too young to die, he thought. 

The werewolves that had circled his ancestral home for this fucked-up game of cat and mouse were not making their presence a secret, instead crashing through the brush near enough for the boy to hear over the pounding of his pulse in his ears. He prayed to any god that would listen for something, or someone, to help him; to save him. Please, he thought. I’ll do better. I’ll be better. 

Somewhere, very, very near, the boy heard an animalistic, baleful cry, and hoped that the end would come swiftly. 

—

“Oi, Malfoy!” Vincent Crabbe yelled down the platform, “I’ve got us a compartment!”

A tight smile pulled Draco Malfoy’s face into something resembling gladness—once a mate, always a mate, he supposed. Crabbe was thick in more ways than one, but his loyalty was as unwavering as his grades were mediocre. 

“Make me proud, darling,” his mother said in a tone that could have been affectionate if it weren’t for the sour look on her face. “Remember the importance of your—”

“Yes, thank you, mum, I know.” How could he have possibly forgotten? 

Go back to Hogwarts as a newly turned werewolf, Draco. Kill Dumbledore, the strongest wizard of the last two centuries, Draco. No problem. 

Big fucking problem, actually. 

But for the moment, his mind was consumed by the scent of his mother’s cloying lily of the valley perfume (his sense of smell had sharpened to the point of distraction, to the point of disgust) and the sensation of her hand squeezing his left wrist. This is the most affection either of them can muster, and Draco was grateful for both the gesture and its end. Platform 9¾ was swarming with 11 and 12 year olds blubbering over their parents and 13, 14, and 15 year olds trying to extricate themselves from their guardians as painlessly as possible, with varying degrees of success. He catches Theodore Nott’s eye as the shorter boy boards the prefect compartment, and gives a small nod in response to the sarcastic salute Theo sends his way. He doesn’t know yet, but he will. There’s no shot he can hide his… condition from his roommates of five years; he’s simply hoping that flashing them the slightly raised black Mark on his inner forearm will be enough to keep them quiet. If not, well. He’s a dangerous Being, now, and he supposes threats of physical violence have always been in fashion. 

His friends were the least of his worries, though. This year was shaping up to be supremely fucking awful. 

His mother departed in a billow of her expensive silk blouse and a small, final nod. Black hair blended with white blonde as her head swished through the crowd, parting the sea of parents and trolleys like the bow of a very expensive, very derisive ship. It occurred to him that this may very well be the last time he sees her, Lady Malfoy; Narcissa Black, Cissa to her friends, dangerous to her enemies. To him, mother (when he’s feeling posh) and mum (when all he wants is to feel her love once more). This summer, he’d been a right pleb, using almost solely the latter, informal address. It had not made her any more comfortable with his condition or willing to kiss his cheek as she would’ve last year, on this same platform. Draco told himself that it didn’t sting, and on that warm September morning, he could very nearly believe it. 

—

The Hogwarts Express raced past the British countryside, belching plumes of steam into the clear blue sky. Draco attempted to subtly loosen his black tie and rolled his stiff neck; his mother had in her roundabout way selected the three-piece Italian suit for the train ride (“Master Draco, Mistress Narcissa told Mimsy to press and lay out this suit especially for Master Draco’s journey back to school!” He hadn’t the heart to tell Mimsy’s large, rapidly tear-filling eyes no, so in the suit he went) and even with alterations made this summer it still pulled a bit too tight in the shoulders and short enough in the legs that he was forced to wear his dragonhide boots in lieu of his usual school loafers. He felt like a right ponce, is how he felt, but he wasn’t quite ready to put on his uniform and officially begin his tenure as Draco Lucius Malfoy, Heir to the House of Black and Heir Apparent to the House of Malfoy, sixth-year Prefect of Slytherin House and Perfect Pureblood Son of two Perfect Pureblood Sacred Twenty-Eight Lines. He’d allow himself a cauldron cake, a quick ciggy out the carriage window, and one firm handshake with Theo before making his way to change, thank you very much. 

Since June, he hadn’t had the time nor the energy to give a rat’s arse about his titles, and pinning the shiny prefect badge on his emerald green lapel felt childish and asinine—the overall effect was generally imposing but lacking in real enthusiasm. White blond hair fell in waves across his forehead, and he cast a simple charm to smooth it out before exiting the privacy of the loo. Another change initiated by his, ah, encounter this summer was his hair; once fine and smooth as liquid quicksilver, it had taken a slightly coarser, wavier texture. He rather liked it, but his mother insisted on the charms. Appearances, darling, she said, are everything! He didn’t argue at the time, but privately thought, it doesn’t bloody matter what people think of my hair when I go to Azkaban for murdering my fucking headmaster. 

He supposed that this summer had given him a… fresh perspective on himself. The facade of Draco L. Malfoy went up in smoke along with his childhood, that night in the poplars. He shook his head, trying to physically dispel the unpleasant memory. No point in dwelling on that which he couldn’t change. 

He knew that the train was approaching its final destination by some internal clock, well-tuned to the journey by five years of Hogwarts’ attendance. In the prefect carriage, Head Boy and Head Girl badges gleamed on the breasts of Eddie Carmichael (Ravenclaw, half-blood, Irish accent thick to the point of unintelligibility) and Katie Bell (Gryffindor, bloody good chaser, gold rings through her nostril and left eyebrow), respectively. Bell, being one of the only tolerable people to ever wear a red-and-gold tie, had earned Draco’s begrudging respect. She was explaining patrol rotations for the year, having picked up Carmichael’s slack after seeing the blank stares most of his peers had turned his way. That accent really was incomprehensible, which wasn’t Eddie’s fault—nevertheless, it was greatly appreciated that Bell spoke clearly, if overly casually. 

“Alright, you lot! We’re almost to the station—No, Creevey, you can not skive off to the loo, so put your hand down—you’re paired up for patrols starting tonight at 10. You’ll all get a two hour curfew extension to complete your duties, and as long as you mind your business, we’ll mind ours—” Snickers broke out among the relatively large group, but Bell plowed on, “—you’re allowed to take and give points as you like, but never from another prefect, and detentions are fair game as long as you don’t cause anyone any headaches—yes, that means you, Belby, don’t make me hurt you—I’ve got the schedule here, so come on up and find your name before you leave the train. Oh, obviously, make sure the firsties make it to the Great Hall without getting eaten by the squid. We let any more squirts fall into the lake, McGonagall will have my balls and all of yours on a stick, so watch out, yeah? Dismissed!” She finished with the flourish of a quidditch captain (rightly so) and almost immediately struck up a conversation with the fifth-year Hufflepuffs, further cementing her in Draco’s mind as a true bastion of the house of Yeah, We Talk Too Much, What Are You Going To Do About It?

He shoved his way to the front of the car to get a look at the schedule, holding his breath to avoid the stench of unwashed 15-year-old boy that was so viciously attacking his nose; he’d have patrols on Wednesday and Friday evenings, with—fuck off, seriously? 

With Granger. Merlin, did Bell have a grudge against the swot? 

Apparently, the aforementioned swot realized her pairing at the same time as Draco; her reaction was less annoyed and more disgusted. She gave him a great roll of her eyes and turned on her heel, presumably to complain to Bell about the situation. Bloody rich of her to act put out having to patrol with him, stupid m—

Shit. His resolution for this term was to leave the blood purity rot at Malfoy Manor with the Dark Lord. Stupid muggle-born. Annoying, tiresome, bushy, muggle-born Granger. He was allowed to dislike her for everything aside from her pedigree, which was to say, for nearly her entire personality. 

In the seconds it took for this moral quandary to flit through his head, pain lanced through his chest, stealing his breath and forcing him into the nearest available chair like a punch to the stomach. If Nott noticed the look on his face, he had enough tact not to say anything and returned to buttering his scone after giving Draco a polite nod. Draco, for his part, was more concerned with the throbbing in his torso; mercifully, it subsided after another few seconds, and he took a deep, if slightly rattle-y, breath. He slumped back in his chair and shook the residual pangs from deep within his scar tissue while the Hogwarts Express pulled into the train station at its first and only stop. 

For five years, going to the castle meant unerring respect, social prestige, and higher expectations—heavy is the head, and all that rot. Now he would return not as his father’s son but as his mother’s greatest shame. His worries were no longer beating out Granger in Transfiguration or how to ask Pansy to Hogsmeade without getting hexed; he had commit premeditated murder, figure out an escape plan for after the fact, and somehow manage not to kill any of his classmates once a month when he transformed (painfully, brutally, horribly) into the animal that had taken up residence in the hollow place in his chest. 

Levitating his trunk onto the platform, he took his first breath of crisp, Scottish air since May and stepped off the train. Students bustled past him and shoved onto the carriages, pulled by now-visible thestrals. Draco Malfoy walked away from the Hogwarts Express without looking back and hoped against hope that he would live to take it home again. 

—

Hermione hopped off the train and immediately felt a throbbing in her temples. How this many students even fit in the Great Hall was beyond her, and she still had to corral the new first years into Hagrid’s capable (ish?) hands—a headache was just one more problem, wasn’t it? Because clearly, she needed more fucking issues. 

And don’t even get her started on Malfoy. Bi-weekly patrols (including Friday nights, really, Katie?) with the git were certainly not on her sixth year bingo card, which did happen to include: 

• Pull straight O’s in all of her classes: Arithmancy, Ancient Runes, Potions, Transfiguration, Defence, Charms, History of Magic, and Herbology (again)
• Well and truly learn how to tame her hair in a simple, consistent, and somewhat presentable fashion 
• Make prefect (check)
• Keep Harry out of trouble (difficult)
• Stay out of trouble herself (unlikely), and 
• Finally make a move on Ron, for whom she had been pining for an embarrassing amount of time. 

She had fresh parchment, Never-Dry inkwells, and plenty of lists to keep herself on track. She was ready. She knew exactly what to expect from the castle, five years in. 

And then, Malfoy had to come along and muck it all up. 

She hadn’t considered that she’d be patrolling with anyone but Ron, who had been elated to make prefect alongside her—she’d been privately expecting Harry, or maybe Dean Thomas. But Ronald was, as always, a pleasant surprise, and she had intended to use patrols to broach the topic of… them. 

Malfoy. Wanker. 

She knew, objectively, that it wasn’t his fault. But now, she would have to look at his stupid face more than she ever wanted to (never) and spend precious hours with him that she could use studying, convincing Ron that dating was a good idea, or eating glass, any of which were vastly preferred to even a few minutes in Malfoy’s cheerful company. 

She didn’t particularly enjoy being called a mudblood, you see. 

It didn’t hold the same power over her that it used to, but it would never stop hurting. Hermione had had more than enough reminders of her inferiority this summer, thank you. She didn’t need to be called idiotic wizarding slurs to cap it all off. 

As if on cue, her scar seemed to flare to life; sharp, burning pain bloomed across her sternum, a smarting ache leftover from her oh-so-fun run-in with Antonin Dolohov in the Department of Mysteries at the end of last year. A rope of silvery purple and blue tissue bisected her torso from her clavicle to the top of her left hip bone. It cut directly between her breasts, forever removing the possibility of low-cut tops or dresses. Not that it matters, she thought, bitterly. Where on Earth would I ever wear them? The library? She snorted to herself but reined it in when a group of fourth year Ravenclaws gave her an odd look. She really needed to think more optimistically, and resolved to add it to her (mental) sixth year bingo card:

• Think POSITIVE (or else)

The crowd behind her jarred her shoulder as she entered the Great Hall, but even that annoyance melted away as she was reminded, once again, of the wonder that was magic. 

Every year, she returned to Hogwarts just a tad disbelieving of the reality of it all; when home for the summers in Hampstead, magic and broomsticks and professors that turn into cats all seemed like some fantastical dream she had as a child. Something anxious and tightly-wound in her stomach relaxed itself when she reconfirmed to herself that she wasn’t some crazy person, and that this really was her life. 

You’d think the wand would be enough, but when you can’t use it, it rather is just a stick, isn’t it?

She took her seat next to Harry at the Gryffindor table and shot him a smile, which was ignored—he was too busy ogling the blond lump of Malfoy sitting with his own house across the hall.

“What d’ya think he’s up to, mate?” Ron shot her a smile and a nod before attempting to interrupt Harry’s rather conspicuous attention. 

“I dunno,” he mumbled, stubbornly refusing to end the one-sided staring contest he had begun with Malfoy. “But it’s something. He’s just… different, this year. I mean, look at him.”

She did. She could admit, reluctantly, that he had changed physically if nothing else. His once-lanky build had filled out, taking him from a Seeker to more of a Beater’s build (she did so loathe that she knew this without being told) and there was no longer anything pointy about his face. Rather than the overly sharp, severe angles she was used to, his disgustingly aristocratic features were softened and improved by his growth spurt. 

And by Merlin, was he tall. Taller than Ron, now, which was saying something, especially considering the willowy build of Narcissa Malfoy and Lucius’ dainty, rather elven countenance. 

Did she really just refer to Lucius Malfoy as elven? Her mum was right. She needed to get out more. Alright, last item on her list:

• Socialize (!!!!) (Quidditch? Ugh)

Though, she did notice something in his face that was less than perfectly symmetrical—his once straight, perennially upturned Grecian nose listed to the right, as though broken and improperly healed. For this, she was grateful, because it gave his (frankly, disturbingly) faultless image a point of weakness. Look at that, she thought. Malfoy is human, after all. 

Rubbing the heel of her hand against her sternum, Hermione took a sip of strong tea and allowed her eyes to wander down to the faculty table. The only face she didn’t already recognize was that of a pasty, toad-like man in an unfortunately patterned bow tie sitting to Severus Snape’s left. He was clearly trying to engage the taciturn potions master in conversation, with little to no success—never let it be said that Snape was a scintillating discussion partner, even on the best of days, which today clearly was not. His already pale skin seemed blanched to the color of bone, and black hair hung limply in a curtain around tired, purple-ringed eyes. She wasn’t unused to her professor being less than a beauty, but this was ridiculous, even for him; he appeared more like death, slightly warmed over, than a man. Hopefully, their new instructor (Defence?) would take the hint, return to his roast goose, and save himself from the wrath of the Great Severus Snape. As she was pondering, Snape turned his head in the direction of the talkative man, made some cutting remark, and began attacking his food with a fervor not dissimilar to that of a raptor. This did quickly shut the other man’s mouth, with a click that Hermione swore she could hear over the din of the Great Hall—she scoffed and turned back to the matter at hand, i.e. Harry’s newfound, ah, interest in Draco Malfoy. Before she could comment, Dumbledore’s voice boomed and reverberated against the castle’s rough-hewn stone walls. 

“WELCOME, STUDENTS, TO HOGWARTS SCHOOL FOR WITCHCRAFT AND WIZARDRY.” 

Ron turned to her and Harry before muttering, “Blimey, I think we know where we are, mate—” Snape cast a silencing spell over their table and cast a withering glare that Ron accepted with aplomb, smiling with faux-cheer at the dour man. 

“THIS YEAR, WE HAVE THE PLEASURE OF WELCOMING A NEW POTIONS MASTER TO THE CASTLE. PLEASE GIVE A ROUND OF APPLAUSE TO THE ESTEEMED PROFESSOR HORACE SLUGHORN.” 

Claps scattered the hall as the squat man pushed himself up from the table, but clearly no one particularly cared about staff changes. “AND, OUR OWN PROFESSOR SEVERUS SNAPE WILL TAKE UP THE MANTLE OF PROFESSOR FOR DEFENCE AGAINST THE DARK ARTS.” At this, genuine cheers erupted from the Slytherin table and claps were drawn from Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff, sparingly. Gryffindor remained mostly silent. 

Dumbledore clapped twice, the sound bouncing off the hall’s back wall, and Professor McGonagall strode in with a line of terrified and awed first-years hot on her heels. The stool that Hermione and her fellow students sat at themselves during their first years was placed on the dais in the center of the huge room, and in McGonagall’s slightly wrinkled hands lay the Sorting Hat. She set the artifact in its place and the hall quieted in anticipation of the ancient headwear’s insipid song. Hermione rolled her eyes and took a bite of the buttered roll Ron had covertly lain on her plate. He really was a gem, when he wanted to be. 

At the melody’s end, whoops and wolf-whistles rose from the older students, and her Professor began calling names. “Ahuja, Gurpreet!” the small, round boy seemed to shake as he made his way to the seat of honor, and when the hat touched his shiny, black hair, it barely took a breath before exclaiming, “Hufflepuff!”

The table festooned in yellow and black practically burst with claps, cheers, and other excited cries. The boy’s (Gurpreet, Hermione remembered) previously panicky face split into a grin so huge it threatened to tear him in two; his smile exposed teeth with a gap in the middle and electric blue braces that signaled to Hermione and the other muggle-born and half-blood students that Gurpreet was one of them. He bounced to his new table and was greeted with thumps on the back and fist bumps by the second- and third-years sitting near the front of the hall. Cheers, kid, she thought. In the seconds it took for the boy to settle and all of Hufflepuff to take their seats, the second first year alighted upon the stool. A tall girl with a short blonde bob, last name Awbrey, or something…

“RAVENCLAW!” Hermione clapped politely and waited once more.

—

The house breakdown ended up fairly even; of the 32 incoming students, eight went to Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw each, seven to Slytherin, and nine to Gryffindor. Hermione was privately smug that her house had the most first years, and as she led the gaggle to their common room she told them facts about the castle, their house, and their new lives at Hogwarts.

“Miss Hermione, do we have bathrooms even though we’re in a castle? My mum told me castles didn’t have bathrooms.” One of the smaller kids with a round face and tufts of reddish-brown hair asked. 

“Jonas, you can just call me Hermione, really—and of course we have bathrooms! Each year has their own shared space, separated into boys and girls, accessible through your dorms—oh, there you are, Ronald!” The freckled boy practically smacked face-first into Hermione as he jumped out of the portrait hole. 

“Hermione, I’m so sorry, I completely forgot we had to bring them up—” She gave him a smile that just missed her eyes. Somehow, she wasn’t all that shocked. 

“It’s alright, I’ve got them—yes, Mirna, this is the other sixth year prefect—boys, Ron’ll show you to your dorms in a moment—” she paused to allow the Fat Lady’s portrait to swing closed. 

“This is how you’ll get into the common room every day, so try and remember the password! Right now, the word is Hippogriff.” The portrait hole opened after a brief “Hello, dearies!” from the Fat Lady, and Hermione led the group of eleven- and twelve-year olds into the warm, cozy space that was the Gryffindor common room. 

Say what you will about her house, but by Godric, they knew a thing or two about cozy. Every inch of the large, high-ceilinged room was draped in some kind of maroon and gold velvet or brocade, lending the entire space an orange-hue deepened by the fire roaring in the large hearth against the far wall. Squashed in groups of two and three, overstuffed armchairs and loveseats took up the left side of the room, while the right was dedicated to a few bursting bookshelves, various desk setups, and low tables surrounded by velvet cushions meant for chats, games of wizarding chess, or last-minute charms homework. Persian rugs covered nearly the entire stone floor, and the thick, plush material insulated the room from the tower’s perennial chill. 

If you asked Hermione, this was the best place in the world to curl up with a book and waste away an afternoon. It was also useful for other things, like fraternization and scheming with Her Boys. (Her Boys being Ronald Billius Weasley and Harry James Potter, who were also incidentally her most frustrating annoyances, about half the time.)

The firsties (damn it, she was trying her best not to pick up that ridiculous moniker from Harry and Ron) were appropriately awed by the grandeur of the common room, and somewhere in the back of her mind, she knew that none of them would remember the password. Oh well, she thought. They’ll live. 

— 

Breakfast on the first day of classes was always a bit of a zoo. The Hall was practically overrun with students that managed to haul themselves up early enough to eat before their first block, and Hermione knew that by the end of the week, the herd would thin to a tamer crowd. Even Harry managed to throw on his uniform and jog down the stairs of Gryffindor tower in time to shove toast and tea in his face—both of which were made difficult by the way he was craning his neck, searching for—

“Mate, the ferret’s not going to show up any faster just because you spilled all over yourself.” Ron had clearly been dealing with Malfoy talk already this morning, and his dry tone did distract Harry well enough to abash his rude behavior. Harry sent a rather sheepish grin across the table to Hermione, who had busied herself slicing her sausages into bite-sized pieces rather than entertain this ridiculousness. 

“Morning, buddy,” he said. “Sorry for being, ah—”

“So entirely preoccupied with your needless Malfoy crusade that you not only forgot to say hello, but thought you could get away with calling me ‘buddy’?” her tone was perfectly polite, thank you, and the sniff at the end of her sentence did nothing but reiterate her point. 

Harry grinned that stupid grin that he knew would thaw even the frostiest of her moods. “Aw, buddy, I missed you too.” Hermione returned to her sausages but huffed a laugh and stuck her tongue out at him without looking up. “It’s just, guys. I swear I’m not, like, being paranoid—I saw him and his mum at King’s Cross, and she looked about ready to punt him onto the train she was so desperate to be rid of him—” He was interrupted by the urgent clanging of the first bell, warning them to get themselves to class. Hermione led the three out the Great Hall’s massive doors, periodically turning her head back to toss in a comment to the boys’ conversation; she was unwilling to be late (i.e., less than early) to their first day of potions with their new professor, and it was during one of these moments of frantic, distracted forward momentum that she hit something too soft to be a wall but too solid to be anything but another person. 

And, because she had been so insistent on practically running to the dungeons, her movement propelled her into the not-wall hard enough that she bowled both of them over. 

This was how, on the first day of her sixth year, her year, goddamnit—she ended up in a heap of limbs on the cool stone floor with none other than the ferret himself, man of the fucking hour, Draco Malfoy. 

“Merlin, Granger, do you ever watch where you’re fucking going—” The aforementioned ferret shoved himself up a second after Ron helped Hermione to her feet. She could feel annoyance and something more acidic coiling in her gut; with a deep breath and a reminder of her goals for the year (keep myself out of trouble), she swallowed it down and scoffed in his stupid, mostly symmetrical face. 

“You know, Malfoy,” She said, tone deeply unserious, “I actually don't. I’ll be sure to take that into consideration.” A thrill shot up her spine as she flippantly dismissed the boy who had made her entire adolescence a waking nightmare, the boy who first taught her the word mudblood and how much this wonderful, awful world hated her. He seemed more gobsmacked than angry at her audacity, and sputtered in a distinctly un-Malfoy-esque way in lieu of some snappy retort. Harry handed her her bag before Ron knocked into the blond’s (“fucking solid, what are they feeding him”) shoulder as their trio practically stomped around him and into the potions classroom. Blessedly free from the unpleasantness that was Severus Snape’s presence, with a smooth piece of parchment and her (already annotated) textbook in front of her, Hermione Granger thought to herself—

This is my year. I can feel it.