3.
Her slumber is interrupted by a thud against her window. “Mmh.” She mumbles something incoherent, shoving a pillow against her face to muddle the sound. Another thud. And another.
Moments pass and she falls back asleep, ignoring the sound of the repeated thudding and squawking against the glass. Until suddenly—
“GRANGER!” A high voice shrieks from outside her dorm and there is repeated heavy knocking against the back of the door. It nearly knocks the wind out of her as she jumps out of bed and rushes to the door, almost forgetting to cover up. She swings her bedroom door open and there stands Parkinson. “You spineless—it is early in the morning. Some of us are trying to sleep.” She hisses. “Shut your bloody bird up!” She stomps a foot and trudges back into her dormitory, slamming the door shut.
Hermione’s eyes are wide and she is fully awake now. Rubbing a tired eye, she leaves her door open and turns around, walking toward her window—opening it to find a measly, uncoordinated owl with a small letter tied to its leg. She runs her finger gently along a feather or two before untying the letter from it and pulling it open. It reads,
Hermione,
It’s been a couple of days. We haven’t seen you, and you missed the first couple of lessons. Are you doing alright? Seamus asked if the Slytherins have hung you already. People are starting to jump to conclusions. Please update us.
Or just update me. I’ll keep my mouth shut if you want me to. I just want to hear from you.
Ginny.
Hermione drops the letter into her lap, grabbing a quill from her nightstand and scrawling onto the back of the note.
Ginny,
You’ll all be pleased to know I haven’t been hung. I’m fine. I will see you soon.
Hermione.
She ties the letter back onto the scrawny leg of the owl, giving its feathers another soft touch before sending it off to the Gryffindor common room.
It’s been three days since she moved into the Slytherin common room, and she has not come out of the dormitory even once. Her angry morning greeting with Pansy was the first interaction she’s had with anyone since the night she came in. Her thoughts begin to flow again, countless questions floating through her mind as she stares out into the morning. Her view from the window is beautiful, much nicer than her old dorm. It overlooks the Black Lake. She decides she will spend some time there today, if she finally makes it out of her room.
She’s startled when she hears her open door creak. Her head whips to the side, and she finds Theodore Nott standing in the doorway. He leans against the doorframe and stares at her.
“Nott.” She acknowledges. She looks back out the window, trying to ignore the feeling of his eyes on her. She has barely ever spoken to him before. These last few days have been the first few interactions they’ve ever had—but she’s never expected anything less than the typical arrogant form of a Slytherin.
“Granger.” He says. “May I come in?”
Her eyes turn back to him. “What?”
“Pretty straight forward question, if you ask me.” He shrugs.
“I know what you asked.” She hisses. “I’m—I don’t know why you would want to come in.”
“I’m taking your rude remarks as a yes,” he says, and all of a sudden he’s walking in and shutting the door behind him. He flops down onto the armchair that sits in the corner of the room. “Are you ever going to leave this bloody dorm?”
Her eyes follow him as he sits. She feels stupid. “Not if I can help it,” she argues.
“Nobody’s seen you leave this room since you walked in here. Rumour has it you’ve killed yourself.” He says, stretching out and resting his head on his hands that reach up behind his neck.
“Give you all a reason to celebrate, no?” She says, tone petty as she gets up from her window seat and walks over to her trunk that sits on the floor beside the fireplace. She can feel his eyes following her.
“Now why would you think that?” He asks. His tone is playful.
Hermione whips her head around. “Don’t play dumb with me, Nott. I don’t have the time nor the energy for your jokes.” She turns back around and grabs a bright red jumper and a pair of denim jeans out of her trunk.
“No time to unpack either, it would seem.” He says pointedly, referring to her empty dresser drawers and packed trunk. “Do you intend to try and move back to your old living quarters?”
“It’s not my old—it’s still my—I’m still—”
“Face facts, Granger. You’re one of us now.” He says. She can hear his grin, even facing away from him. She pretends to rummage through her trunk some more so she doesn’t have to look at him.
“Are you planning on wearing that to class?” He asks, talking about the outfit draped over her forearm.
She sighs as she stands up straight and turns around. Eyes him for a moment. He looks pleased with himself. Typical Slytherin. The more she speaks to him, the less she understands how the Sorting Hat saw it fit to put her here. “I’m not one of you.” She says. “I will never be one of you, Death Eater.”
“Ouch.”
“What do you want?” She hisses. “Have you just come to make me feel even smaller? Was being sorted into Slytherin in front of all my friends not embarrassment enough? Or being belittled by all your friends when I walked in here for the first time?”
He stares at her. Doesn’t answer. He plainly watches as she steps into the washroom and comes back out a minute later, changed into her outfit with her pajamas in hand. She drops them onto the foot of her bed, then stands in place for a moment with her arms crossed, staring at her feet.
He stands—her eyes shoot up and her hand reaches for her wand instinctively. Grabs a tight hold of it as he walks toward her.
“I simply thought you could use a friend.” He says when he reaches about two feet away from her. “Let me know when you’re ready to step off your high horse and come down to my level,” he says. “I’ll be here for you. You’ll need it.”
Hermione stares up at him, curious and cautious, both at once. She can’t read him. Can’t understand if he’s being genuine or not.
And of everyone, the people she hates the most are the ones she can’t read.
He turns on his heel and walks toward the door. Opens it and starts to leave, but stops in the doorway. Then he turns back for a moment. “And, Granger?”
She waits.
“As fierce or brave, or—whatever you Gryffindors like to call yourselves—as you may look in red, those hardly look like robes.” He points at her sweater and jeans. “Try a green tie. Go to class.” He leaves, closing the door behind him and leaving Hermione sort of dumbfounded.
She hesitates for a moment before turning on her foot to walk to the dresser where her Slytherin robes have been sitting since the night she arrived. She touches the hems, running her finger along the side of the tie before she snaps out of it. She is not taking advice from Theodore Nott.
She sticks her wand in her jean pocket and grabs a book from the mesh pocket of her trunk—forcing herself to fake as much confidence as possible as she walks down the hall that leads to the spiral staircase. She is going to the Library.
Walking through the common room for the second time is much easier than she had expected. It’s early enough in the morning that most of the students are still asleep, not including the few fifth and sixth years that are up hogging the few tables in the common room. She notices the looks she receives from them, but feels far less intimidated and pathetic than she did on day one. Baby steps.
The words Theodore said to her circle her mind as she makes her way to the Library. She can’t stop thinking about what he said.
“... Simply thought you could use a friend…”
“... I’ll be here for you. You’ll need it…”
That had been so unexpected to hear from him. She still can’t tell if he was being genuine or not, but… better safe than sorry, she figures. She doesn’t need his help. She’s not a child, looking for friends on a playground. She’s an adult. She can do things on her own. And of all people, the last person she would accept any assistance from was a Death Eater.
Ex-Death Eater, but still.
It only takes her a couple of minutes to find a quiet and secluded space to sit in the library. She sets her things down and takes a seat in the middle of the table in hopes that no one will pass by and assume the seats are available to them. She uses her wand to float as many random books as possible from the shelves onto the table, flopping them open to random pages to occupy as much surface area as she can. Then she flips to page fifty-seven of her own book—a novel written by Jane Austen. Her mother’s favourite book.
She’s very deep in thought when a chair screeches in front of her, and she looks up to see Harry and Ron sitting in front of her suddenly. She can feel her face go slightly red, knowing they await an explanation as to why they haven’t heard any word from her for three entire days. She looks up at both of them—Ron, who seems sort of… angry? And Harry, whose expression shows nothing but concern for her well-being.
“You haven’t come to class. Or breakfast.” Ron says, “or lunch or dinner. For three days.”
“Are you alright? Have they kept you locked up?” Harry asks, and Hermione looks confused.
“No, they have not locked me up, Harry.” She says. “I’m sorry I haven’t—I’ve just been in my dorm.”
“I’m surprised they’re even letting you sleep in there,” Ron says.
“McGonagall arranged a room for me.” Is all she has to say. Her eyes float back to Harry, who looks puzzled. “What is it?”
“I don’t know. I’m just shocked.” He says. “This has to be some sort of mistake, right? I mean, maybe the Hat—”
“That Sorting Hat isn’t mistaken, Harry. Trust me, everything you’ll think of—any solution or way to change things back—I’ve already thought of it and I know why it won’t work. They aren’t going to hurt me in there,” she sighs. “Most of them are on probation anyway.”
“I guess.” He says.
“Will you at least start spending nights with us again?” Ron questions.
Hermione smiles at him. “Sure. I’ll bring a pillow tonight.”
She feels slightly uneasy, but she’s unsure why. However the smile that erupts on Ron’s face when she agrees to come spend some real time with them is worth the queasy inkling in her stomach. It’s probably nothing.
“Better get to class,” she says.
“Right,” they stand, grabbing their things from the table. “You coming?”
“Erm… yeah, maybe. You go on, I’ll catch up. I have some cleaning to do here.” She says, gesturing to the mess of books she made before they arrived.
It’s half past eight in the evening. She didn’t go to a single lesson.
It’s horrible.
She’s never been like this.
Missing classes—skipping classes—this is so grandly unlike herself. What is she doing?
She stands in her dorm again, deciding what to do. What she should do is stay true to her word—grab a toothbrush and a pillow and head to the Gryffindor common room for a night of board games and gossip. It sounds appealing to her, honestly. Sleeping under that familiar ceiling again. But some part of her urges her to stay. And suddenly, she’s walking down to the Slytherin common room, wand in hand.
She sits down on one of the giant couches. Surprisingly, no one of any importance is there yet. She silently thanks the superiors, because she likely would have kept walking had she seen any of them in the seating area. The secluded space makes it far easier to decide she’s going to stay. But it won’t be long before they start to pour in—they likely have curfews in tandem with their probation.
She takes in the sight of the common room as she waits. Wait for what, exactly? She’s not entirely sure herself. But there’s just some part of her that feels like tonight’s the night she’ll try to make some sort of impression.
The common room is beautiful, if she’s honest. It’s so unlike the dark and cold picture painted by Ron and Harry after the few minutes they spent here. She looks around, taking in the sleek green walls and the crystal designs that parade the ceiling, gleaming and twinkling at certain angles. The fireplace beside the sitting area looks nothing like the one in Gryffindor—the warm red flames and beautiful orange light that emits from beneath the mantle is replaced by a light green flame, and the home-y wooden fireplace is replaced by black marble. It’s so different.
She runs a hand along the velvet couch and looks at the coffee table in front of her. It’s made entirely out of glass, and there’s nothing on top of it, save a bowl of taffy in the centre. She thinks about taking one. Wonders if they poisoned it. She decides she’s not hungry.
She stays frozen when she hears voices coming from down the hall. They’re here. She doesn’t turn around—the couch she’s sat on is facing away from the entrance to the common room anyway, so she’s able to avoid eye contact with them. But it’s obvious when they spot her, invading their space when their voices cut off suddenly and the room goes quiet. She turns around.
Blaise Zabini, Pansy Parkinson, Theodore Nott.
Okay, not too bad. She can handle this.
“Who told you to just make yourself at home?” Pansy asks suddenly. She stomps forward and lays down onto the couch across from Hermione. Her tone is mean and her voice is high. High like, if she were to scream, Hermione would fear the glass table in front of them would explode. She opens her mouth to say something smart back to her—but decides against it.
“I’ve spent too much time in the dorm.” She says.
Pansy gives her a dirty look. “What is wrong with her?” She hisses to Nott and Zabini, who both come and rest on the armchair on the other side of the table. Theodore sinks into the cushion while Blaise takes a seat on the large armrest. “Do you really think you’re just—one of us now?” She looks back to Hermione, who shifts uncomfortably in her seat.
Hermione says nothing. Her gaze shifts to Theo, who is already looking at her.
“She doesn’t think that, Pansy.” He says. His eyes don’t leave Hermione’s. “Why would she want to associate herself with Death Eaters?”
And to her own surprise, Hermione can’t help but feel guilty for snapping at him earlier.
“I’m sorry,” she says to him. “I shouldn’t have—” God, what is she talking about? “—shouldn’t have said that to you.”
“Said what?” Pansy spits. Theodore looks at her, shaking his head.
Hermione’s eyes shift to Blaise then, who looks completely uninterested. He walks over to one of the cabinets that surround the fireplace and takes out two bottles of firewhiskey. He walks back to the couch, taking a seat on the couch Hermione shyly occupies a small corner of. He’s very careless. His feet swing up and he lays down facing her, head propped up against the armrest. He offers her a bottle, then, silently. She stares at his arm extended out to her.
“No, thank you.” She says.
He snorts. A laugh. Then he tosses the bottle to Theodore, still sitting on her other side. He doesn’t waste a moment—pops the cork open and downs a large swig of it. He doesn’t even flinch, but Hermione’s nose stings from just the smell of it.
She looks back to Pansy, who’s now conjured herself a small handheld mirror and is fixing her bangs. She notices Hermione eyeing her and scoffs. She sort of reminds her of a cat. A black cat. Hermione catches herself staring and decides to look away. She tries to find something else in the room to look at, but realises she’s already exhausted every part of it—and has already been awkwardly staring at all three of them—so she decides to stare down at her hands instead. Seems like the safest option, at this point.
A silence passes. She wonders if they feel as awkward and out of place as she does, but the occasional comment or joke made between Blaise and Theodore makes her think they don’t. Why would they? It’s not like they’re the ones sitting on the Gryffindor sofas.
It’s sort of… nice. She doesn’t mind their presence.
Pansy then stands, suddenly. “I cannot stand you.” She hisses at Hermione, looking down at her. Seems like the feeling wasn’t mutual. “You both are really going to let her sit here with us?” She looks at the boys. Neither of them really say anything.
Pansy scoffs, suddenly walking off and up the spiral staircase, spitting out random obscenities and complaining to herself.
“She doesn’t like me.” She admits. Theodore gives a small snort before taking another large swing of whiskey.
“Can you blame her?” A voice says suddenly, from behind the three of them. Hermione turns around and suddenly, there’s a new burn in her throat when she sees him standing there.
He looks different. She hadn’t taken any notice to him during the sorting ceremony, nor when she first walked into the Slytherin common room. She had heard his voice that night but she didn’t see him. She was so preoccupied. Now, face to face with him—staring down at her with a scowl on his face and his pale arms crossed over his chest, her voice is caught somewhere down her throat and she is silent as he stands there. “Huh, Granger? Enjoying a casual night where you don’t belong?” He snarks.
“Malfoy, finally going to join us?” Blaise says from beside her, propped up on his elbows to see past the back of the sofa.
“Hm. Depends. Is Potter’s elf going to stick around?” He says, walking toward them and dropping down onto the couch Pansy left empty.
God, he is just insufferable. Can’t he go one moment without making some kind comment? She tries to think of something to say to him, but she can’t. All she sees in his face is Bellatrix Lestrange. They look almost nothing alike—in fact, their features are at such a stark difference that she wouldn’t even realise he was her nephew if she didn’t know any better. She opens her mouth to speak when she realises he’s already moved on.
She tunes back in in the middle of his conversation with Theodore and Blaise.
“Slughorn’s already got me in shackles,” Nott says, passing the bottle to Malfoy. He takes it eagerly, swallowing a large gulp of it. The corners of his eyes crinkle as the liquid burns down his throat. “I’m already behind.”
“Doesn’t matter. Who gives a shit?”
“Granger sure doesn’t,” Theodore says, turning back to her. He adjusts his position so his back is propped up against the arm of his chair. “Hasn’t gone to a single bloody lesson.”
Draco looks at her. She looks between the three of them. They’re all awaiting her response—but she once again is left dumbfounded, has nothing to say.
“Does it speak?” Malfoy barks, getting a laugh out of Zabini as he stretches out further on the couch. Hermione ignores him. She turns back to Theodore.
“What does it matter to you?”
“What?”
“Why would you be interested in whether or not I’m going to my classes? Why are you interested?” She asks him. She’s trying to seem less pathetic, striking any sort of conversation. But also—she is curious. This might now be about three times he’s brought up her lousy academic efforts that have presented of late, if she’s not mistaken.
“Just looking out for you.” He says. She looks confused. “Isn’t that what friends are for?” He adds, grabbing the bottle back from Malfoy and taking a casual gulp from it.
Even Malfoy looks slightly confused now.
“What are you bloody talking about?” He questions, setting his elbow on his knee and using his other arm to smack Nott with the back of his hand. Nott sets the bottle down on the table, crossing his arms. He says nothing.
Hermione clears her throat. She doesn’t know what he’s playing at, but she decides she’s better off not knowing. The further away she stays from any of these people, the better.
Her head turns to the clock that sits above the mantle. It’s late. She was supposed to go to the Gryffindor common room.
“Excuse me.”