In the Viper's Nest, Fourth Year

No one bats an eye when Hermione steps through the floo with Preston and Pansy into the behemoth of the Malfoy’s manor house. Witches and wizards in expensive red robes, with perfect smiles and perfect blood, strut through the various rooms like fluffed up peacocks—It’s like she’s one of them, part of the monolith of pureblood society. 

Halfblood is the mask she wears. It’s been tied to her face so long that it’s become calcified, a second skin. But no matter how adept she is with the performance of blood purity, or rather, halfblood purity, the performance is still a facade. She forced herself to fake it, to tell the most convincing lies, to play her part perfectly. But while maintaining the facade, she blinded herself; she let too many unfortunate things slip to the periphery, hidden behind the edges of the mask. The plight of the house elves, the mistreatment of other muggleborns like Dean Thomas and halfbloods like Tracey, the wild class differences amongst her peers, the many and ever-present threats to Hogwarts and the greater wizarding world, the blood purity nonsense, the bullying she, herself faced—like sand in an hourglass, they slipped silently behind the edges of the mask, never safe to acknowledge and therefore instinctually ignored.

Like in Maslow’s hierarchy of needs, she has only had the capacity to apply herself to her own survival. The bottom tiers of the pyramid, basic physiological needs and safety and security, have employed every waking thought for three years, because if she slipped, even for a moment, there would be mud on her walls or a basilisk in her bathroom.

As a girl, she associated magic with comic books and larger-than-life CGI—with powerful heroes that always win, their storylines tied up in pretty bows at the end. With her Hogwarts letter three years ago, she dared to believe that’s what she’d be getting. But she has worn her mask like Clark Kent, harbouring a secret identity. For Hermione, there is no happy nine to five and no slipping into a cape to solve crime with a flair for vigilante justice and miraculous powers. Instead, she’s never felt more regular—more helpless. The crimes are too numerous to solve and her super-powers are just regular powers shared by every other child and adult in her life.

If only she had god-like powers. But Hogwarts made her power mundane—and if people knew of her true blood status, less than mundane. Her own house, Slytherin, told her she was less-than, for her blood. 

If only she could blink her eyes and laser-vision away the evil, or with the strength of a dragon, trample the injustice. If only she could live in a world without kryptonite. If only she had the stamina to overcome , to wipe them out—the horrible, hateful witches and wizards present at this very party—with holy vengeance. 

But they have shields for lasers and stunning spells for even the strongest of dragons. Here, she’s only a regular girl—a girl who happened to be born to muggles and sorted into the worst possible house in Hogwarts. 

Not that Slytherin hasn’t served her well. She’s honed her abilities over the past three years. She has been forced to pick up and dust off pieces of herself that she would have rather left forgotten and unused. She has been forced to be cunning—to sharpen her tongue, to sharpen her wits. But also to censor her mouth, to censor her feelings—to conform. 

She used to give people the benefit of the doubt. She did, for two years, with her classmates. They’re just parroting back their parent’s bullshite, she told herself. 

Pansy, her sister, was the only person who earned her trust. Everyone else betrayed her.

She gave them all chance after chance to prove her wrong. 

Her mother, who left her.

Daphne, Greg, even Theo, friends, but only with convenience. 

Draco, the boy that buried her; Draco, the boy who dug her out with his bare hands. 

He told her that she could trust him, that he’d earn her trust. And he has, hasn’t he? But it’s hard to bury that self-preserving Slytherin instinct and believe him. 

This is why she’s not a bleeding-heart Gryfindor.

She doesn't have any more chances left to give. She’s empty, all dried up. She’s stretched herself thin, following the Masterplan like a pillar of fire, suffocating herself in a pillar of clouds. And she’s left with her own beating heart in her hands, glinting golden like an idol, wondering if she’s followed the wrong deity through the desert. 

Because, does she really desire to be accepted by these people who never wanted her, who betrayed her? Too many lies and too many betrayals have made her face damp with tears beneath the mask’s shadow. And, like exposed wood, it has swelled and shrunk too many times. Now it's brittle, on the verge of cracking. 

Now, thanks to Pansy and her insane unbreakable vow, Hermione is finally safe. The Masterplan was the straight and narrow path that brought her here, but her feet are tired from walking through the valley of the shadow of death. She’s walked through fire, and with Maslow’s bottom tier stable, she’s risen from the ashes.  

She’s able to peek through the periphery of the mask, to look past its blinders, and what she’s discovering is threatening to make the mask slip. She’s forced to examine that which she never had the mental stamina to examine before—the danger, the betrayal, the bigotry, the violence, the bloody house elves. 

These horrors burn with a new light. They make her cringe in fear, but more than that, they fill her with vengeful anger.  With each sight of injustice, the temptation to remove the mask and take in the full picture only grows. 

Soon enough, she worries, the mask just might slip, throwing her precariously balanced world into complete chaos once more. 

So walking through Draco’s house is a daring and precarious test of her limits. In Draco’s house, she’s stuck at the bottom of an hourglass, all those inconvenient truths sifting through the glass ceiling to bury her. In Draco’s house, it’s impossible to look away. His childhood is lined with gold-leaf and dusted with confectioner’s sugar.

He always bragged about his riches, but when he mentioned that he lived in a country manor estate, it was just another thing that Hermione brushed away.

His house—if one could even call it by that simple, plebeian term—is enormous, almost unfathomably so, like the places Mr. Darcy or Mr. Rochester would have lived in. So she’s forced to wonder where the madwoman in the attic is. She’s waiting with bated breath for the curtains to go up in flames, as she spins in a slow circle, examining the house and the party.

The wealth and magic of the estate is overwhelming; the whole place is steeped in it like bitter, over-brewed tea. It’s disgusting.  It’s delicious. It’s intoxicating. It makes her feel envious—the way she often feels in this world. 

Why did she have to be born into a muggle family? It’s not fair that she’s been kept away from magic. It’s not fair that she’s so alone. 

So utterly alone, as she trails after Pansy and Preston. 

Alone in Malfoy Manor, where it's impossible to be blinded by the mask.

It’s like Hermione has stepped into a faerie tale. It’s hard to resist peeling back the rigid blinders of cynicism—hard not to enjoy immersing herself in the Midsummer party—because it's hard to tell what type of faerie tale she’s stumbled into. Is it the type of tale where Little Red Riding Hood is cut miraculously unscathed from the belly of the wolf, or is it the type of tale where she’s devoured? Where her tongue is cut out for the failed pursuit of love; where her toes and heels are cut off in the failed pursuit of riches; where she’s made to dance to her death in red-hot iron shoes? 

Hermione never knew there were so many magical people in England. The scope of the wizarding world always felt so small from her vantage point in the Hogwarts library, yet there must be at least a thousand people at this party—and the party is supposed to be only the crème de la crème of wizarding society, the one percent. 

They’re all wearing red, and the decor is gold. Gryffindor colours. It strikes her as odd that such staunch purebloods would celebrate in enemy colours, yet when she voices these thoughts, Pansy laughs.

“Nothing slips past this one,” says Preston. “The colour traditions were picked intentionally, I reckon, when Hogwarts was founded. But don’t sweat. We have Yule, and it’s a far better holiday, I promise.”

“How fascinating.” How could she have not known this? But on reflection, Hogwarts always is covered with silver and green during Christmastime. How strange that she’d never made that connection before. What else has she missed, with her handicap of muggle blood? What are the other house’s corresponding holidays? “I think it’s about time for a reread of Hogwarts: A History.”

“You and that blasted book, Hermione.” Pansy grins over her shoulder, pulling Hermione by the hand through the great iron front doors of the manor and into the garden beyond.

If the inside of the manor was impressive, the garden is spectacular. There’s actual dragons. 

“Oh look,” Pansy sighs, “my be- troth- ed.” She draws out the word, lingering on the second syllable.

Marcus Flint stands with a glass in his hand under one of the many golden tents in the garden. He’s surrounded by younger Slytherins. The group includes his usual admirers, Montague and Pucey, but strangely, also Vince. 

“Well, well, well,” Preston says, striding purposefully forward, face hard, “if it isn’t my baby sister’s fiance.” 

The group is standing in a loose circle, and Preston doesn’t stop walking until he’s directly in front of Flint, brashly inserting himself smack-dab in the centre of the group, leaving Flint’s admirers to shuffle awkwardly to the side. Preston grabs Flint’s hand, pulling him stumbling forward and clapping him on the back. 

“Parkinson,” Flint sneers. He tries to pull his hand back, but Preston won’t let go.

“So happy to have you in the family.” Preston grins falsely, jaw clenched and still squeezing Flint’s hand. 

A beat passes in silence, the rest of the group studiously ignoring the tension in the air. Finally, Flint wrangles his hand away and takes a step back. He flexes his hand, continuing to scowl at Preston. Pucey claps his hand on Flint’s back and wanders away, Montegue and Vince following closely behind. 

“Pansy’s just a doll, isn’t she?” Flint stares Preston down, his eyes glinting with challenge. “Aren’t you, love?” He steps to the side, slinging an arm around Pansy’s shoulders and pulling her tightly against him, like a leech latching on to its prey. 

Pansy stiffens. “Hello, Marcus.”

“And if it isn’t Slytherin’s most famous halfblood. Why am I not surprised to see you here, Granger? But with you two, where one goes, the other always follows, isn’t it?”

“Flint.” Hermione scowls. 

“Why the long face, love?” Flint grins at Hermione and pulls Pansy even tighter. Pansy stumbles under his force, tripping in her heels on the white gravel. 

“Careful, Marcus,” Preston growls. 

“You two are awfully close, aren’t you?” Flint continues, still looking at Hermione.  He sips his drink, and ice cubes clink. “Joined at the hip, you are. You might even call it unnatural, how close you two are, especially with how loose this one is.” He nods to Pansy, pulling her even tighter to his side. “I don’t mind, half-filthy blood and all, as long as I can get in on the action.”

“Get your hands off my sister.” Preston strides forward, but Hermione steps deftly in front of him, quickly trying to calculate a plan. 

Pansy had said that she had the Flint situation under control, but this is chaos. She must have overestimated her ability to manipulate him. 

What had Pansy said Flint’s terms were, exactly? 

Will you, to the best of your abilities, support Hermione Granger’s claims?

Hermione clenches her hands into fists, mind racing.

“Move aside, Hermione,” Preston hisses, drawing his wand.

“Flint would never hurt Pansy.” Hermione’s voice is iron, as she gabs the end of Preston’s wand, forcing the tip down. “Isn’t that right, Flint?”

Flint’s eyes widen and his jaw is slack. Hermione could laugh. Pansy was right, it’s simple. Flint imprisoned himself with his vow, and Hermione is his ball and chains.

The creases disappear from Pansy’s face, and her mouth twists into a smirk. “Marcus,” Pansy snickers, “listen to Hermione.” 

“I believe Flint would never hurt Pansy,” Hermione continues, voice deadly calm, she catches Flint's full attention. His eyes are trained on her, dark and narrow. “I think he wants to let her go.”

Flint sneers at Hermione, still gripping Pansy forcefully. “What the bloody hell are you—”

“Marcus, love.” Pansy laughs louder. “Hermione claims that you want to let me go. Is that true?”

“I…” His face twitches, and he clutches frantically at his stomach. Then he bares his teeth at Hermione like a cornered dog, pushing Pansy away forcefully. She stumbles, but catches herself on the side of a table. 

“What’s going on?” Preston hisses, glancing furtively around. They’ve drawn a few stares. 

“You bitch!” Flint spits, stalking forward toward Pansy again, where she’s still laughing at him. He grabs her chin and pulls her face up to meet his eyes. “I did what you said. You can’t just—”

“You’re right, love,” Pansy smiles. “ I can’t. But she can.”

“You—you…” Flint stumbles backwards, sloshing firewhiskey. 

With a glare, he disappears into the crowd, and they’re left alone. 

Preston lets out a low whistle. “I must say, I’m impressed. What in Circe’s name do you have on that bloke?”

“Don’t ask questions you don’t want answers to,” Pansy smiles. “Not that we’d tell you, anyhow.”

“It’s a matter of semantics,” Hermione says, shooting Pansy a smug smile.

“And here I had a whole speech planned…” Preston shakes his head. “I intended to put the fear of Merlin in his heart, regale him of all the unspeakable things I could do to him… but you two are unspeakable” —he winks theatrically— “enough, yeah? Damn, I think I need a drink. I’ll leave you girls.”

He waves his hand through the air and wanders back toward the house, grabbing a glass off a floating golden tray on his way. 

Pansy spins on her heel, beaming. “You’re brilliant, Mi. I couldn’t have planned it better myself.”

“What a high compliment,” Hermione says, unimpressed. “You can’t be serious, going through with the betrothal. I think I just demonstrated that we can control him effectively. You don’t need to marry him, Pans.”

Pansy rolls her eyes. “Drop it, Granger.”

“Fine,” she huffs. “At least tell me what Preston meant, then.”

“Oh, his new job.” Pansy shrugs. “It was a play on words. His title is ‘Unspeakable’ but he’s still in training.” Pansy launches into an explanation of the Ministry’s Department of Mysteries, detailing rumours about their secretive and unregulated research.

Hermione’s gaze wanders as she listens. Theo is standing with an elegant, dark haired woman, her hands resting in front of her on his shoulders. They’re speaking to a man. He’s tall and imposing, with a dark mop of thick, curly hair. His eyes are sunken and ugly as sneers at the woman. She turns her face to the side, and Hermione can see her more clearly. She’s rolling her eyes. 

She has a streak of silvery blond hair framing her face, and features Hermione would recognize anywhere, because Hermione's seen them on her son. The long, elegant nose, sharp cheekbones, and soft mouth. It’s Draco’s mother, Narcissa. Why is she with Theo? And who are they talking to?

“Are you even listening to me, Hermione?”

“Sorry,” Hermione says. She nods towards Theo. “Do you recognize that man?”

“Oh,” Pansy frowns. “That’s Theo’s dad, Theodore Nott Sr.—Sacred Twenty Eight, Death Eater, pretty fucked up from dark magic, from what I understand.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.” Pansy’s eyes sparkle, the way they always do when she’s about to divulge a remarkable piece of gossip. “Rumour is after the Dark Lord fell, he took over as their leader for a few years. Of course, he never got caught, pinned the blame on Belatrix Lestrange, Draco’s aunt. But he was in really deep with dark magic dependency and killed his wife and daughter in a fit of rage.”

“How horrible.” 

“Isn’t it?” Pansy raises her eyebrows. “I wonder if it’s true. I have half a mind to ask Theo, one of these days… don’t look at me like that, Mi. You know I never would… anyway, Slytherins never share secrets, so it’s not like he’d tell me.”

Before Hermione can comment on this intriguing and possibly tragic piece of Theo’s secret past, a new obstacle presents itself. Rowle and one of the creepy Carrow twins are sauntering toward them. 

“Oh wonderful,” Hermione sighs.

“I think I’ll just…” Hermione tries to sidestep, looking for an exit. Across the lawn, she spots Theo again. Nott Sr. and Mrs. Malfoy are gone, replaced by Daphne. She could go talk to them.

“No you don’t,” Pansy hisses, grabbing Hermione’s wrist. “That’s Rowle . This is an opportunity.”

“An opportunity?” Hermione hisses back. “She almost killed me last year! And I’m sure she blames me for Draco.”

“Exactly. She needs to know that she can’t fuck with us anymore. We need to take the upper hand. Socially. So you can’t run away and show weakness right now. Why do you think you’re at this party, Mi?”

“I thought I was here for a good time.”

“Being part of my schemes is a good time.”

“Pans—”

“Hello, Evelyn,” Pansy cuts her off, her voice saccharine. “Fancy seeing you up and about. Rumour was someone killed you.”

Rowle stops, turning abruptly to face them. The only evidence of her months-long internment at Mungo’s is a shimmering distortion of the skin around her eyes, the slick, oil-spill effect of a poorly cast glamour charm. Carrow lingers to the side, eyeing Hermione and Pansy warily. 

“Alive and well.” Rowle glowers. “No thanks to you.”

“I thought for sure you’d be blind as a bat when they let you out.” Pansy blinks slowly, picking at invisible lint on her bright red robes. “I hear it was a nasty dark curse you caught.”

Rowle cocks her head to the side, and her silky, corn-yellow hair flops in the breeze. “You would know, wouldn’t you, Parkinson?”

Pansy scoffs, and Carrow twists her hands in her robes, nervously or angrily, Hermione can’t tell. 

“I hope you’re not accusing me,” Pansy says, her forehead creasing loftily. 

“She’s not,” Carrow says hastily.

Pansy’s right. The only way out is through, even if it’s uncomfortable. And Hermione’s bolstered by her success with Flint. Draco’s right. His voice echoes in her mind. She’s in the viper’s nest. It’s time to be a snake. 

“You’re right,” Hermione says. 

Like a hawk, Rowle pins her with a beady stare. Pansy raises her eyebrows eagerly. 

“She wouldn’t dare,” Hermione continues with confidence. “Isn’t that right, Rowle?”

“You need to be careful what you say,” Pansy says. “After last time, you barely made it out alive.”

Next time, he’d kill her. That’s what Draco said. Hermione wonders if it’s true. But the truth is irrelevant, because all that matters is that Rowle needs to believe it.. 

Rowle’s nostrils flare, but she says nothing. Hermione stares back at her with intensity. Rowle’s lip curls. She opens her mouth, like she’s about to speak, but then clamps it shut again, breaking eye contact to stare at her shoes. She stalks past, and Carrow follows silently behind. 

“Brava us,” Pansy snickers. “That’s two for two.”

“Go team Masterplan.”

They high-five, giggling.

Across the lawn, Draco emerges from behind a tent. He passes Hermione, but he doesn’t notice her. His eyes are trained straight ahead, almost like… almost like he’s intentionally not looking at her—like he’s ignoring her again.

Her stomach twists, and Hermione huffs. “I’m going back inside.” 

Pansy’s eyes cut from Hermione to Draco, then back to Hermione again. She exhales. “Alright.” 

They head for the Manor’s front doors together, but Pansy is quickly sidelined by a severe looking elderly witch, who ensnares Pansy with rapid fire pleasantries that seem to revolve around Pansy’s mother’s quest for spiritual enlightenment in Tibet. 

Still reeling from Draco’s slight and not interested even marginally in Pansy’s conversation, Hermione turns tail, slipping away. 

She can’t believe Draco is ignoring her again. She feels like she’s teetering on the edge of a cliff, and his averted eyes pushed her over. Her blood rushes in her ears, and she feels pinpricks behind her eyes. She wants to scream at him, to cover him in stinging jinxes. How dare he ignore her? She thought they’d gotten past everything. She wanted so badly for them to have gotten past everything, but somehow, she’s not surprised. He’s still a Malfoy, even after everything, and she’s still a mudblood. They are the two sides of a coin that can never touch.  

Back inside, she explores the orangery. White blossoms and golden-orange fruit hang heavy in their bows, and glittering gold ribbons make bunny-eared bows around their trunks. The fresh citrus scent perfumes the room. Hermione breathes deeply and imagines the scent washing away her emotions. Little red faeries flit about the high glass ceilings, singing melancholy, ethereal tunes. White marble sculptures line the walls of the room, all busts or figures poised on golden daises, some in long, creased robes and veils, some completely nude. They have plaques for names and death dates—all long dead Malfoys. So much for escaping Draco inside. The statues are frozen, so still that Hermione concludes that they must be muggle—until one winks at her, and she almost jumps out of her skin.

“Don’t mind Abraxas the First,” someone says behind her.

She spins around. 

Tracey lounges against a tree. “Some things never seem normal, even after years of being immersed in the magical world.”

Hermione glances around the room; it’s crowded, but it’s easy to miss people, like she did Tracey, due to the numerous trees obscuring the plane of sight. Blaise must be about—or Millie—if Tracey is lurking here. 

In first year, Hermione kept away from Tracey like the plague; at the time, she couldn’t risk bringing attention to the poorly constructed scaffolding holding up her blood status lie. 

Even having spent the better part of three years in relatively close proximity to them, Tracey and Blaise remain an enigma. They both play effortlessly cool, and even though Tracey was bullied in first year for her halfblood status and Blaise is literally part creature, they always manage to stay out of drama, separate from the Hogwarts social hierarchy. Or perhaps above it. 

Now that Hermione is secure in her lie, it wouldn’t be so disadvantageous to be friendly with Tracey or Blaise. As mysterious as they are, they never try to hide who they are. They’re authentic to themselves, yet still seem to be accepted by their pureblood peers. How do they do it? Do they have a Pansy silently fighting their battles for them, like Hermione does?

“I didn’t think I’d see you here,” Hermione says. 

“And I you,” Tracey replies. 

“Touche.”

They’re a fine pair, certainly the only non-purebloods at the entire party. 

“Let me guess,” Tracey says. “Pansy snuck you in.”

Hermione nods. “Was it Blaise or Millie for you?”

“Neither.” Tracey winks. 

But perhaps an olive branch to Tracey is better suited for a different day. God knows Hermione may need more mental stamina than she currently has to withstand a full conversation with her. 

Tracey is weird. 

Out past the door, Theo and Daphne walk by. Hermione excuses herself, marching after them.

They spot her heading their way, and wait, pressed up against the rose covered walls ahead. Theo’s face flickers with a frown, and he leans into Daphne, whispering something in her ear. Daphne purses her lips and nods. 

“Fancy seeing you here.” Daphne smiles brightly as soon as Hermione joins them. 

Hermione searches her surreptitiously for signs of sickness, but finds nothing out of the ordinary, other than a pair of pale, greyish-blue circles under her eyes. 

The sound of an argument echoes down the hall, coming from near the front doors. “…shit from you…ages…limit, yeah?”

Hermione nudges Daphne. “Does that sound like Vince to you?” She wiggles her eyebrows. “Shall we investigate?” 

Theo’s jaw twitches, and a grimace flickers across his face before quickly dissolving into an over-bright smile, as his eyes flick from Daphne to Hermione.

“Let me get this straight.” Theo claps his hands together. “Instead of seeing the largest collection of rare books in England, you’d like to snoop on the Crab’s petty disputes?”

“What?” Hermione says. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m guessing she’s never seen the Malfoy’s library,” says Daphne to Theo, who shakes his head playfully.

Library? Library?

“Library?” Hermione forces her voice to come out steady.

Theo and Daphne link their arms with Hermione, starting to lead her down the hall. 

Daphne giggles. “No need to cream your knickers, darling.”

“Daphne!”

“I’m just saying…” She waves her hand. 

“You’re such a wet blanket sometimes, Daph,” Theo grins. 

“Well, I’m sorry I don’t lose my marbles over dusty old books like you two,” she smiles.

“Not everyone can have such refined taste as Hermione and I,” says Theo. His eyes are over his shoulder, on the other side of the hall, where a couple of older looking wizards have entered. 

The library doors sit a few metres ahead, but Daphne stops short, disentangling her arm from Hermione’s. 

“Oh dear,” Daphne says, hand on her forehead. “I think I see Tori talking to Blaise again, and that won’t do. I’ll leave you two to it, then, ta!” She shoots Hermione another grin, and as she walks past, she trails a finger down Theo’s arm, hooking her pinkie with his briefly. 

“Shall we?” Theo offers Hermione his arm again. 

Hermione grins, linking her arm through his. “Lead the way, kind sir.”

“With pleasure.” Theo whisks her away, farther into the manor, leaving the sounds of Crabbe’s scuffle behind them. 

The library is breathtaking. 

There’s shelves upon shelves of books and scrolls lining the circular room, and an actual rolling ladder, like in Disney’s Beauty and the Beast. This is Hermione’s dream library. She can hardly believe it. Draco has her dream library! How dare he?

It’s three stories tall, with a high ceiling stretching far above. There’s a grand staircase on one end of the room, with twin sets of stairs that criss-cross up all three levels. A giant chandelier hangs from the crown moulding, low in the centre of the room, all strings of glittering crystal and shining, long white candles. 

The centre of the ground floor is filled with tables of unappreciative party-goers, who are all ignoring the books, in favour of what appears to be some version of poker.  The two upper levels that look out over the tops of their heads seem mostly empty. 

Hermione barely has time for reveries, however, because Theo makes a bee-line for the stairs. Pulling her by the arm, he leads her quickly to the back of the library, where the party has mostly fizzled out, and the only company is stacks on stacks of books. 

“Wait—Theo,” Hermione says. “What’s on the first level?”

“Boring,” Theo says, walking quickly, even though Hermione’s trying to drag her feet, wide-eyed at the splendour of the room. He glances backward, toward the tables of party goers. “Mostly just Malfoy family history, estate records, pureblood directories, that sort of thing. Come on—”

“There’s a whole section of rare books up there,” he continues, pulling her again toward the stairs. “Draco told me that Narcissa recently got a book by Merlin in an auction last summer. Merlin, Hermione, can you believe it?”

“That’s insane,” Hermione agrees, allowing herself to be pulled forward by their linked arms once again.

On the stairs, she feels eyes on her back. She stops, hands on the bannister, to gaze out at the room. Far below, Lucius Malfoy sits at one of the gambling tables. He’s sipping a glass of something amber coloured and holding two cards in his hands, an eyebrow raised. 

She stares back, unsure. 

A slow smile creeps over his mouth, and he nods at her and raises his glass. She can see his glinting white teeth, even from so far away. He lays down his cards, and all the gold in the centre of his table collects itself to stack in front of him. 

Beside her, Theo inhales sharply. 

“Shall we go down and say hello to the host,” Hermione says. “What’s considered polite etiquette for blow-out wizarding house parties?”

Theo gives a wheezy kind of laugh, linking his arm through hers again. He starts walking them up the steps once more. “Er—no,” he says quickly. “That’s definitely not necessary.”

“I suppose I did crash the party,” Hermione muses.

“Nonsense,” Theo says offhandedly. “Half of the wizarding world crashed this party; the Malfoys expect it.”

His words hang limp in the air, like he doesn’t believe them. 

She did crash the party. Maybe Draco was just surprised to see her. Maybe that’s why he didn’t acknowledge her earlier. No, that doesn’t make sense. That’s not a normal reaction to surprise, is it?

Theo is Draco’s closest friend. They call each other brothers. It crosses her mind that Theo is acting a bit strange, pulling her insistently away from the party.

Almost like he’s ashamed of her. 

Is this yet another instance of ‘friends, but only with convenience’? Does Theo not want to be seen with her, like Draco obviously doesn’t want to be seen with her? 

But Theo was the first, after Pansy, to accept her last year. He accepted her before Pansy’s vow, before her name was cleared at Hogwarts. 

Nothing makes sense. 

“Theo,” she says, as they walk deeper into the stacks on the second floor. “Is Draco angry with me?”

He pulls up short and laughs that same, nervous laugh again. “Why would you say that?”

“I don’t know,” Hermione says. “I saw him earlier, and he acted like he didn’t see me, like he was ignoring me.” 

Theo runs a hand through his too-short hair, turning away to inspect a book title. “You know how Draco is, always brooding about something. It was probably nothing…”

Before Hermione can push back, there’s footsteps behind them. Astoria, out of breath, is at the top of the stairs. 

“Oh good, I found you,” she wheezes. “Daph said you’d be here. Theo, can you come help? I think she needs to lie down. Where’s your room? Or is there a guest room somewhere that she can use?” 

His room? Is he staying here? At Malfoy Manor?

“Is she alright?” Hermione turns away from the books.

“I’m sure she’s fine,” Theo says, rushing forward. “I’m sure she’s just tired.”

“Just tired,” Astoria agrees, already halfway down the stairs. 

Hermione starts to follow, but Theo stops her, his arm blocking her path down the stairs. 

“I’ll come with you,” Hermione frowns. 

“Don’t trouble yourself.” Theo smiles tightly. “I’m sure she’s fine.” 

Thoroughly dismissed, Hermione watches Astoria and Theo leave. They’re lying. They’re lying to her about Daphne. And, sure, she’s not as close to Daphne as they are. They’re probably just protecting her privacy. 

But what’s troubling is that Theo had lied so easily to her. If he’s willing to lie about Daphne, surely he’s willing to lie about Draco, whom he’s just as close to.

But maybe she’s overthinking things. She’ll discuss it with Pansy, later, after she checks out the books in this glorious library. 

Priorities. 

The books in this section all look ancient, with worn but well cared for leather spines. She has to rein in her habit of trailing her index finger along the titles as she browses, for fear of damaging the books with the natural oils on her fingertips. Like being in a museum, one does not simply touch the displays. And these books are art. 

There’s the book by Merlin; there’s one by Morgana Le Fay, three by Circe, and ten by Salazar Slytherin. Magicians so cloaked in fame and legend, they could be myth, if not for the proof before her eyes. 

Fingers itching to reach for a book, she stops in front of the one by Merlin, Wardes Moste Holy: Reflection on Angelic Symbology. 

Holy wards? What makes a ward holy? Do wizards even have a concept of the divine? What are angels doing in Merlin’s book, for chrissake? There’s plenty of pagan roots in modern magic, but these are terms that Hermione associates with organised religion, something most wizards don’t care for. 

She could always be wrong. Wizarding culture is constantly pulling one over on her, let’s be honest. 

If she scourgifies her hands, surely she won’t damage the book, right?

If the Malfoy’s didn’t want curious people looking in their books, they would have locked the library doors, right? Right?

Hermione scourgifies her hands. She glances quickly from side to side, then steps forward, heart pounding. 

She carefully slides the book off the shelf and flips it open to the table of contents. But she can’t see any words, because her hands are exploding with pain. White hot, like she’s stuck her hands directly in front of a dragon, and it’s cooking her for dinner. She gasps, biting back a scream. She will not scream at this party. Fuck, it hurts. She grits her teeth. 

FUCK!

She will not drop the damned book. She will not scream!

She shoves the book back on the shelf and slides down to the floor. Does she even have hands anymore? Have they fallen off? They throb, clutched at her stomach, pulsing with the worst pain she’s ever felt in her life. 

She squeezes her eyes shut. If the pain doesn’t lessen in thirty seconds, she’ll have to find someone. What if it’s a curse? What if she’s like Rowle and ends up in Mungo’s for months on end? God, what if her hands fall off? 

She won’t be able to do anything without hands! Do they make magical prosthetics for double amputees? How will she use her wand? 

Fuck, it hurts!

And then, like she’s been plunged in cool water, it stops. 

She unfurls herself from the floor. God, her face is wet. Was she crying? She didn’t scream, did she? 

“I’m so sorry, dear.”

For the second time that evening, Hermione jumps right out of her skin. Narcissa Malfoy is kneeling in front of her, lips and eyebrows pinched together. She slips her wand up her sleeve and stands gracefully. 

“Some of the books are hexed against certain… unfamiliar hands.”

“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Malfoy,” Hermione pleads, still on the ground. She scrambles up (ungracefully). “I shouldn’t have touched your books. It was so wrong of me. I’m so sorry—”

She stiffens. “Nonsense.” Mrs. Malfoy offers a tight smile. “Don’t apologise to me, dear.” She shakes her head. 

Her eyes are a brilliant electric blue, bright like a sunny day. The colour is different from Draco’s grey, but the shape is the same: round and wide-set. There’s something in her eyes that looks guarded, even vacant. Not that she looks dumb, only like her mind is elsewhere, like she has a rich internal world. 

When Hermione met Mr. Malfoy at Buckbeak’s appeal, she was immediately on her guard, but with Mrs. Malfoy, she feels a spark of kinship that she immediately tries to quash. She has no business endearing herself to pureblood, Sacred Twenty Eight, blood supremacist Narcissa Black Malfoy. 

“Here,” Narcissa retrieves Merlin's book from the shelf. She slips her wand out of her sleeve, and flicks through a complicated sequence of motions over the top of the book, whispering a spell. The whole book lights up an acidic lime green for a moment, and a whooshing noise escapes through the pages. The wand disappears up her sleeve again, and she pushes the corners of her lips up haltingly. 

She places it gently in Hermione’s hands. “Here,” she says again. “You can borrow it if you’d like… I don’t mind. No one will mind—we have enough old books… take it, dear.”

“I couldn’t possibly—”

“Nonsense.” Mrs. Malfoy flashes a pearly smile, but it disappears quickly. “Nonsense. I insist. Take it. You can send it back with my Draco when you’re through…”

“Merlin,” Hermione says. “Wow, thank you, Mrs. Malfoy—”

“No, no, dear,” Mrs. Malfoy takes a step back. She meets Hermione’s eyes, then quickly looks away. “I can’t linger here, though. Please excuse me,  I—pardon me—”

She pushes airily past Hermione and walks quickly to the stairs, disappearing. 

Hermione is left baffled, standing alone, holding the book in her hands, completely at a loss. How odd. Pureblood witches aren’t supposed to be socially awkward. They’re definitely not supposed to lend out precious, priceless artefacts to young witches of dubious birth. 

But—who is Hermione to question or complain? She flips the book open, and this time it doesn’t burn her. She’ll have to research that hex. It would be awfully useful to be able to protect her belongings with hexes like that. She has a handful of books she liberated from the Room of Requirement that would cause her too many questions and so many detentions if they were found by the wrong hands. Plus, god forbid anyone decides to gift her with a fountain of mud this year and tear up all her possessions. They would think twice if their hands were immediately smited. 

She starts reading, engrossing herself in the pages. Angelic symbols, it turns out, are instrumental to creating safe wards used in spirit rituals. Merlin describes the angel halo symbol, a ring or circle, above the head, as a metaphorical symbol used to show the purity of the soul. The best wards reflect this symbolism, apparently. In spirit rituals, a circular ward is drawn around the ritual space for protection and… 

The sound of stilted chatter swells and dies from the floor below, and she becomes distracted, wandering over to the bannister that overlooks the library. Something’s happening downstairs. 

Mr. Malfoy’s table has shuffled. Draco sits next to him, and across from him sits Sirius Black, a face she never expected to see at this party. He’s wearing black jeans and a Bowie t-shirt, the only person out of dress code—and in muggle clothing, no less. He looks extremely pleased with himself, sipping a glass of champagne and leaning back casually in his chair, while the rest of the table is frozen with tension. 

Hermione can’t hear what they’re saying. She slips her book into a pocket and makes her way down the stairs, curious.

By the time Hermione reaches the bottom of the stairs, Sirius is out of his seat, leaning over the table, his face threateningly close to Mr. Malfoy’s. Sirius hisses something at him under his breath, a vein on his forehead throbbing. 

Between them, Draco eyes are wide. He must sense her gaze on him, because his eyes snap to hers, an unreadable expression on his face. His eyes flicker, like a candle flame.

She inhales, feeling herself blush. 

And then he frowns, eyebrows tightening, squinting,  lips curling—a picture of disgust. 

She looks away quickly, tears springing to the corners of her eyes. She has to force herself to walk, not run, across the crowded room to the exit. 

She needs to get out of here. She’s going to bloody cry if she doesn’t get out of here immediately.

She needs to find Pansy. She needs to find Pansy to take her home. It was such a bad idea to come here. What was she thinking? 

How can he act this way? He said that he would earn her trust. He promised her that he would. But attacking Rowle and burning the school records were such a backwards way of doing it. He’s happy to pretend that he still hates her, to be the good son. 

She hates that she has to pretend to be something that she’s not. She wishes that she could proudly proclaim to this whole damn party that she’s a mudblood. She’s a mudblood, and she’s proud of it, dammit. 

But her survival depends on her lie, that fracturing mask.

That’s what Pansy said. Pansy said she needed to lie. The Masterplan is the only way. And she had trusted Pansy’s wisdom, hadn’t she? Pansy is the planner, always ten steps ahead. 

But it feels so wrong. She shouldn’t have to hide. She shouldn’t have to lie. She knows that Pansy would respect her if she gave up the lie. She wouldn’t like it, but she would understand. And it wouldn’t hurt their friendship. Pansy will always be on her side. 

But Draco? Daphne and Theo, even Greg, Tracey, Millie, Vince, and Blaise? Everyone else would surely betray her again. 

Pansy was the only one who stood by her after the basilisk.

Hermione could do it. She’d survived the fall out before; she could do it again. And wouldn’t it be worth it to be able to be her true, authentic self?

Draco said he would earn her trust. He said he knew he was wrong. But all he cares about is her conforming to the stupid rules pureblood society sets. It’s obvious isn’t it? He’ll be friends with her, he’ll even kiss her, but only if she can scrape together a better reputation, let her mask adhere to her skin. Become something that she’s not, something she can’t be. 

God, she needs to leave this party before she does something stupid. So she enters the empty drawing room, where the main floo is. She could floo to Diagon Alley and then catch a cab home? 

But—no. She needs to at least find Pansy first before leaving. She collapses on a couch, head hunched over her knees, forcing herself not to let the tears fall. She’ll pull herself together, and then she’ll go find Pansy. 

She tries the tried and true breathing technique. In for four, hold for seven, out for eight seconds. But she can’t get her breathing under control. She keeps gasping. She can’t not cry. Her throat burns, and tears fall in waves out of her as she gasps for breath. 

A few minutes later, the couch sinks beside her with the weight of someone sitting down. It’s Sirius, smiling at her kindly. 

She hastily wipes her face, the surprise of seeing him thankfully shocking the tears to reprieve. 

“I was just on my way out,” he says. “Fancy seeing you here. I suppose I wasn’t the only one to crash this horrible party.”  

“Preston, Pansy’s brother, called it ‘the Malfoy’s hubristic wank-fest,’” Hermione sniffles.

Sirius laughs, but his eyes are concerned. “Are you alright?”

She shakes her head. “It doesn’t matter. I’m fine.”

“These types of events can be really hard, even for purebloods. Everyone’s so pompous and fake.”

He doesn’t know the half of it. She chuckles, wiping at her eyes. Dammit, she’s still crying. “I guess Harry told you I’m a h-halfblood?”

He nods. “My godson. He’s a good kid… and I get to be with him thanks to you. If you hadn't shown up when you did, I’d be back, rotting in Azkaban. Hermione” —he leans forward earnestly— “I can’t thank you enough.”

“It’s n-nothing, Sirius.”

“It’s not nothing. I’m in your debt.”

“I’m j-just glad you’re free.”

“Azkaban was a hopeless place, but…” He sighs, leaning back into the couch. “Out here, it’s still a cage. I fought in the war, and I know we made a difference, if we didn’t I’d—I know we made a difference. But the world is still an ugly place.”

Hermione tries to even her breathing, but she can’t. She’s about three seconds away from an ugly sob, when Sirius pulls her into an awkward side-hug, patting her back. 

“You know,” he continues, “you give me some hope for the future. A halfblood in Slytherin is a good sign for society. In my day, it was a straight line, from Slytherin to Death Eater. Everyone in Slytherin were staunch blood purists and bigots. ”

An image forms in Hermione's mind. Draco's sneer—his disgust aimed directly at her. 

The ugly sob rears in her throat. “It’s still l-like that, Sirius. I’m s-so alone.”

“Hey,” Sirius says, drawing out the word. 

He gives an awkward pat-pat-pat to her back, but she pulls back, standing abruptly. She wipes at her face. He looks up at her, brow furrowed. 

“I’m sorry, Sirius,” she laughs nervously, brushing her wet cheekbones. “I’m not normally like this.” 

“That’s alright. Don’t worry.” He smiles, rising. “And you’re not alone, okay? Chin up.”

Hermione nods, trying to smile. 

The door bursts open, and Hermione jolts. Draco shuts the door swiftly, then paces forward, agitated.

“I can’t believe you, Granger,” he says. 

Raising his eyebrows, Sirius throws floo powder into the fire, then he places a hand on Hermione’s shoulder. “You need anything, you can let me know, okay?”

Hermione nods, and Sirius smiles. 

“Grimmauld place,” he says, then over his shoulder, he flashes her a wide grin. “I’ll be seeing you soon.” Then he disappears with a lime green burst of flame. 

She isn’t given enough time to process Sirius’s words because Draco now stands in front of her, eyes bloodshot and face slack.

“What in Merlin’s name were you thinking?”