Unwritten Rules
Hermione
Hermione woke early, the pale light of dawn creeping through the heavy curtains of her dorm room. She lay completely still for a moment, simply listening to the muffled hum of the radiator and the faint rustle of of the leaves battling against the harsh wind outside her window. Her body ached with the kind of tension that came from sleeping in an unfamiliar bed—not uncomfortable, exactly, but different enough to remind her she was far from home. That her body still felt as though she had to be on her guards, even in the dead of night.
Her gaze drifted to the ceiling, the ornate moldings casting delicate shadows in the weak morning light. The room felt too big, too opulent, too—everything. Even with Ginny’s bright clutter softening the edges, the space seemed more suited to a museum than a dormitory—that hadn't changed in a soft morning glow. Hermione turned onto her side and stared at the lock on the door. She’d checked it twice before bed, and she’d check it again before she left. Just in case.
With a sigh, she pushed herself upright, her feet brushing against the cool floorboards. The day stretched ahead of her, an endless expanse of unknowns she couldn’t yet name. Thrilling, right? Except it wasn’t. It was exhausting just thinking about it. The start of new classes, she could handle—she would thrive in it, really. It was everything else that was the problem. Too many variables, too many ways something could go wrong. She wouldn't let it.
The air outside her dorm was thick with the sounds of life: footsteps echoing down the hall, snippets of laughter, the occasional burst of muffled music from behind a closed door. Hermione pulled on a pair of jeans and a sweater, tying her hair back with a plain elastic. Functional. Simple. She didn’t have the energy for anything else, nor the need.
Ginny was already gone, as evidenced by the cheerful chaos on her side of the room. Her bed was unmade, her pillows askew, and a scarf was draped haphazardly over her chair. Hermione glanced at the note taped to her desk: Breakfast in the dining hall. Come find me if you want company. The handwriting was bold, cheerful, with little hearts dotting the i’s. Hermione sighed, but a faint smile tugged at her lips.
She slung her bag over her shoulder and stepped into the hall, her sneakers squeaking softly against the polished floor. The staircase seemed taller in the morning, the banister’s ironwork gleaming in the pale sunlight streaming through a nearby window. She gripped the railing tightly as she descended, her footsteps echoing in the cavernous space.
The dining hall was already buzzing with activity when she arrived. Students filled the long wooden tables, their laughter and chatter blending into a low, constant hum. Hermione hovered near the entrance for a moment, instinctively cataloguing every exit as her eyes scanned the room. Two doors on either side of the hall, a narrow staff entrance partially hidden behind a row of vending machines, and the large double doors she'd just entered through. Satisfied, she allowed herself to relax enough to take in the rest of the scene. Like a normal person.
Groups clustered at various tables, their body language revealing unspoken hierarchies. Even in the ivy leagues, cliques ran rampant it seemed. The loudest table near the center belonged to a group of boys, their laughter sharp and their movements effortless. In the far corner, two girls whispered conspiratorially, their heads bent close together. Another table held a lone student scribbling furiously in a notebook, oblivious to the chaos around them.
Hermione’s eyes lingered on the central table. The boys there seemed… different. Sharper. More polished. She couldn’t quite put her finger on it, but they carried themselves with a kind of careless authority that made her stomach twist. She could tell, from one sweep of her eyes onto the room, that they commanded an amount of attention that seemed unmatched amongst the other groups and that was enough for her to want to stop looking.
Ginny spotted her almost immediately after she had managed to grab a tray with some breakfast essentials, waving her over with a grin as bright as her hair. Hermione hesitated, then made her way to the table, weaving through the crowd with practiced precision. Friendship wasn't on her todo list this year. Saying she didn't want it—that she hadn't craved it during her youth when it had seemed like the most impossible thing to achieve—would be a lie of sorts. But she knew better. People were distractions. Friends were weaknesses. She couldn't afford either. It didn't mean, however, that she planned on being an asshole on purpose.
“Morning!” Ginny chirped as Hermione slid into the seat across from her. “Sleep okay?”
“Fine.” Hermione lied, reaching for a piece of toast. The truth didn't need to be shared.
Ginny smiled knowingly, clearly seeing through the answer but choosing not to press. “Well, welcome to your first official breakfast here. It’s always like this. Loud, chaotic, and full of caffeine addicts pretending they’re fine.” she eyed Hermione's steaming coffee on her tray with a pointed smirk and gestured around the room with her spoon. “See that table near the door? That’s where the student council sits. They’re annoyingly productive, even at this hour. And over there,” she pointed to a table laden with laptops and scattered papers, “that’s the overachievers. You’ll fit in with them.”
Hermione raised an eyebrow. “Because I look like I’m about to start studying at breakfast?”
Ginny grinned. “Because you’ve got that quiet, calculating look, like you’re already three steps ahead of everyone else in the room. It’s not a bad thing. Just… intimidating, I guess.”
Hermione snorted softly, picking at her toast. It was surprisingly perceptive of her, regardless how off the mark she was on the reasons. She let her eyes wander the room as Ginny continued narrating.
“The ones near the far windows?” Ginny said, leaning in conspiratorially. “That’s the theater crowd. They’re dramatic, loud, and always rehearsing something. Kind of fun if you can stand the noise.”
Hermione nodded, watching the group of students gesturing animatedly, their laughter carrying above the general din. Her gaze drifted further, lingering briefly on a pair of girls in the corner, their heads bent close together as they whispered. They looked like they were plotting something, though Hermione knew better than to assume.
“And that table there.” Ginny continued, her voice dropping slightly, “the one near the center?”
Hermione’s eyes followed Ginny’s gesture, landing on the group of boys she’d noticed earlier. They were different, even the air around them seemed to shift from its' normal quiet buzz. It was abstract, but Hermione had learned to trust abstract. One of them leaned back in his chair, laughing easily, while another shuffled a deck of cards with practiced precision. The third sat at the head of the table, stirring his coffee with a kind of lazy disinterest that felt entirely deliberate.
“Yeah” Ginny said, catching Hermione’s gaze. “Them.”
“Them?” Hermione asked, frowning slightly at the tone of Ginny's voice.
Ginny leaned closer, her voice dropping to barely above a whisper. “We call them The Viper Court. That’s Draco Malfoy, Theodore Nott, and Blaise Zabini. They practically run this place.”
“Why?” Hermione’s frown deepened as she asked, although the news didn't phase her as much as one might expect. It was consistent with the energy they exhuded, somehow.
“Money, power, attitude. The trifecta.” Ginny gestured with her croissant, her tone light but edged with something close to awe. “They’re kind of terrifying, actually. But in a weirdly magnetic way. Like watching a car crash. You want to look away, but you can’t.” she nodded to herself as though appraising her own metaphor. "That's them, they're the car crash."
Hermione glanced back at the trio. A blond man stirring his coffee was almost sneering in disinterest, barely sparring a glance at his companions as the spoke. Another, with dark strands falling on his forehead, continued to shuffle his deck of cards with a precision bordering on surgical, hands so steady it made Hermione's grip on her cup tighten, teeth clenched. The last one, dark skinned and all fake grins, leaned back in his seat, his laughter cutting through the din of the hall. They were, Hermione had to admit, unnervingly self-assured, if nothing else.
“Do they… actually do anything?” she asked, keeping her voice low.
Ginny snorted. “Depends on your definition of ‘anything.’ They’re good at being untouchable. And throwing ridiculous parties. Oh, and they’re brilliant. Annoyingly so.” She leaned forward, her voice dropping slightly. “Malfoy’s the poster boy for perfection—top marks in nearly every class. But people say he’s… intense. Like, break-your-confidence-with-a-single-look or will-kill-you-if-you-breathe-wrong kind of intense. There’s a rumor that he’s humiliated students so badly they’ve transferred. One guy tried to challenge him last year… didn’t end well. They found his dorm room trashed and his scholarship revoked a week later. Malfoy didn’t even have to lift a single finger.”
She nodded toward the boy shuffling cards. “That’s Theo Nott. He’s quiet, but don’t let that fool you. People say he can read you like a book so easily it's creepy—all your weaknesses, everything you’re trying to hide. And he’ll use it. There’s this story about him dismantling an academic rival's reputation piece by piece until they just… disappeared, all because the guy accused him of cheating on an essay. No one knows where he went.” Ginny shivered dramatically, though the gleam in her eye betrayed her fascination.
“And Zabini?” she said, gesturing toward the boy lounging with an easy grin. “He’s… well, Zabini. He can get his way with just about anyone with that smile but, supposedly, he’s a wildcard. Rumor has it he’s got a bit of a temper. Some guy made the mistake of insulting him at a party last semester, and let’s just say the guy ended up with more broken bones than intact ones. No one’s really sure what happened, but Blaise walked out without a scratch and didn’t seem the least bit sorry, if anything he looked ready for round two.”
Ginny’s voice dropped lower, her gaze flicking back toward the trio. “It's not all bad, they throw the most unhinged, exclusive parties on campus and things get pretty lively when they're bored for too long since they live for chaos. But no one defies them. Not really. People have tried, but it… doesn’t end well. You might think they’re just rumors, but look around. Everyone gives them a wide berth. That’s not an accident.”
Hermione’s stomach twisted. Great. Just what she needed, a group of rich boys with big egos and bigger daddy issues. She knew the type. She knew it well. And she wanted nothing to do with it. Not this time.
“Well, they sound delightful.” she said dryly, picking at her toast.
Ginny grinned, clearly enjoying herself. “Don’t worry, they’ll probably ignore you.” She hesitated, taking a thoughtful bite of her croissant. “Well, unless you do something to stand out. But honestly, they don’t pay attention to most people, like, ever.”
Hermione rolled her eyes, but her stomach tightened. Attention was the last thing she wanted, especially from people like them. She’d learned long ago that standing out—especially to the wrong kind of people—rarely ended well. Ginny’s warnings rang in her ears like a distant echo, but Hermione forced herself to focus on her toast, pretending that none of this mattered. Pretending she was invisible.
But as she glanced at Ginny, still chattering away about other campus dynamics—something or other about 'societies' and 'clubs'—Hermione couldn’t shake the thought that avoiding them might be easier said than done. The way the room bent subtly around their table, the unspoken reverence mixed with fear in the glances cast their way—it wasn’t just about who they were. It was about what they represented. Power. And power, Hermione had learned, was rarely content to leave well enough alone.
Hermione entered her first lecture hall of the day with her notebook clutched to her chest like a shield. The space was grand—grander than any classrooms needed to be, its vaulted ceiling lined with intricate wooden beams that seemed to stretch higher than necessary. Everything in this school was larger than life—the architecture, the egos, even the stakes. She swallowed hard, scanning the room for a seat that wasn’t too close to the front or too far in the back. Somewhere neutral. Central. Invisible, if such a place existed.
Somewhere she could assess, observe, see the professor, the door and at least half of the student body. Sitting there, right in the middle, she'd feel safer, more in control of her environment—to some infinitesimal degree.
The room buzzed with low chatter as students filed in, their voices blending into an indistinct hum. Hermione’s eyes darted from one group to another, cataloguing their dynamics with the precision of someone who couldn’t afford not to notice the details. Overachievers at the front, their laptops already open and glowing. A smattering of middle-row dwellers who looked like they’d stumbled in by accident but weren’t entirely unhappy to be here. And then there were the ones at the back, sprawled out like they owned the place.
Her gaze lingered on that last group for a fraction too long. A boy with messy blond hair leaned back in his chair, one ankle resting on his opposite knee, his posture a perfect picture of casual; calculated, indifference. Next to him, a dark-haired boy shuffled a deck of cards with an elegance that seemed almost out of place in the setting. And on his other side, another boy—tall, dark-skinned, and utterly unbothered—laughed at something, the sound carrying effortlessly through the room.
Malfoy, Nott, Zabini. Ginny’s words from breakfast echoed in Hermione’s mind, unbidden. She forced herself to look away, her stomach twisting with the memory of how Ginny had described them: untouchable, terrifying, magnetic. It wasn’t the first time Hermione had encountered people like that—those who walked through life as though the world had been made for them—but it was the first time she could afford to avoid them altogether, of her own accord. And so she would.
She found a seat near the middle of the room and sat down, carefully placing her notebook and pens on the desk in front of her. Neutral. Safe. Unremarkable. That was the goal. The professor arrived moments later, an older man with silver hair and an air of authority that managed to quiet the room without a word. Hermione let out a small breath of relief as the lecture began, the familiar rhythm of note-taking grounding her in a way nothing else had since she’d arrived.
The professor’s voice droned on, filling the hall with talk of the Enlightenment—its thinkers, its impact, its promises of progress and reason. Hermione’s pen moved swiftly across the page, her handwriting neat and methodical. Around her, the room blurred, the other students fading into the background as her focus sharpened.
But even as she wrote, a faint tension tugged at the edges of her awareness. She couldn’t quite shake the feeling of being watched. It wasn’t paranoia; it was instinct. Years of navigating precarious situations had taught her to trust that feeling, even when she couldn’t immediately pinpoint its source. Her pen faltered for a moment, the line of ink curving where it should have been straight. She resisted the urge to look around.
Don’t react. Just breathe.
She forced herself to keep writing, her grip tightening on the pen as she meticulously copied down a quote the professor had written on the board. But the sensation didn’t fade. If anything, it grew stronger, pressing against the edges of her mind like a presence just out of sight. Her fingers gripped her pen tighter. Everything was fine.
When the break was called, Hermione took the opportunity to stretch, her movements deliberately slow as she glanced around the room. Most of the students had risen from their seats, chatting in clusters or making their way to the exits for a quick reprieve. Her gaze swept over the rows behind her, careful not to linger too long on any one face.
And then she saw them. The trio from the back of the room hadn’t moved, their positions unchanged as though the lecture had never ended, or never started to begin with. Malfoy was saying something to Nott, his lips curving into a smirk that Hermione didn’t have to hear to know was cutting. Nott responded with a faint tilt of his head, his expression unreadable, while Zabini lounged in his chair, his eyes half-lidded but sharp.
Hermione’s stomach tightened again. It wasn’t that they were looking at her—they weren’t. Not directly. But there was a weight to their presence, an unspoken authority that made it impossible not to notice them. She turned back to her desk, determined to shake the feeling.
The second half of the lecture passed in a blur, her meticulous notes filling page after page as she forced herself to focus. By the time the professor dismissed them, her hand was cramped, and her mind was buzzing with information she’d need to review later. It had quieted her thoughts for a moment—and what a glorious reprieve that had been. Hermione packed her things quickly, eager to leave the room and the strange tension behind before her instinct from earlier could make her heartbeat spike again.
The hallway outside the lecture hall was crowded, the flow of students jostling past her as she made her way to her next class, thankful she had memorized the layout of the building before even arriving to the University. She kept her head down, her grip on her bag firm as she navigated the chaos. But even as she moved, the memory of the trio lingered in her mind, juxtaposed with this eerie feeling of being watched, assessed, like a shadow she couldn’t quite shake.
She reached her next class a few minutes early, grateful for the chance to sit and catch her breath. The room was smaller, more intimate, with desks arranged in a semi-circle around the professor’s podium. Hermione chose a seat near the far end, her back to the wall and her gaze on the door. A habit, she supposed. One she wasn’t likely to break anytime soon.
As the other students trickled in, she let her thoughts drift. The lecture had been fine, familiar even, but the dynamics of the room had unsettled her more than she wanted to admit. It wasn’t just the Viper Court—a stupid name maybe, but one that held the kind of power only names like those could offer—it was the unspoken rules of this place. The hierarchies, the alliances, the subtle shifts of power that played out in every glance and gesture. Hermione had spent years learning how to read those dynamics, and she could feel them pressing down on her here, heavier than ever. Everything here was a game of power and she wanted no part in it.
In the row of chairs just behind her, a pair of students leaned close to one another, their voices low but just audible over the hum of the room. “Did you hear about the party last term? Malfoy supposedly kicked someone out for spilling a drink on him. The guy wasn’t seen for weeks after...” one whispered.
“That’s nothing.” the other replied, shaking her head. “I heard Nott got into someone’s head so badly they dropped out mid-semester. Didn’t even pack up their room—just left.”
Hermione’s pen stilled, the words on the page momentarily forgotten as she absorbed the whispers. She couldn’t help but wonder how much of it was true. The stories were ridiculous—exaggerated to the point of absurdity—and yet, they didn’t feel entirely out of place here. Not with the way the room seemed to bend around the Viper Court, like even the walls acknowledged their presence. She knew better than to think men of any kind incapable of antics like those—regardless how much she wished it weren't the case here.
“Zabini punched someone at a party last year.” another voice chimed in from a different corner, unprompted. “Knocked them out cold. And then just... kept punching.”
Hermione pressed her lips together, forcing herself to look back at her notebook. It didn’t matter. It didn’t. She wasn’t here to be swept up in rumors and intrigue, no matter how much the rest of the student body seemed to thrive on it. But even as she tried to focus on her notes, the weight of the whispers lingered, curling around her thoughts like smoke.
She didn’t want to get involved. She couldn’t afford to. But as she sat there, her notebook open in front of her, she couldn’t help but wonder if avoiding it entirely was even possible.
Later that day, she stepped into the library, the heavy door creaking behind her as she pushed it shut. The sudden quiet wrapped around her like a blanket, muffling the chaos of the day and leaving only the soft rustle of pages and the occasional scrape of a chair against the old wooden flooring. The silence wasn’t soothing exactly—soothing was too much to ask for—but it was manageable. It carried a weight that made it easier to breathe, to think. Not calm, but close enough.
She adjusted the strap of her bag and took a moment to scan the room in more details than she had the day before. The main floor of the library was vast, with towering shelves that seemed to stretch endlessly upward. Light filtered through the tall windows, casting broken and coloured patterns onto the polished tables. It looked pristine, immaculate even, but Hermione had learned long ago that beauty rarely meant safety. Still, she made her way toward the back, weaving through clusters of students who had staked out their territory at various tables and study carrels. Her steps were purposeful, even as her mind raced through the day’s events, cataloguing what she could control and what she couldn’t.
Control, she heard his voice chastise in her mind. That was the goal. Always. And it was slipping away faster than she cared to admit.
She kept her eyes forward, avoiding the temptation to glance at anyone’s screens or notes. She didn’t need to see how far ahead they were, didn’t need the reminder that she was constantly running to catch up. Comparison was a trap, one she refused to fall into even if she was the oddity here. The scholarship student who arrived two months late, in a sea of privileged trust fund kids who had attended this school for years now.
The back corner of the library was quieter, the light dimmer, the tables more sparsely populated. Hermione chose a spot near the window, far enough from anyone else to feel alone but not so far that she felt isolated. Isolation bred vulnerability, and she had no intention of letting her guard down here, of all places.
She unpacked her things methodically, lining up her pens and notebook with the precision of someone trying to impose order on chaos. It wasn’t just about studying; it was about survival. If she could control this—her space, her work—then maybe, just maybe, the rest of her life wouldn’t feel so precarious.
Control the things you can, assess the ones you can't.
She’d barely begun to write when a shadow passed over her page. Hermione froze, her pen hovering midair as her eyes flicked upward. A tall figure moved between the shelves, their movements smooth and deliberate. They weren’t close enough to be invading her space, but the awareness of them lingered, sharp and insistent, her instincts on edge.
Draco Malfoy.
Of course it was. Because the universe had a sense of humor, and apparently, it thought Hermione needed another reminder that peace was a fantasy.
Her first instinct was to look back down, to pretend she hadn’t noticed him. But curiosity tugged at her, a low, irritating hum she couldn’t quite ignore. She allowed herself a quick glance, just enough to see him reach for a book on the top shelf with the kind of unhurried, bored, confidence that seemed to define him. This time, though, his gaze flicked toward her. Just for a second. Their eyes met, and in that brief moment, Hermione felt as though he’d seen too much already—as is a passing second was enough to reduce her invisibility to ashes. Then he looked away, as if the moment hadn’t happened at all.
She returned her focus to her notebook, determined to block him out. But blocking him out was easier said than done. The faint sound of his footsteps as he moved along the aisle, the way the other students seemed to shrink in his presence, the unspoken tension that followed him like a shadow, bending the air around him as he pranced between bookshelves—it was impossible to ignore. He carried himself like someone who knew exactly how much power he had and exactly how to use it.
Hermione tried to focus on her work, but her pen moved sluggishly across the page, her thoughts slipping away from the Enlightenment and toward the boy who had become its unwelcome replacement. Malfoy was an enigma, and Hermione hated enigmas. She hated not knowing what made someone tick, what drove them, what they wanted. People were puzzles, and she liked puzzles, but only when she had all the pieces. And whatever scattered pieces she had here, they weren't looking good. This, she had decided hours ago already, wasn't a puzzle worth solving.
When Malfoy finally left the aisle, Hermione let out the breath caught in her throat. She didn’t look up to watch him go. That would have felt too much like letting her curiosity get the best of her—like testing the edge she already so precariously balanced on. Instead, she pressed her pen harder against the page, determined to fill the silence with something productive.
But the silence didn’t last. Two girls at a nearby table had started whispering, their voices carrying just enough for Hermione to catch fragments.
“…always in control…”
“…did you hear what he did to that guy last year?”
Hermione’s grip on her pen tightened. She shouldn’t care. She didn’t care. But her mind betrayed her, straining to pick out more of their conversation.
“…completely destroyed him. Didn’t even have to try.”
“And Theo…”
“…terrifying. He just… knows things about people. Like he’s inside their heads.”
The girls laughed softly, but it wasn’t the kind of laughter that came from amusement. It was nervous, uneasy. Hermione stared at her notebook, the words she’d written blurring together. She hated how easy it was to be drawn in by the rumors, the intrigue. It was a distraction, and distractions were dangerous.
She forced herself to turn the page, to start fresh. New thoughts, new focus. But even as she wrote, the whispers lingered, curling around her like smoke. They weren’t going to fade, not entirely. Not when they seemed like their own kind of language in that micro-pocket of the universe where the rich and the richer exchanged rumours and secrets like currency.
Hermione looked out the window, her pen stilling against the paper. The campus stretched out below, bathed in the golden light of late afternoon. It looked calm, serene. Deceptive.
She took a deep breath, letting the silence settle around her again. The library was still her temporary sanctuary, even if it didn’t feel quite as safe as it had before. And Malfoy? Malfoy was just another part of the scenery. A part she could ignore, if she tried hard enough.
At least, that was what she told herself.
Hermione stepped into her dorm room as the evening shadows lengthened outside, the muted gold of the sunset giving way to deeper hues of orange and purple. The weight of the day pressed heavily on her shoulders, a mix of mental exhaustion and the ever-present undercurrent of tension she couldn’t quite shake. She shut the door firmly behind her, checking the lock as she always did, her fingers lingering a moment longer than necessary against the cool metal.
Ginny wasn’t back yet, her side of the room still a cheerful chaos of scarves and books and mismatched pillows. The absence was almost welcome. Hermione wasn’t in the mood for well-meaning chatter or casual optimism. She needed quiet—a deeper, sturdier kind of quiet that wasn’t laced with unspoken judgments or sidelong glances. Something she hadn’t found all day, not even in the library. Especially not in the library.
She crossed the room to her desk, pulling out her notebook and flipping it open to the last page she’d written on. The lines of her handwriting stared back at her, orderly and neat, yet somehow accusatory, as though the page itself was judging her progress. Or lack thereof. The day’s events replayed in her mind: the whispered rumors, the oppressive tension of the lecture hall, and the way Malfoy’s gaze had lingered for that fraction of a second too long. She tapped her pen against the desk, the rhythm sharp and irregular, trying to drown out the echoes.
Focus, she told herself. The word was a command, a plea, a mantra she’d been leaning on for years. But her body didn’t obey. Her mind was still tangled, caught in the invisible threads of whispers she’d pretended not to hear. The Viper Court. Their impossible magnetism, the way they seemed to enforce rules without speaking, simply by existing. It was infuriating how much space they were taking up in her head—unpaid rent in a place that was supposed to be hers alone.
Hermione sat back in her chair, pulling at the elastic band to release her hair just so she could run a hand through it, the motion doing little to calm the restless buzz under her skin. Maybe she was imagining it, she reasoned. Maybe they weren’t as omnipresent as they seemed, and she was just hyper-aware because everything about this place felt new and overwhelming. Or maybe… maybe Ginny’s stories had gotten to her more than she’d realized. Either way, she wasn’t about to let them—or anyone else—derail her plans.
“You’re here to study.” she muttered under her breath, the words clipped and precise, as if saying them aloud might make them truer. “Not to get involved. Not to make enemies. And definitely not to…” She trailed off, her stomach twisting at the thought of catching anyone’s attention, the wrong kind, the kind that could pull her back under.
The room darkened as the last rays of sunlight disappeared, leaving only the faint glow of the desk lamp to illuminate the space. Hermione closed her notebook with a sharp snap, the sound loud in the stillness, and stared at the blank wall ahead of her. Her thoughts circled back to that fleeting moment in the library, replaying it with an irritating clarity. She could still feel the weight of Malfoy’s gaze, brief as it had been, like a smudge on her skin she couldn’t scrub off.
She stood abruptly, crossing to the window. The campus stretched out below, bathed in the warm glow of scattered lamps and the faint hum of activity in the distance. It looked calm, orderly, serene. A façade, she thought bitterly, her fingers brushing the edge of the curtain. Everything here was a façade. The perfect school, the perfect students, the perfect lives—all just a veneer to cover the cracks. There were always cracks, and even a day here had been enough for Hermione to deduce some of them were deeper than others in this place.
With a sigh, Hermione stepped back and turned toward her bed. Tomorrow, she decided, would be better. It had to be. And if it wasn’t, she’d make it better. Because if there was one thing she knew how to do, it was survive.