Shades of Grey
Hermione shot straight up, her heart hammering in her chest as she tried and failed to calm herself. Her eyes skated around the still-dark room, desperate to catalog her surroundings. Directly across from her, Hermione could just make out the still-sleeping form of Ginny Weasley, tucked snugly beneath her Gryffindor-themed quilt, her fiery hair fanned out and blending into the red and gold. But not even the familiar, comforting sight of her friend could bring peace to Hermione’s racing thoughts.
Her breath came in shallow gasps, her head reeling with the remnants of what she now recognized as a dream. A dream. She clung to that knowing, forcing logic to combat the unease curling in her bones. Reaching for her wand, she twisted it reflexively between her fingers, grounding herself in the spark of magic humming beneath her touch. It was a balm, however small.
She drew in slow, measured breaths, focusing on the steady breeze filtering through the open window—somehow still not quite refreshing against the cloying summer heat. Sweat clung to her skin, dampening the front of her shirt, sticky and uncomfortable. She ran a trembling hand through the tangle of curls plastered to her neck, brushing them away as if that could shake the lingering feeling from her mind.
Now steadier, Hermione tried to reconstruct the details of the dream, but the moment she reached for them, they slipped through her fingers—hazy, unraveling in her wakefulness. And yet… something about the shade of gray near dawn, creeping across the horizon, felt too familiar to be chance.
Her eyes trained on a spot in the distance, half-lost in the fog billowing across the expanse, willing some further memory to surface. Something more than the image ingrained behind her eyelids—some nameless, formless figure reaching out, desperate to be saved.
The person—or at least, she figured it had been a person—had haunted her dreams for weeks now. They had no true discernible features, at first only a shadow in dark robes, shrouded in mist. But each night, the haze lifted ever so slightly, sharpening the figure’s edges, drawing them closer into focus. And this time, they had eyes. Deep, dark grey, lined with a silver as brilliant as the full moon. Haunting. Heartbreaking. Pleading for her help. They hadn’t spoken—hadn’t needed to. The pain in their gaze had transcended language.
She had tried to reach them anyway, tried to promise them something—what, she wasn’t sure. Comfort? Salvation? But they didn’t seem to hear her. They only stared, horror-stricken, fingers outstretched yet just beyond her grasp.
And all she could remember now were hands—strong, firm, reaching for her. Eyes—grey like a storm-torn sea. Anything beyond that twisted further into the mist, always just out of reach.
Yet, even still, awake and searching through that mist, Hermione swore she could still feel them. The phantom near brush of fingers against her own. A chill clinging to her skin, a whispered sense of loss curling in her chest.
And the worst part—the part she refused to acknowledge—was that it hurt.
Whoever they were, they weren’t just some shadow conjured by restless dreams. They mattered.
And somehow, deep in her marrow, she knew she mattered to them, too.
Hermione remained like that, staring unseeing and suffering in the breaking dawn, until silver-gray gave way to gold.
She laid back against her transfigured mattress, pressing her eyes closed even as the gray flooded her blackened vision. She didn’t fight it, allowing her mind to commit it to memory, tracing every shifting shade—slate, onyx, and ash. Familiar yet unknown.
As she waited silently for Ginny to stir, Hermione remained perfectly still, not wanting to concern her friend with her lack of sleep. She had made the mistake before of being caught out, letting the shift from night to day slip past her unnoticed. Molly had panicked, fretting over her well-being. Ginny had been quieter in her concern, her observant brown eyes boring into her, demanding answers Hermione didn’t have.
Finally, she felt the air in the room shift, heard Ginny groan, roll over, and climb out of bed.
Still, Hermione didn’t move. Her muscles ached from lying too stiffly, but she kept up the act, playing at sleep until the peaceful hush of dawn was broken by Molly’s voice calling them down for breakfast. The warm scent of fried eggs and toast drifted up the stairs, curling around them like an invitation.
When she did, she found Ginny already watching her.
The brown of her eyes had darkened, narrowed in quiet study, as if she had been observing Hermione for some time.
Hermione cringed internally, schooling her face into a mask of groggy normalcy as she stretched and forced a small, half-hearted smile. Ginny only stared, unconvinced, as they both pulled on their school robes.
She wondered what Ginny saw as she studied her face. If her pale complexion and the dark circles beneath her eyes had finally reached the point where she could no longer ignore them. If it was time to use the glamour she’d been putting off.
Ginny didn’t speak until Hermione had fastened the last button of her robes.
Ginny’s voice cut through the stillness of the room, gentle but sharp with concern. “Is it the dreams again?”
Hermione froze for a moment, her fingers still tangled in her messy curls. She didn’t want to answer—not yet. Not when she still didn’t have a clear explanation for herself.
But Ginny’s gaze was unwavering, studying her with quiet intensity. Hermione could feel the weight of her eyes on her, like she was dissecting every imperfection. The dark circles under her eyes. The stiffness in her movements.
“I’m fine,” Hermione said quickly, forcing a dismissive smile as she reached for her robe. “Just… tired. You know how it is. The dreams are nothing.”
Ginny raised an eyebrow, unconvinced. “Hermione, you’ve been like this for days. You’re not fooling anyone.” Her voice softened, almost as if she was trying to coax her out of her shell. “I know something’s going on. If you want to talk about it, I’m here.”
Hermione sighed, rubbing her temples. She should have known Ginny would see right through her. They had spent too many hours together for Hermione to hide her discomfort.
“I’m just not sleeping well, that’s all. Really. It’s nothing.” She pulled at her collar, trying to act casual, but Ginny wasn’t buying it.
“Are you sure?” Ginny’s tone was gentle now, her eyes still scanning Hermione’s face for any hint of the truth. “You did call someone ‘obnoxiously handsome’ in your sleep the other night. Just saying.”
Hermione turned sharply toward her, eyes wide. “I did not—”
Ginny grinned. “You did. And I have a few guesses.”
Hermione groaned, dragging a pillow over her face. “I swear, Ginny—if you bring this up at breakfast—”
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Ginny said sweetly, flopping back onto her bed. “But if you ever want to talk about the grey-eyed mystery boy with the stupid face and the stupid hair haunting your subconscious, I’m available. I make a great dream interpreter.”
Hermione muttered something unintelligible into the pillow, feeling her face burn. She wasn’t ready to tell anyone about the dreams. Not when she barely understood them herself. The phantom figure, the grey eyes, the odd sense of longing—none of it made sense.
“I’m fine,” she repeated, more firmly this time, though the uncertainty in her voice lingered. She didn’t want to burden Ginny with this.
Ginny gave her a knowing look but didn’t press any further. “Alright. But you know I’m here, right? Anytime.”
Hermione nodded, feeling a pang of guilt for not being able to share her concerns. “Thanks, Ginny.”
Ginny didn’t press further, but the look she gave her lingered—concerned, but understanding. Without another word, they made their way downstairs. Harry, the twins, and Arthur were already seated, with Molly near the stove, stacking plates high with a swish of her wand and sending them to their respective place settings.
By the time Ron finally joined them, his eyes foggy with sleep, they had all started eating. Quiet conversation drifted between them. It was a far more subdued affair than was typical for a morning at the Burrow, but with their return to Hogwarts looming large overhead, unspoken thoughts about the upcoming war, and the lingering unease from her dream, it was all Hermione could do to finish her food, one bite at a time.
The vague image of a stormy sea, grey eyes, and pale hands—strong and unyielding—kept circling in her mind. She didn’t know who the face belonged to, but something about it unsettled her. The eyes had felt too familiar, too intense. She rubbed her forehead as if to push the thought away, trying to focus on the conversation around her.
Even Harry seemed more withdrawn than usual, picking at his plate, his thoughts clearly elsewhere. It wasn’t surprising, given everything that had happened last year, but it still felt strange to Hermione. Ron’s voice cut through the silence first.
“So, you reckon Malfoy’s gonna be back with the Death Eaters this year?” he muttered, shooting a glance at Hermione. “I mean, it’s pretty obvious, right?”
Hermione stiffened at the mention of his name, but she kept her voice steady. “You can’t just assume that because he’s a Malfoy.”
Ron scoffed. “Hermione, you’ve seen what he’s like. His father’s a Death Eater, and he’s been tangled up in all this stuff for years. He’s not just going to turn around now, is he?”
Harry suddenly spoke up, his tone sharp, his green eyes wary on Hermione’s face. “Ron’s right. We all know what he’s like. His family’s deep in this. He’s been seen in Knockturn Alley, hanging around with the wrong crowd. It’s only a matter of time before he’s fully involved.”
Hermione blinked, surprised at Harry’s bluntness. She shook her head. “But we don’t know for sure that he’s with them. Maybe he’s just trapped in his family’s mess, like he’s always been. We don’t have the full story yet, Harry.”
Ron scowled. “Hermione, that’s being too generous. You’ve got to face the facts. He’s not exactly showing any signs of changing sides.”
Ginny, who had been quietly listening to the back-and-forth, added dryly, “Maybe it’s easier to focus on how fit he is rather than figuring out whether he’s a bloody Death Eater.”
Hermione’s cheeks flushed, heat rushing to her ears. “Ginny…”
It was mortifying. The gleam behind Ginny’s eyes as she studied the shift in Hermione’s expression. Just an echo of their earlier conversation—one Hermione had sworn Ginny wouldn’t bring up again. Apparently, she’d tossed out comments about a stupid face and even stupider hair. Apparently, Ginny had managed to connect those dots before Hermione herself had even done so. Still hadn’t done so. Her dreams and those ridiculous grey eyes couldn’t possibly have anything to do with Malfoy, could they?
Even so, Hermione’s silence seemed to speak volumes. She hadn’t been the one to bring up Malfoy’s appearance—had even tried to brush it off—but she hadn’t denied it either. And now it was out in the open. In front of Ron, of all people.
Ron’s ears turned pink, and he shot Hermione a sharp, suspicious glance. “What’s that supposed to mean? You’re not saying he’s… charming, are you?”
Hermione opened her mouth, but the words didn’t come. What was she supposed to say? She couldn’t explain the strange, protective feeling that surged whenever she thought of Draco. It made no sense. He had only ever been cruel to her—mocked her, insulted her, humiliated her. He’d called her—
“Don’t forget he used to call you—” Ron began, his voice rising in disbelief.
“Ron,” George cut in from across the table, voice flat. “Not now.”
The table quieted, tension settling like fog over them. Hermione’s fingers curled around her fork, and she looked down at her half-eaten breakfast.
Ginny, undeterred, smirked, clearly enjoying the way her teasing had shifted the room. “I’m just saying, it’s hard to stay angry at someone when they look like he does.”
Her throat tightened. “Ginny…” she started again, her voice thinner this time. The knot in her stomach twisted sharper. It was a truth she knew well—though it seemed both ridiculous and shameful to admit. Every girl in their year, and the two below, had noticed Draco’s looks. Tall, lean, angular, with those cool grey eyes and that infuriating, aristocratic arrogance. It was as objective a thing as the color of the sky. Grey, like it was on this muggy, overcast day. Grey like the dream that had haunted her half the summer.
She squeezed her eyes shut and pressed her fingertips to her temple. That same grey shimmered behind her lids.
Hermione finally sighed, trying to diffuse the tension. “Can we not make this about him being handsome? It’s not the point.”
Ron muttered something under his breath, clearly frustrated. “I don’t care how he looks.”
Her mind was still reeling. She shook her head, but her voice came out too soft. “R-Ron’s right. It’s not about that.”
Harry cut in, more irritated now, his voice terse. “We don’t have time to be thinking about that. We’ve got bigger things to deal with.”
Ron nodded, though his expression stayed tight, uncertain. “Yeah. Malfoy and his bloody family are big enough problems already. We don’t need to add… whatever this is to the list.”
With a sigh, she silently agreed to disagree. The list certainly was long enough, Malfoy or otherwise. With a final exhale, she refocused, the weight of the approaching year settling in her chest. The war was far from over, and there was still so much left to face. Far more than Malfoy or these senseless dreams. These shades of grey.
From the other end of the table, Fred raised a brow. “If this turns into some twisted Romeo and Juliet thing, I’m putting a Silencing Charm on the entire floor.”
George clinked his fork against his glass. “To forbidden love and poor decisions before term even starts.”
Ginny grinned. “Honestly, I’d read it.”
Hermione groaned and dropped her head into her hands. “Please stop talking.”
Molly seemed to agree, her lips drawn into a tight line as she rose from the table, gesturing for them all to do the same. “Alright, you lot,” she called, her hands on her hips. “No time to dawdle. Off you go through the Floo, the train won’t wait for you.”
Ron groaned but got to his feet, muttering under his breath. “You’d think we were eight again.”
Ginny popped up rather excitedly, leaning to hug her father and then press a quick kiss to Mollys cheek. “Take care, Mum.”
With a final laugh, she was the first to step into the Floo, vanishing in a swirl of green flames. The rest of them followed soon after, Hermione last, pausing at the edge of the hearth, her heart heavy with the weight of the unknown, her thoughts still spinning as she stepped through the fire.
In the back of her mind, the gray eyes lingered, haunting her thoughts. She couldn’t shake the feeling that they were connected to something far darker.