Burning Bridges
Hermione
Hermione Granger was seriously pondering the potentiality of committing murder.
She walked across campus with the kind of deliberate composure that came only from sheer willpower. Her posture was perfect, her strides purposeful, and her expression a careful mask of indifference. To anyone watching—and she always felt like someone was watching as of late—she appeared as unflappable as ever.
But inside? Inside, she was a storm.
It all started with the cigarette. Finding it perched on the edge of her desk, burned all the way through, ash in a puddle under it smudging the wood, had been enough to shatter her already fragile sense of safety. Her dorm room wasn't a fortress of security and she had never fooled herself into thinking otherwise—she knew better. But for all intent and purposes, it was supposed to be a sanctuary carved out in the chaos of university life, as much as it could be. The one place where she could breathe just a little easier, knowing nobody would jump out of the shadows.
The idea that someone, that he, had been inside her space, breathing her air, leaving his mark, had left her rattled in ways she would rather not inspect too closely. She knew who had orchestrated the breaking and entering, of course, she wasn't an idiot. For a moment—just a fleeting second, she had panicked thinking it could have been someone much worse, but the cigarette was a glaring tell. Some sort of inside joke he seemed to think they shared. Hilarious. It had bothered her—it still did. Her space wasn't quite her space anymore, knowing it could be violated anytime she was away. But the real issue was that it wasn’t just about her—it was about Ginny. The thought that Draco Malfoy’s games might spill over onto her unsuspecting roommate made Hermione’s skin crawl.
But of course, it hadn’t stopped there. She could handle a little quiet threat and the need to stay just a bit more alert in her own room. Those weren't feelings she was unfamiliar with, unfortunately. But she should have known better than to think this was all her little stint against the Viper Court would amount to. She had been warned, after all.
The next few days had been a parade of calculated chaos. The professor for the 'Philosophy & Power: Ethics in Political Leadership' course had pulled her aside at the end of class to demand an explanation of her regarding an email he had received—from her campus email address—regarding her desire to opt out of his class. He was, understandably, very confused since she had excelled in the class since day one, and so was Hermione who had obviously never sent the email in question. The TA in her 'Voices of Revolution: Literature and Ideas in the Age of Enlightenment' course had asked for a word when Hermione had showed up to class and the small, blond woman had seen fit to remind her that signing out of the class mid-semester might impact her student file negatively. And, of course, once class was dismissed for her 'Social Contract in Theory & Practice' course—one of the few she shared in common with none other than Draco Malfoy and his clique—her professor had made it painfully clear that with the number of classes she supposedly was abandoning, chances of maintaining her scholarship were close to null.
The panic that had taken her then had been hard to swallow down and tamper. Losing her scholarship would be catastrophic. She clearly didn't have the money to pay for tuition if it happened and few schools were as prestigious—and as far from modern society—as this one. She needed to stay here, she had worked too hard, had left too much behind to fail now. The mountain of excuses and lies she had to spin to get herself out of this bind with the administration had left her frayed. She’d managed to smooth things over, eventually, spinning tearful excuses about being hacked and playing the role of the overwhelmed student who’d gotten in-over-her-head but had regained her footing and was ready to handle the work load now. It had worked, mostly, thanks to acting skills she seldom knew she even possessed. But the effort of it, the constant tension that had pulled her taut until it was all resolved, had left her exhausted and on edge.
But breathing a sigh of relief hadn't been in the cards for her, even then. Not when the rumours started.
They were small, at first, just whispers in hallways that she could ignore if she tried hard enough. To be quite honest she had barely realized to begin with. People had been talking in her wake since the first time her and Malfoy—the now constant pebble in her shoe—ran into each other in a hallway, so the first few days it only seemed like business as usual. Until Ginny cornered her at lunch in the middle of the week, shrieking something close to 'Why am I only now hearing that you tried to give Draco Malfoy a blowjob at last weeks party!? I thought we were friends, friends share details about their mouth-sexcapades Hermione!'
Hermione had been, for lack of a better word, horrified at the accusation. And as if on cue, it only got worse for there. First, she’d tried to seduce Draco at the party and been ruthlessly humiliated. Then she’d supposedly slept with five different people that same night in one of the defunct bathrooms. By the time the week was out, she was apparently some kind of femme fatale, leaving a trail of scandalized men in her wake.
The worst part wasn’t even the lies themselves—they were more stupid with each new iteration, and quite honestly she cared very little about what people thought of her. What really caused trouble for Hermione was the attention that came with said fallacies—guys sidling up to her with smirks and barely veiled propositions, girls glaring at her like she was some sort of villainised whore they needed to stone in the village square.
And through it all, the feeling of being watched at every corner had started to creep up her spine. It clung to her like a second skin, raising the fine hairs on the back of her neck whenever she was alone. It was different from the gazes of other students when she roamed around. It was something more insidious, something that set her nerves on edge throughout the day in a way everything else couldn't quite replicate. She tried telling herself it was paranoia, at first. It had to be. Then she wondered for a long while if it was simply Malfoy keeping an eye on how much his little games were getting to her. She had barely had any run-ins with him, Blaise or Theo since the party—and the start of her many misfortunes. And even when she had, it had been at a glance, in the cafeteria or a classroom, where they all seemed as unbothered and uninterested in her as anyone could be. Which in and of itself rung false, given that she knew they cared enough to orchestrate everything happening to her.
But after a few days of that feeling following her everywhere, a darker part of her had started to whisper that it might be something worse—that someone had finally found her.
Hermione’s fingers tightened around the strap of her bag as she forced her feet to keep moving across the quad. Her free hand instinctively reached up to brush against the pendant of her necklace, her fingers closing around it as though the cool metal could ground her. It was always there, nestled in the small dip between her collarbones, like a constant—the last piece she had of the only person who had loved her unconditionally. Normally, she didn’t fidget with it—she’d been taught not to. Outwardly showing care for something brought attention to it, made it vulnerable, a weak spot that could be exploited. But with everything going on for the past week and a half, it had become almost instinctive for her to reach for it at random times during the day, the familiar weight and texture of it soothing in a way few other things could be.
There was no use in spiralling now, no point in letting her thoughts pull her under. She knew that. She’d made it through worse before. She could handle this. It would all blow over sooner rather than later, the Viper Court would lose interest after seeing she wasn't rising to the bait and in a few days time she'd be just a face in a sea of students once more, free to study and breathe as she pleased.
Right?
She shook the thought away, her lips pressing into a thin line as she rounded the corner toward the library. The campus buzzed with life—students lounging on the grass, laughing over coffee, debating notes and soaking the rare last few rays of sunlight of the year. It all looked so normal, so unremarkable, and yet she felt like she was moving through a different world entirely. One where every glance seemed pointed at her and every whisper sounded like her name on each lips. Her comfort had always been in the shadows, the secrecy. The anonymity. She couldn't be further from all of it now.
She spotted a group of guys near the fountain, their laughter sharp and edged with something that felt pointed. One of them caught her eye and grinned, his expression oozing smug confidence. Her stomach churned, but she didn’t break stride. She kept her gaze forward, her head high, her steps steady. If she gave them nothing, they’d have nothing. That had always been one of her mantras.
But apparently her clear disinterest wasn’t enough.
“Hey, little lady!” one of them called, his voice carrying above the hum of campus chatter. She ignored him, her pace quickening, but the sound of footsteps jogging after her told her he wasn’t letting it go. “Wait up!” he said, and before she could fully process her frustration, he was beside her, falling into step. He was tall, broad-shouldered, with a grin that could only be described as insufferably symmetrical. “Look, I heard some things. About the party.”
“Not interested.” Hermione said flatly, not sparing him a glance. Her voice was cold, sharp enough to cut, but he didn’t seem to notice. Or care.
“Aw, come on...” he drawled, leaning slightly closer. “No need to be shy. You’re pretty famous these days, you know? Thought maybe we could—”
She stopped abruptly, forcing him to do the same, her eyes finally snapping to his. The murderous glare she levelled at him could have made a smarter man cry and beg for forgiveness.
“Do I look like I care what you think you heard?” she said, her tone low and venomous.
The grin faltered. “I just thought—”
“You thought wrong.” She stepped closer, her voice dropping even further. “Try something like this again, and I’ll make sure you wake up one morning with your shrivelled dick in a neat little box on your bedside table. Understood?”
The guy hesitated, his bravado crumbling under the weight of her fury. After a moment, he raised his hands in mock surrender, taking a step back. “Alright, alright. No need to bite my head off.”
Subtle, Hermione. Way to keep your cool. With gritted teeth and her hands—balled into tight fists—now shoved in her jacket pockets, she didn’t dignify him with a response. She turned on her heel, hearing him mutter something about a 'frigid crazy bitch' and continued toward the library, her strides even sharper than before. So maybe everything had been taking a little more of a toll on her nerves than she'd care to admit. Maybe her patience had been stretching thin for days and bad habits—like threatening people of bodily harm—had started to peek through a little too clearly. But it was fine. Completely fine. She had everything, especially herself, under control. She didn’t look back, but she could feel the idiot's gaze burning into her retreating figure. Let him look. Let them all look.
Still, by the time she reached the library steps, her hands were trembling. She clenched and unclenched them slowly into her pockets as she climbed, her mind racing. She had spent a great deal of time in the library since she arrived, it was never a total beacon of safety—nowhere could be—but she could usually find some semblance of peace in her remote corner, between the bookshelves and stained-glass windows. But even as she crossed the threshold, that familiar sense of relief didn’t come this time. Not fully.
Hermione headed to her usual spot near the back, tucked away behind towering shelves of forgotten reference texts. She dropped her bag onto the table with more force than necessary, the sound echoing in the quiet space. Taking a deep breath, she slid into the chair and pulled out her notebook, flipping it open to a random page. She didn’t bother reading the words. They blurred together anyway.
Her thoughts drifted back to the cigarette, to the rumours, to the emails. Each one was a thread, deliberate and precise, woven together to create a net designed to trap her. And at the centre of it all was him. This was Draco Malfoy’s game. Every move, every push, had his fingerprints all over it. She didn't need proof of it, she had seen the look in his eyes at the party, the way her defiance had grated against nerves that probably hadn't been struck in a long time. The all-powerful, revered King, mouthed off to by a dishevelled plebian in his own castle. That had been one stupidly moronic move.
The thought alone sent a fresh wave of anger surging through her veins. She wanted to scream, to throw something, to march across campus and shove that cigarette into his smirking face. But she wouldn’t. She couldn’t. Because that’s what he wanted—to see her break. To watch her fall apart. And she’d be damned if she gave him the satisfaction.
Instead, she looked back down at the lines scribbled on her page, at her pen neatly poised in the crease that formed the spine of her notebook. She had work to do. Papers to write. A scholarship to keep. Malfoy and his friends could try to tear her down, but she wouldn’t let then. She refused to let anyone, especially him, dictate her story. Even if it felt like the walls were slowly closing in on her. He didn't get to have a say in her life. Not when it had already been hard enough getting control of it for herself.
The café was quieter than usual, a rare pocket of calm in the chaos of campus life. The library hadn't worked out. A group of students had entered soon after her and their whispers at a table nearby had annoyed her so much she had started envisioning how easy it could potentially be to shove her fountain pen through someone's eyeball and whether or not it would shut the group up. It had seemed a safer bet to simply get out of there instead.
She had discovered the little café a few days ago. It wasn't far from campus, but most students preferred using the many coffee and snack machines in the cafeteria than walk all the way there for something freshly brewed, so it was usually a fairly peaceful spot. Hermione didn't indulge in coming here often, it was still too much of a social place for her liking. But today the quaint café and its scent of hazelnut coffee and freshly baked pastries soothed her irritation exactly the way she needed it to.
She chose a table near the back, away from the windows and the counter where the baristas chatted in hushed tones. She had no interest in being seen or heard. Not today. The weight of the past week hung heavy on her shoulders, and all she wanted was to bury herself in her work and pretend the rest of the world didn’t exist.
The familiar smell and the quiet bustle of pastries being served at nearby tables lulled her into a false sense of calm. Anything was better than the oppressive cloud of paranoia she carried everywhere else. Here, at least for a moment, she could breathe. Or so she thought.
She’d barely opened her notebook when a shadow fell across the table. Her grip on the pen tightened instinctively—maybe maiming via fountain pen wasn't totally out of the question yet after all. Slowly, almost reluctantly, she looked up to find Theo Nott standing there, his usual air of detached curiosity firmly in place. He looked calmer than the last time she'd encountered him. His gaze was still as focused on her but less intense than she remembered it. He didn’t ask before sitting down, sliding into the chair opposite her with the kind of casual confidence that only someone like him could pull off.
“Hermione,” he said, his tone neutral and this time she managed to cool her features before they gave away how uncomfortable it felt to hear him say her name again. “Hiding in plain sight again, I see.”
Hermione straightened, her spine rigid as she met his gaze. “Just working. Not a concept you must be very familiar with, I assume, Theodore.”
Theo’s lips twitched, a ghost of a smirk playing at the corners. “Ouch. I suppose I deserve that.”
“What do you want?” she asked, cutting straight to the point.
She didn’t have the energy for whatever game he was about to play. No matter that she hadn't dealt with them personally in days, everything around her had been the Viper Court's doing, so she had even less patience for any of them today than she did on any given afternoon.
He leaned back, his thumb idly spinning a silver ring on his middle finger. “Maybe I just wanted to say hello. Aren't we friends now, after all?”
“You’re wasting your time." she sighed. Her stomach twisted in annoyance at his audacity, though she kept her expression neutral. "I’m not interested in being your latest science experiment, or whatever it is that goes on in that head of yours.”
“Experiment?” Theo repeated, tilting his head slightly. “You make it sound so clinical. I prefer to think of it as… solving a mystery."
She didn’t respond, her fingers tightening around her pen as she tried to focus on the page in front of her. She tugged on the sleeve of her jacket briefly before her hand trailed up to touch her pendant. She stopped herself midway through and slowly lowered her hand like nothing happened. Wrong move. Someone like Theo never missed the small details.
“That jacket of yours...” he said, his voice soft but pointed. “You never take it off. Interesting piece. Sentimental, I’d guess?”
Hermione schooled her features, narrowing her eyes. “And why would you guess that?”
“You touch it a lot." Theo shrugged, his gaze steady. "Adjust it, smooth it down. People don’t do that unless something matters to them or it brings them comfort. Same with that necklace you’re always fiddling with. Touchstones, aren’t they?”
Her breath caught and she had to bite the tip of her tongue hard, but she managed to keep herself calm. She hated how observant he was, how easily he seemed to dissect her with nothing more than a few well-placed words. His little tricks at the party had been unsettling, even if they had appeared nonsensical. But the way he eyed her now, like there wasn't a secret she could possibly hide from him, was making her want to bolt.
“You must be really bored,” she said, her tone icy. “to spend so much time watching me.”
“Maybe.” Theo said, his smirk widening, barely. “Or maybe there's just something worth examining.”
Before she could respond—not that she knew what to say, she wasn't supposed to antagonize any of them further and right now this is all she wanted to do— Blaise appeared, sliding into the chair beside Theo with his usual effortless grace and flourish. He leaned an elbow on the table, his dark eyes gleaming with amusement as he glanced between them.
“This is becoming a thing. Am I interrupting again?” Blaise asked, his voice low and smooth, twirling a silver lighter between inked fingers. “You two looked like you were having so much fun, I just couldn’t resist.”
“Thrilling.” Hermione said flatly, closing her notebook with a sharp snap. “Is this some kind of coordinated effort, or do you just enjoy making my life miserable independently of one another?”
Blaise chuckled, the sound rich and unbothered. “Coordinated? Please. You give us way too much credit.” He leaned closer, his gaze flicking over her face and hair in one smooth sweep of his eyes. “You’ve been busy, haven’t you? Stress looks good on you, Granger.”
She resisted the urge to roll her eyes, instead glaring at him with as much disdain as she could muster. She couldn't even pretend to be pleasant, so disdain would have to do for today.
“And you still look as smug as always for someone who doesn't seem to understand the simple mechanics behind buttoning a shirt properly." she titled her chin towards the exposed patch of tattooed skin peeking from the three open buttons of his shit. "Glad to see some things never change around here.”
Blaise grinned, clearly delighted by her retort. “See?" he laughed, booming. "This is why I like you. That fire. It’s refreshing.”
“I'm glad at least one of us is amused.'” she said coldly.
“Oh, we’re very amused.” Blaise said, his perpetual smile reaching his eyes with a glint of mischief. The lighter stilled in his hand for a second while he reached out, his fingertip brushing her cheek and pushing a stray curl back in place with a wink. “Don't worry darling, there's still plenty of fun to be had together. You'll see.”
The comment sent a chill down her spine—even more so than his overly familiar touch did. It was innocuous but somehow it seemed like a threat more than anything else. And from what little she had learned—first hand—about the men of the Viper Court, she had no doubt it very much was one. Either way, she refused to show him she was rattled. Instead, she stood, gathering her things with quick, efficient movements.
“I hope you realize how pathetic your attempts are." she eyed each of them with a cold, detached air. Shut up Hermione, she thought to herself. But when had she ever listened to the voice of reason whenever they were concerned. "The rumours about you lot have been grossly embellished.”
“Have they now?” Blaise asked, his tone dripping with mock curiosity, one slitted eyebrow rising. “Because you seem a little out of sorts to me.”
Hermione didn’t respond. She turned on her heel and walked out of the café, her steps quick and purposeful while Blaise's boisterous laugh echoed in the space at her back. Her heart pounded in her chest, anger and frustration warring for dominance as she replayed the conversation in her mind. She hated how they made her feel—cornered, exposed, vulnerable. And worst of all, she hated how much they seemed to enjoy it.
The door swung shut behind her, the crisp air hitting her like a slap. She took a deep breath, forcing herself to focus, to steady the storm raging inside her. She’d let them get to her. Again. She had opened her big mouth. Again. And she knew she couldn’t afford to continue letting it happen. Not if it meant things escalating more than they already had.
As she stepped onto the sidewalk, her thoughts swirling, she nearly collided with someone entering the café. Her head jerked up, an apology on the tip of her tongue, but it froze there when she saw who it was. Draco Malfoy stood in front of her, his cold grey eyes narrowing slightly as he took her in. Fantastic. For a brief, suffocating moment, neither of them spoke.
“Granger.” he said finally, his voice low and edged with something she couldn’t quite name.
“Malfoy.” she replied, her tone clipped. She didn’t have the energy or the ability to keep calm enough for this—for him—not now.
His gaze flicked over her, sharp and assessing, before his lips curled into the faintest hint of a smirk. But there was something in it, dark, deep, unsettling. His stare seemed even more intense now than it had looking at her in that hallway, ready to inflict pain upon her.
“In a hurry?” he asked, the mockery in his tone subtle but unmistakable.
“Always.” she shot back, brushing past him without waiting for a response. The brush of his shoulder against hers sent a shiver down her spine, one she ignored as she quickened her pace.
She didn’t look back, but she could feel his eyes on her as she walked away, the weight of his presence lingering long after she’d turned the corner. And somehow, it left her feeling even more unsettled than before.
Hermione had retreated to her dorm room after a fruitless day of trying to focus. The library had been too crowded, and she'd been cornered at the café. And because a bad day never became better, it had started to torrentially rain while she made her way back to campus, leaving her soaked from head to toe. At least here, and now, she hoped for a shred of peace. But even within these walls, her nerves remained frayed, her mind too restless to settle. She’d spent the last hour pacing back and forth, her notebook abandoned on her desk after countless failed attempts to focus.
The door creaked slightly as it swung shut behind her after another brief trip to the bathroom, the sound grating against her taut nerves. She leaned back against it for a moment, as if pressing herself into the wood could somehow anchor her spinning thoughts. But the tension in her shoulders didn’t ease. It never did anymore.
She dropped onto her bed, the act more a collapse than a decision, and let her eyes rove over the familiar sight of her room. Ginny’s side was its usual chaos of colour and clutter, a contrast to her own meticulously tidy space. And yet, something felt off. She couldn’t explain it, couldn’t pinpoint it, but the unease had been clawing at her chest all day like a living thing.
Her jacket hung neatly in the wardrobe. She had slid her necklace in the inside pocket while she made her way to the dorm. It was cheap trinket, its' only value sentimental, and she made a point to take it off on rainy days or when she was about to take a shower, to avoid damaging the fake plated silver of it. She’d been paranoid enough to check that pocket twice before even getting back to her room. It didn't seem disproportionate after the week she had had. Not only because of the rumours, the administrative nightmare or the feeling that every move was assessed from the shadows.
But Hermione also had started to feel like things—small, easily displaceable things—had been slowly disappearing from her room. A hair tie she kept on her desk just in front of her pencil holder, a scarf that she could swear she had neatly folded and placed in her wardrobe, and even a T-shirt she remembered putting in the laundry basket but never found after putting a load in the wash. She wanted to believe she’d misplaced them, that the stress and paranoia of everything else was finally getting to her and driving her just a little crazier every day. But there was still the insistent and unwelcome voice in her head reminding her that if Draco Malfoy had broken into her room once, nothing stopped him from doing it again. Though she doubted he would have much use with items like this. The lunatic would've probably stolen her notes, or her whole mattress just to make himself laugh and prove he could.
With a sigh, she crossed the room and opened the wardrobe, running her fingers over the fabric of the jacket. The texture was familiar, worn and comforting. It had been a gift—a piece of her past she wasn’t ready to let go of, even as everything else seemed to slip through her fingers. She touched the pocket briefly, feeling the cool metal of the necklace beneath, then closed the wardrobe door with a soft click.
The shower was calling her, a small reprieve from the storm raging inside her head. She grabbed her towel and toiletries, glancing back at the wardrobe one last time before stepping into the small attached bathroom—one of the biggest perks of a University requiring such a ridiculously expensive tuition. The sound of the water running drowned out the world beyond the closed door, and for a few precious minutes, she let the hot spray wash over her, attempting to chase away the tension knotting her shoulders.
Her fingers ran over her arms, her chest, her stomach, all the bumps and ridges of scars that had long since healed and become part of the patchwork rolling under her soaped-covered fingertips. They didn't hurt anymore, not really. Some parts of her body—more worse for wear than others—ached dully on cold and stormy days, but it was the kind of pain she'd happily accept compared to the one that had put the marks there in the first place.
The steam thickened, curling around her like a cocoon, but it couldn’t silence the ever-present buzz of unease. All her muscles were pulled as taut as a coiled spring ready to snap, and no amount of hot water could ease the tension. But at least it was one small moment of reprieve, of solitude, away from wandering eyes and perceived dangers lurking in shadows in the periphery of her vision. While she was in her dorm, very few things could happen. Malfoy could only break in—if he wanted to repeat his performance—when she was off to classes during the day, and all the buzz and bustle of rumours could only follow her to the door. It was a small, tiny victory in her day, even if it barely felt like it right now.
That's how it should have been. How she wanted it to feel. But when she finally turned off the water and stepped out of the shower, wrapping her fresh towel around her marred body, the smell hit her instantly and in full force.
Smoke. Faint but unmistakable, creeping in from under the door and mixing through the haze of steam and the scent of shampoo.
Her heart leapt into her throat. Water dripped from her hair, pooling on the tiles as she yanked open the bathroom door. The smell of smoke was stronger now, mingling with the cooler air of the dorm. Her breath came in shallow bursts as her eyes darted around the room. It wasn't a full blown fire, she couldn't see a single flame and the smoke wasn't thick enough to trigger the fire alarm. But it was there, she knew it was there.
Her eyes caught onto the wardrobe door. It was slightly ajar, the thin crack of shadow between the wood and the frame slicing through her composure, the smallest ribbon of smoke slithering out. She moved forward cautiously, her wet feet sticking slightly to the floor. Every inch she closed felt heavier, the smell of smoke growing stronger, coating her tongue and throat.
When she reached the wardrobe, she pulled the door open fully, her breath catching in her throat. Her jacket lay crumpled at the bottom of it, a small lick of fire still burning near one of the front pockets. No, no, no. She dropped to her knees, snatching the jacket up and smothering the flame with her hands, uncaring if it licked at her palms, her movements frantic. No. The fire was small, contained and it went out quickly, leaving only a blackened hole below the front pocket. The damage was minor, but it was enough to make her hands shake as she inspected it.
It's not broken. You can fix it. It's fine. You're fine, the thoughts spiralled but they didn't pierce through the slug of emotions that ravaged her insides now. Images of the day she had received the jacket, of all the times she had seen its original owner parading it like his most prized possession and the suffocating weight of what he had done for her, of what had become of him.
Breathe. One, two, three. Control, Needle.
One single thought took hold and her fingers dove for the inside pocket, searching for the necklace. The familiar smoothness of the chain was gone. No, not that. Not her. She patted the pocket like a madwoman, the smell of ash clinging to her nose and her skin. Nothing. In a desperate attempt, her eyes burning, her fingers shaking, she slid her hand inside the pocket.
Please. Please.
Instead of the pendant she wanted—needed—she felt the rigid edge of something against her fingertips. A piece of paper or a thin cardboard rectangle. On her knees, water running down her shoulder and pulling under her, she pulled it out with a gritted teeth.
Don't cry. Never cry. Emotions get in the way.
But the burn of her half-formed tears disappeared out of her mind—like everything else—in a split second. Between her soot covered, slightly red fingers, she held out a playing card. The Queen of Spades stared back at her, its face marred by a cigarette burn right where the meticulously drawn face should have been. Her breath came in sharp, shallow gasps as she turned the card over, as if expecting it to reveal some hidden answer. It didn’t. It didn't need to.
She gripped the card tightly, the edges digging into the sensitive skin of her palm. Her mind raced, trying to piece together the how, the why, the who. But she already knew. The answer had been staring her in the face all week, smirking, taunting, pushing. Draco Malfoy. This had his fingerprints all over it.
He took it—her—away from you.
The anger came in a rush, hot and blinding, washing over the fear that had gripped her moments before. She clenched her jaw, her free hand curling into a fist as she stood, nails digging into the flesh, searing pain lancing through it as it pierced the burnt skin ever so slightly. She didn't care, the pain was the only thing anchoring her down right now. This wasn’t just a game anymore. It wasn’t petty rumours or whispered insults. He’d taken something from her, something that mattered, and left a message in its place.
He had made his last mistake.
She stared at the card again, her chest heaving. The Queen of Spades. The implication wasn’t lost on her, and it only fuelled the fire burning in her veins. They thought they could toy with her, push her to the edge, and watch her break. They thought they could win. And she had been content to let them try, let them disillusion themselves until they got bored, until Malfoy moved on. He was nobody in the grand scheme of things. None of them mattered, they were buzzing flies—annoying, persistent, pesky. But they were so insignificant, so small compared to the things she had seen before, compared to the life she still had to live, the plans she made, the promises she needed to keep.
But this time, he’d gone too far. The restraint and control she had spent years building snapped like a thread pulled taut for too long. Every nerve in her body screamed for retribution, the fear burned away by pure, unfiltered rage. She didn’t hesitate, didn’t stop to think about what he might want or how he might gloat over her reaction. None of that mattered now. She threw her towel on her bed, slipped in the first shirt and jeans she found and slid on the burnt jacket over her shoulder, the charred hole unmistakable over her chest.
She didn’t care about the damage, didn’t care about the acrid scent; all that mattered now was the fire roaring in her chest and her heartbeat echoing like a war-drum in her ears, drowning anything else around. She slammed the card down onto the desk, the sound reverberating in the silence. Her hands were shaking, the kind of tremor that came with barely contained fury. And without a second thought, she turned on her heel and stormed out of the room, the door slamming shut behind her.
Hermione was done pondering over murder. Draco Malfoy was dead meat.