Elegies for the Unbroken

Hermione

Breathe in. Breathe out. Control. 

The muffled bass of the party thrummed faintly through the walls, a low, insistent reminder of the chaos she had just escaped. Hermione leaned against the peeling wallpaper of the dimly lit room, her breath coming in shallow, uneven gasps. As soon as she had escaped Malfoy's line of sight, she had dunked into a room to get a hold of herself. 

She closed her eyes and willed her hands to stop shaking, fingers curled into fists at her sides. The air was cooler here, damp with the lingering scent of mildew and faintly acrid, like old liquor spilled and never cleaned. It was a world away from the crowd of bodies writhing to music just a few rooms down. Her breathe came in a ragged series of little white puffs of smoke. 

Breathe in. One, two, three. Breathe out. Three, two, one.

Her mind was a storm. She replayed the scene in the hallway on an unending loop: Malfoy’s sneer, the way the cigarette had hovered so close she’d felt the heat licking at her skin, the dangerous glint in his eyes when he’d said, 'I could make you.' She had seemed so collected then, so immovable. It took everything in her to keep her hands from shaking until he was out of sight. Now anger roiled in her chest, sharp and hot, but underneath it was something worse, something smaller and more insidious. 

Fear. 

Not of him—it didn't matter how much he obviously craved for people to cower in his presence, she had faced worse demons than he could imagine from atop his throne— but of herself, of how she’d stood there and dared him to go through with it, her words taunting him like she had nothing to lose. She had been so close to letting go of her control then, so close to throwing all the pretences she hung onto for the last few years—for her own benefit. Too close. 

You’re a fucking idiot, she thought bitterly, her nails digging into her palms. A stupid, reckless idiot. She shouldn’t have come. She shouldn’t have let Ginny talk her into it with promises of "just one drink" and "a little fun won’t kill you.". Sure, she'd come mostly because she didn't feel right leaving her new roommate to fend for herself right after she spent an hour listing all the horrible things that often happened at Viper Court parties. But now her choice eerily looked like the bigger of the two evils. Because now she was here, in an abandoned house on the edge of a cliff, with too many ways to disappear and too many people to notice, her heart pounding in her ears and her mind racing with every bad decision that had led to this moment.

Breathe. Cool head. Steady hands, a voice echoed like a mantra she'd heard a million time, from the depth of her psyche. How bitterly ironic it would be his voice, above all else, that would coach her through calming her nerves, with the same words she'd heard in a much different context once.

Her head fell back against the wall with a dull thud. "This is fine," she muttered under her breath, the sarcasm bitter on her tongue. "This is exactly how I wanted to spend my Friday night. Cornered by Draco bloody Malfoy and hiding in the stupid Viper Court’s liquor dungeon."

Her eyes flicked open, and she scanned the room properly for the first time. It was more cramped than she’d initially realized, the dim light from a single exposed bulb casting long shadows across mismatched furniture and crates of bottles stacked haphazardly along one wall. It was bigger than a walk-in closet, but all the boxes and junk strewn about gave the space just as much roaming room as one. The air smelled stronger here, heavy with the sharp tang of alcohol and something older, muskier. She let out a dry laugh. Of course. She’d stumbled into their cache. Because if her night could get worse, it absolutely would.

A part of her wanted to rummage through the crates, find something strong enough to burn away the adrenaline still surging through her veins. Her hands still trembled slightly, the shaking slowly ebbing as minutes passed, as did the thrumming of her heart in ears. But alcohol... Alcohol could speed the process, couldn't it? It could drown it all out. The memories, the pain, the impulses. The feelings. But she didn’t move. Instead, she crossed her arms over her chest and sank further into the wall, closing her eyes again as she tried to steady herself. Deep breaths. In and out. Slow. Controlled. Just like she’d been taught.

The anger was still there, though, simmering just beneath the surface. She wanted to scream. To throw something. To punch a wall. Anything to expel the frustration coursing through her. But none of that would help. None of it would undo the fact that she’d antagonized Draco Malfoy—again. That she had been careless enough to let him see the markings on her skin. That she’d stood there, her heart pounding and her skin prickling with the heat of his cigarette, and refused to back down. And for what? To prove a point? To show him she wasn’t afraid?

Congratulations, she thought bitterly. Pissing him off always makes things better. Well done.

Her fingers twitched against the familiar, soothing material of her jacket, and she shook them out, the motion sharp and deliberate. She needed to move. To do something, anything, to get out of her own head. She pushed off the wall and paced the length of the room, her boots scuffing against the worn wooden floor. The crates of bottles loomed in the corner like a mocking reminder of where she was. This wasn’t her space. It wasn’t her world. She’d walked into it willingly, and now she had to deal with the consequences.

Her pacing brought her closer to the stack of crates, and she paused, eyeing the labels on the bottles poking out of the top. Whiskey, vodka, rum—the usual suspects. She reached out without thinking, her fingers brushing against the cool glass of a vodka bottle. Maybe just one drink. Maybe it would calm the storm raging in her chest, give her the edge she needed to get through the rest of the night without snapping.

But her hand dropped back to her side. She knew better. Alcohol wouldn’t help. It never did.

Hermione exhaled slowly, leaning against the nearest crate. The wood creaked under her weight, but it held. She let her head fall forward, her hair spilling down like a curtain around her face as she closed her eyes again. The faint scent of lavender from her shampoo still clung to her, but underneath it was the sharp, chemical tang of hair dye, lingering like a ghost. She’d re-dyed her hair just that afternoon, rushing to finish before Ginny got back. She hadn’t expected to need it so soon, but the last box of dye she’d used was garbage, slowly washing out after barely a week and leaving specks of white peeking through the brown unevenly splattered all over the two long strands framing her face. Now, with her head bowed, the subtle smell seemed to curl around her, another reminder of everything she’d rather not think about. She just needed a moment. One moment of quiet to pull herself together.

But of course, quiet never lasted long in this house.

The creak of a floorboard snapped her head up, and her eyes darted to the doorway. Her muscles tensed instinctively, but she forced herself to stay still, her expression carefully neutral as she waited to see who had found her.

Let it not be Malfoy. Anyone but him. The universe couldn’t hate her that much.

"Hiding already?" a voice deadpanned, low and foreign. 

It wasn't Malfoy. But it was close enough.

Theodore Nott stepped into the room, his sharp blue eyes catching the dim light like shards of glass. He was spinning a deck of cards in one hand, the motion fluid and practiced, his other hand shoved casually into the pocket of his jacket. She'd only gotten a few occasions to observe him with the rest of his trio. He always seemed calm, composed—too much so, like emotions were just rolling over him like waves over polished glass, only breaking through for brief moments before disappearing again. 

For all her instincts, Hermione couldn't say she knew anything about him from his mannerism alone, but she could at least notice that there was something seemingly off about his energy tonight. As she looked at the semi-stranger walk further in the room, eyes pointedly linked to hers, she saw it—in the small, shaky, rise and fall of his shoulders, the dilation of his pupils, the smirk that pulled only one corner of his lips up—a barely contained energy that crackled beneath his calm exterior.

Hermione straightened, her shoulders squaring instinctively as she met his gaze. 

"Not hiding. Just needed some air."

Theo’s lips curved into a slow, unsettling smile. "Funny place to look for air, Granger." He tilted his head, studying her with the kind of intensity that made her skin prickle. The kind of intensity she'd only see a few times, in men way more dangerous than she cared to reminisce. "Though I suppose it’s fitting. Hiding in plain sight. Very... you., isn't it?"

Hermione’s jaw tightened. Ginny's cliff notes about the Viper Court came back to mind. She had said Theo was some kind of psychoanalyzing genius, able to get in your head and read from your bones and marrow without needing for you to open your mouth. Hermione hated perceptive people. Not the kind that noticed when you had a bad day. Not the ones who could call your tells at poker. But the ones that turned your thoughts and body into traitors to even yourself. Hiding yourself—even from yourself—became increasingly harder when someone could dismantle every thought to pry the truth from your head unbidden. She had seen it done. She had no intention to be the unwilling victim of it. The thought alone—the look in his eyes darting over every inch of her face as if trying to pinpoint the smallest twitch of muscle to discern some big secret—was unsettling in a way even she was unsure how to compartmentalize, especially in her already fraying state of controlled calm. 

She crossed her arms over her chest, her gaze steady. "What do you want, Nott?"

The smile on his face was calm, serene almost, but the one reflected in his eyes had an edge that made her instantly uneasy. He stepped further into the room, the deck of cards still spinning between his fingers. 

"Oh, me? I’m just curious, that's all. You’re an anomaly, Granger, did anyone tell you that yet?" his tone bobbed and weaved between higher and lower registry, like his voice wasn't quite sure where it wanted to settle. It was... out of character, at least from her perceived idea of him based on the absolute, cold, calmness he seemed to display daily. "I do love a good riddle, don't I?" 

She rolled her eyes, what shreds of her patience she had left slowly slipping through her fingers. "Well, I’m not in the mood for games tonight, so you’ll have to find another way to entertain yourself."

Theo’s laugh was almost amused. He stepped closer, his movements deliberate, the deck of cards snapping together in his hand, suddenly stilling and leaving the room in a deafening silence for just a second before he spoke again, his voice lower. 

"Oh, but this isn’t a game. Not yet." he shrugged only one shoulder, leaning slightly forward as if he was preparing to share a secret, the grin on his face widening ever so slightly. "But if it were, wouldn’t you want to win?"

He tilted his head, the faint glint of amusement in his eyes sharp enough to cut. The deck of cards in his hand snapped together again with a practiced flick of his fingers, the sound loud in the stillness of the room. Hermione’s hands itched to curl into fists, but she forced them to stay loose at her sides. 

Slow breaths. Settled nerves. You're a knife and they're just flesh, her psyche provided. His voice again. 

Theo Nott was unsettling at the best of times, or so she had decided from afar up until now. Tonight, however, there was something even more... off about him, something jagged and electric beneath his usually detached demeanour. Hermione couldn't quite name it, it wasn't substantial, just a feeling creeping its' way through her nervous system. A feeling that rarely steered her wrong.

“If this isn’t a game,” she inquired carefully, “then what is it?”

Theo’s smile widened, and it wasn’t remotely comforting. “You tell me." his voice lilted. "You’re the one hiding like a scared pawn bracing for the battlefield.”

“I’m not hiding.” she shot back, her tone sharper than she intended. She immediately regretted it. If anything she heard was true—and facing the man now, she had no doubt it very much was—Theo was the kind of person who thrived on tension, who peeled it apart like layers of skin to see what lay beneath, all raw meat and twitching muscles. “I just needed some air.”

“Ah yes. 'Air'.” he repeated, spinning the cards again, the fluid motion almost begging for her eyes to slide off him and look at the hypnotic twirl. “Right. Air. That’s why you’re here, of all places.” He stepped closer still, and she stiffened, her shoulders squaring as if that might make her feel less cornered. The pause was long, the silence stretching between them. Then suddenly he spoke again. “Do you believe in fate, Granger?”

“Not particularly.” she said, her voice steady despite the pulse thundering in her ears.

What was he trying to get out of her, she wondered. Fate was a cruel concept, one that only soothed the ones whose life was golden light and loving embraces. Nobody who lived their lives with pain or fear as their cruel mistresses would ever want to believe it had always been fated, that no matter how hard they tried, hell was the only place they belonged. Living, breathing hell, with only people and their own thoughts for demons. Many people refused to believe in fate, she doubted this alone would give Theo any substantial insight on her psyche, and yet he had asked like this was the logical course of their conversation—if the exchange could be called as much.

“Shame.” He flipped a card out of the deck with his thumb, holding it up between them. The Queen of Spades  “Fate’s more fun when you believe in it." his smile grew unsettlingly wide as he twirled the card around, his eyes roaming over it as if it held the secrets he was trying to pry out of her. "The dark muse. Lady Misfortune. Veiled unknowns". Theo recited. It seemed he was talking more to himself—to the card between his fingers—than to her. He looked transfixed for a long second before snapping his head back up, the card disappearing back into the deck with just a flick of a graceful finger. "Want to see a trick?”

“Not really.”

Theo ignored her, as she suspected he would. He fanned the deck out with a dramatic flourish, holding it toward her. 

“Pick a card.”

Hermione narrowed her eyes. “What’s the point of this?”

“The point,” he said, his tone infuriatingly calm, his eyes growing darker. “is that I’m bored, and you’re here. Pick. A. Card.”

Her instinct was to refuse, to walk out of the room without giving him the satisfaction. Gods knew she had pushed her luck—and her restraint—more than enough for the night already. But his gaze was steady, unblinking, and she instinctively knew he wouldn’t let her leave until she humoured him. With a sharp inhale, she reached out and plucked a card from the middle of the deck. She only glanced at it, holding it tightly between her fingers instead.

“Good.” Theo murmured under his breathe, his eyes trained on her face. He shuffled the remaining cards with a speed and precision that suggested far too much practice. “Now, put it back.”

She slid the card back into the deck, her fingers brushing his briefly. His hands were warm, but his touch was clinical, detached, as if she were just another component in a machine he was assembling. He shuffled again, the cards snapping together in clean, precise movements that made her wonder just how many hours he’d spent perfecting the art.

Theo held the deck out to her, fanning it once more. “Is this your card?” he asked, flipping the top one. The Jack of Spades.

“No.”

He grinned, not missing a beat. Another flip. The Jack of Heart. “This one?”

“No.”

He flipped the card back with a smirk and a glint in his eye, as if everything was going absolutely according to plan even though he was clearly failing at his own trick. Hermione felt her frustration growing, a muscle in her jaw ticking to the rhythm of her heartbeat. How—she wondered—could a man who so clearly had spent a great deal of time learning how to manipulate cards, could possibly be so bad at using them? There was no magic there, she knew the trick, it was an easy one. And yet... it seemed odd he would flounder at something he seemed, at a glance, so adept at. Finally, with a flourish, he pulled a card from the bottom of the deck and held it up triumphantly. 

The King of Clubs.

“Impressive.” she said flatly, crossing her arms. “Should I clap?”

Theo’s grin didn’t falter and Hermione got the sick feeling he had gotten exactly what he wanted from this—whatever this botched attempt had been. 

“Not necessary." he shrugged, only the one shoulder again, the smile stuck to his features. "Want to try?” He held the deck out to her, his gaze gleaming with something sharp and dangerous. It felt like a trap, like even touching his cards was wrong. 

“I’m not interested in card tricks.” she said through gritted teeth.

“Humour me.” he replied, stepping closer and pressing the deck into her hand with a finality that seemed to echo 'this isn't a suggestion'. “Show me what you’ve got.”

Her jaw tightened, but she took the cards. Fine. If games were his language of choice, she could play too. Even as she thought it, she knew it was wrong, stupid, yet another impulse she should've swallowed back down for her own self-preservation. She was walking one step closer to the edge she had tried so hard to leave in her rear-view mirror, the chasm that was herself looming ever so closer. She shuffled the deck, her movements quick and precise, and Theo raised an eyebrow, intrigued.

“Where’d you learn that?” he asked, tilting his chin to her hands but his eyes only briefly left hers.

Hermione didn’t answer. Instead, she drew a card at random, showed it to him for half a second, slid it back into the deck, and began shuffling again, her mind counting and tracking each movement. Some skills were easily learned if you witnessed them done enough times. When she finally flipped the top card—the Ace of Spades—she held it up with a faint smirk, failing to school her features into indifference fast enough.

Theo blinked, the surprise flashing in his eyes for only a moment before it disappeared. “Well,” he said, his voice low. Behind him the door burst open, floorboard creaking, the loud sound crashing the quiet of the space and forcing Hermione's head to snap towards it only to find Blaise Zabini sauntering in. “that’s interesting.” Theo murmured, not a single gesture out of place, as if the interruption hadn't happened at all.

“It’s called counting cards.” Hermione said, her eyes glancing back at Theo before returning to the newcomer leaning against the doorframe, her tone sharper than she intended. “It’s not magic.”

“No...” Theo murmured, retrieving the deck from her with a flick of his wrist and taking a step back, letting the weight of his body press against a random table that had been abandoned there and littered with half-empty bottles, just a few steps away from her. “No, it’s not.” His gaze lingered on her, unblinking and far too perceptive, and she resisted the urge to take a step back.

“Interrupting something, am I?” Blaise's voice finally rang in the air between them all, stepping into the room with the usual lazy confidence she'd seen him flaunt across campus.

Hermione shifted her posture just enough to be able to look at him fully while maintaining Theo in her peripheral vision. She didn't trust anybody enough to let them out of her sight in a cramped room—especially not them. For a second she almost, almost thought dealing with Blaise would be less unsettling than Theo, without even thinking about Malfoy. If she had any choice on the matter, she wouldn't interact with any of them but it seemed her evening was only going from bad to worse.

Her buzzing thoughts were quickly drowned out by the details she hadn't seen when he entered. Ones that made her blood run cold and her heartbeat miss a measure in its tempo. Blaise's shirt was half-way opened across his chest, bare dark, tattooed skin peeking from underneath. It was clear some of the buttons had been ripped out instead of casually opened, but this wasn't any of her concerned compared to the small splatter of blood that adorned the crisp, white material, right there over his left pectoral. Dragging her eyes down in an observational sweep, she found more blood covering a few of his knuckles, tiny drops adding a darker shade to the back of his inked hands as well. 

Once again Ginny's voice came to her mind, like a live commentary for her predicament. Blaise was a wildcard, her roommate had summarized. An unstable TNT bundle on a very short fuse, a playboy and heartbreaker who could blow up from any small trigger and whose inner beast would only be appeased at the sight of blood drawn. Hermione internally winced at the familiarity of that. After only a few steps in, Blaise’s sharp gaze immediately zeroed in on her. Then the cards in Theo’s hand. And then back to her.

“Teaching the little scholar tricks now? Careful Drake doesn't see that.” Blaise chimed, his tone amused.

“She’s... better than I expected.” Theo said smoothly, his expression unreadable. It almost felt like better held a completely different meaning on his lips than it should have and from the smirk widening on Blaise's face, he knew exactly which.

“Is she now?” He stepped closer, his gaze still fixed on Hermione. 

The room was too small for three people, especially when one of them was Blaise Zabini and his outsized ego. Hermione glanced toward the doorway, her muscles tensed, but Blaise leaned casually against the wall, his smirk cutting off any thought of escape. Theo hadn’t moved, his focus still trained on her as if he’d discovered a particularly fascinating specimen under a microscope. She was trapped, and she hated it.

"Quite an unlikely sight." Blaise said, his voice a lazy drawl. He folded his arms, the blood on his knuckles leaving faint smudge on the fabric of his shirt. His dark eyes flicked between Theo and Hermione like he was assessing a scene for his own amusement. “Didn’t peg you for the card trick type, Granger.”

Hermione straightened her spine, forcing herself to meet his gaze. She didn't need to ask how he could 'peg her' as any type, given she had done her best to avoid any sort of interactions between them. She knew better. Someone like him—like all of them—didn't have trouble finding information, making their own assumptions on half-truths and gathered facts. It was how they all seemed to know her name after her first spat with Malfoy, after all. 

“Counting is hardly a trick.” Her voice was even, but inside, her thoughts were spinning. 

If Theo had a way of unnerving her by making everything feel like a psychological chessboard, Blaise—for his part, gave her the impression that he treated every interaction like a game of cat and mouse. He was the cat, and he was hungry. 

Blaise’s smirk deepened. “Counting cards...” he repeated, as though the words were foreign. “Didn’t think you were the type to gamble either. Full of surprises, aren't you little scholar?”

Theo’s chuckle was low and sharp to her left. “She’s definitely full of something.” he murmured, cutting the deck in his hands with practiced ease. The cards snapped together like the crack of a whip, the sound loud in the tense quiet.

Hermione’s patience frayed further. “If you’re done being entertained, I’ll leave you to your… whatever this is.” She took a step toward the door, her chin tilted defiantly, but Blaise shifted just enough to block her path. Not obviously—that would have been gauche—but enough to make it clear she wasn’t leaving yet.

“Don’t rush off.” Blaise said smoothly. He stepped closer, his grin turning wolfish, and Hermione felt the air between them tighten, the too-familiar tang of coper invading her nostrils. “We’re just getting to know each other. And besides...” he lowered his voice with a drawl, leaning in until she could feel the warmth of his breath against the skin of her cheek. “I’ve got to hand it to you. Squaring up against Nott at cards? That takes… guts.”

“It wasn't a proper game.” Theo interjected sharply, his tone cutting through the tension. “She would've lost... She still did, she just doesn't know.” he smiled to himself, looking down at the cards in his hands.

Blaise ignored him, his full attention on Hermione now. His dark eyes gleamed as they swept over her face, sliding down to take in her dress, her body, lingering just long enough to make her skin prickle. 

“Still. You’ve been poking the nest, Granger. And that’s a dangerous hobby to have.”

Hermione’s heart thudded against her ribs, but she refused to let it show. They had been poking at her. All she had done was respond. She was painfully aware that even that was too much. Replying to Malfoy's taunts in the lecture hall and the cafeteria had been a mistake. Stepping up to him today had been even worse. And this little dance Theo and Blaise were doing around her—circling and waltzing around her every reaction like it was the spectacle of the evening—only solidified that she'd royally fucked up. But, if anything, she hadn't been the one poking first, regardless. 

“I’m not poking anything.” she said evenly, though her voice was tighter than she’d have liked. “I just want to leave.”

“Leave?” Blaise repeated, his tone feigning mock surprise. He reached out, brushing a loose curl behind her ear with a touch so light it felt like static against her skin. Her shoulders tensed, her jaw clenching at the invasion of her personal space. The gesture was intimate, calculated, and it made her stomach twist with irritation and a strong desire too shoo his fingers away—preferably painfully. “But you just got here. And…” He tilted his head, his voice dropping to something softer, almost seductive. “You haven’t even experienced the best part of the party yet.”

“I’ve seen enough.” Hermione replied, her voice colder now. 

She stepped back, trying to regain some sense of control, but the wall of crates behind her left little room to manoeuvre. She glanced toward Theo, who was still watching her with that unnerving intensity, and then back to Blaise, whose smirk hadn’t faltered.

“Is this how you spend your nights?” she asked sharply. “Cornering people for fun?”

Blaise laughed, the sound rich and unbothered. He leaned in again, his lips curving into a smile that had his eyes sparkling with something far less reassuring than mischief or amusement. 

“You make it sound so sinister.” he murmured, his voice low. “But fine, Granger. If you want to go, I won’t stop you. Not really my style to force a pretty lady's hand.” 

He stepped aside with a theatrical flourish, as though granting her some great favour, but the gleam in his eyes made it clear he’d already won this round—whatever that meant. Theo’s lips twitched downward, like he was unhappy about this turn of event, but he said nothing as Hermione moved toward the doorway. Blaise’s eyes followed her, sharp and amused, and she felt the weight of their attention like a hand pressing between her shoulder blades. 

"Have a good night..." Theo called behind her in a sing-song tone. She paused, her fingers curling into fists at her sides, and turned to look at him. "...Hermione."

The sound of her name. Her actual name. Not 'Granger'. Not 'little scholar'. It was strange coming from either of them. And apparently Theo didn't miss the micro-expression that crossed her face as he said it, as if he had done it on purpose just to draw that exact reaction out of her. 

Check, his eyes seemed to say.

"Theodore." she replied coldly, only earning her a smirk. "Zabini." she added with a nod towards Blaise. "You two aren't nearly as clever or threatening as you think you are.” she threw their way before she could catch herself, her voice steady despite the storm brewing in her chest. Dammit, stupid mouth.

Blaise’s eyes sparkled with amusement. “And you’re more interesting than I gave you credit for. Seems that makes us even.”

Hermione didn’t respond. She turned on her heel and left, her scuffed boots thudding against the floor as she put as much distance between herself and the two of them as possible. The hallway felt narrower than before, the dim light casting long shadows that seemed to stretch and shift with every step she took. She didn’t look back. It was hard enough keeping her strides measured when, in reality, she wanted to bolt. Her fingers had started shaking at her sides again and she furiously threw her hands into the pockets of the oversized jacket, biting her tongue hard to temper the fire in her chest. 

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. 

Her thoughts churned as she moved through the house, the muffled bass of the party growing louder with every step. She hated herself for engaging, for letting them bait her. She hated the way Theo’s sharp gaze had dissected her, the way Blaise’s smug grin had made her feel like she was playing a game she didn’t understand.

Heels clicked in the hallway behind her. Hermione teeth clenched hard, bracing herself for yet another collision but a tall, blond girl—with her shirt halfway tucked out of her skirt and her lipstick entirely smudged off her lips and onto her cheek—waltzed right past her, giving her a quick once over and a perfectly practiced sneer before disappearing down the corridor and, she assumed, back to the heart of the party. The tension in Hermione's shoulders barely diminished as she resumed her own strides.

By the time she reached the main room, her frustration had escalated to a boiling point, her anger barely contained by the whispers of her mind she repeated to herself like a mantra. Breathe. Control. Cool head. Steady hands.. She scanned the crowd, searching for Ginny, her fingers itching to grab her and drag her out of this madhouse. Stay in control, Needle. Always stay in control. The sooner they left, the better.

The bass thumped through the floor like a heartbeat, heavy, loud and too in sync with the stuttering rhythm of her own pulse. Hermione pushed her way through the crowded living room, her hands clenched tightly at her sides to avoid brushing against the bodies pressing in around her. The air was thick with the smell of alcohol and smoke, a suffocating cocktail that made her stomach churn. Her eyes scanned the chaos, searching for the one person she needed to find before she could escape this madhouse.

Ginny.

In one corner, bodies were colliding, women straddling men on a broken couch, lips and teeth clashing, grinding on one another, arousal evident in some and barely disguised in others—like none of them had shame to expose their foreplay to the eye of the public swarming around them. Others in the room looked like they were in a trance, eyes glossy, mouth agape in the middle of the dancefloor. Tripping. Her eyes flitted around to each window and door instinctively before she even had to think of it, for only a fraction of a second. 

Out. Too much noise, too many people, too many scenarios and too much pent up anger burning through her inner walls. She needed out.

It didn’t take long to spot Ginny. She was near the back of the room, leaning against a half-collapsed sofa with a bottle of something bright blue in her hand. Her head was tipped back, laughter spilling from her lips as she talked animatedly to a group of people Hermione vaguely recognized from campus. Ginny’s cheeks were flushed, her eyes glassy, and Hermione’s irritation flared.

Of course Ginny would be having the time of her life. Of course she’d managed to make herself the centre of attention in a place like this, laughing like the world didn't exist and getting drunk as if no harm could ever come to her in this wild west of a party. All the while Hermione had been cornered, interrogated, threatened of bodily harm and insulted. Twice.

Hermione exhaled sharply, pushing down the annoyance that bubbled up in her chest. Ginny didn’t deserve her anger. Not really. This wasn’t her fault. Hermione had agreed to come of her own accord—because she didn't trust anyone at a Viper Court party not to mess with her, clearly, too trusting and sociable roommate. She had seen enough to know going to places like these alone was rarely a good idea and even though she didn't know Ginny, she also hadn't wanted it on her conscience if something happened to her. Not that she would have been there to stop it since her five minute break in the corridor—away from the noise and the swarm of bodies that overwhelmed her—had turned into a series of run-ins with the people she specifically had set herself to avoid. All in all, none of it was Ginny's doing. And yet, as Hermione approached, she couldn’t help the sharpness in her voice.

“Ginny.” she said, her tone cutting through the noise. “We need to leave. Now.”

Ginny turned, blinking blearily at her. “Hermione! You made it back!” she exclaimed, throwing an arm around her shoulders with far too much enthusiasm. The bottle in her hand sloshed dangerously close to spilling. “I thought you’d disappeared or something. Where’d you go?”

“Out for air.” Hermione said, shrugging off Ginny’s arm. “And we need to go. You’ve had enough fun for one night.”

Ginny pouted, her lower lip jutting out in a way that might have been endearing if Hermione weren’t so exhausted. “But we just got here! Well, not just, but you know what I mean. The night’s still young!”

“So will be the next night, and the one after that.” Hermione said firmly. She grabbed Ginny’s wrist, her grip steady but not unkind or harsh. “Come on. Let’s go before this gets worse.”

Ginny hesitated, her gaze flicking toward the group she’d been entertaining. They were watching with mild curiosity, their expressions unreadable in the dim light. Yet another spectacle Hermione was giving to a campus who had already started scrutinizing her a little too closely because of her interactions with Malfoy. But then Ginny sighed, her shoulders slumping. 

“Fine... You’re no fun, you know that?”

“Or so I’ve heard.” Hermione muttered, already steering Ginny toward the door. She kept her head down, her focus fixed on getting them out without attracting any more attention. The last thing she needed was another encounter with the Viper Court.

The cool night air hit her like a slap when they stepped outside, cutting through her layers of clothes like paper after the suffocating heat of the party. Hermione inhaled deeply, letting it clear her head. Ginny stumbled slightly beside her, and Hermione tightened her grip on her arm to keep her steady.

“You really don’t know how to have fun...” Ginny mumbled, her voice slurred but affectionate. “You should loosen up a little. You’re so… tense all the time.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” Hermione said dryly but a small smile tugged at the corner of her lips. 

Ginny meant well, Hermione could tell. More so than most people she had encountered in her life—let alone this campus. Her gaze flicked back to the house, its dark silhouette looming against the starless sky. For a moment, she half-expected to see someone watching them from one of the boarded windows, their figure outlined in shadow. But the windows remained empty, and the only sounds were the distant crash of waves against the cliffs and the dull thud thud thud of the bass pouring out of the speakers inside.

She turned away, guiding Ginny down the uneven path that led back to campus. The night swallowed them, the echo of the party fading with every step. Hermione’s grip on Ginny’s arm loosened slightly as the tension in her chest began to ease. It barely seemed strange to her, that she would feel safer outside, in the dead of night, with no visibility and a drunk roommate on her arm, than she had felt in a house full of people—witnesses—and loud music. It didn't matter. 

They were out. They were safe. For now.

But as the cold wind bit at her skin and Ginny’s soft laughter filled the silence, Hermione couldn’t shake the feeling that something had been let loose tonight. A beast of her own making. A beast that could unblinkingly compare to the one trapped in her chest, but with its own rules, its own mind. A beast who would be leaving nothing but chaos in its wake, and its eyes were set on her.