Lies
Hermione tried not to gag over her oats the next morning at breakfast.
The sight of Daphne Greengrass fussing over Malfoy and the bruise on his jaw would have been sickening at any time of day, but was especially nauseating first thing in the morning. Hermione rued her decision to sit at a table directly across from Malfoy’s usual spot in the dining hall as Daphne crooned and stroked Malfoy’s hair, now slicked back from all the attention the oldest Greengrass sister was giving it.
Hermione pushed her bowl away as the oats threatened to make a reappearance.
She wasn’t sure whether Malfoy had told them all about the bruise's origin, but the fact that no death stares were being levelled in her direction was a good indicator that he had, for whatever reason, kept quiet about last night’s altercation.
Although she didn’t regret punching him, she couldn’t help the slight feeling of shame that crept up from her gut and sat like a brick in her stomach at the sight of the big purple bruise on Malfoy’s jaw – a perfect imprint of her fist.
She flexed her hand underneath the dining table, stretching her fingers. They ached slightly at her knuckles.
Hermione had never punched anyone before. She didn’t like it, the loss of control. She had always thought of herself as someone who was always in control, both with regard to her emotions and her life in general. She didn’t like the way Malfoy had made her lose her cool; had made her act out.
The moment before her fist connected with Malfoy’s sharp jaw was muddy and red, steeped in anger at his words and what they implied, but the second her knuckles had landed on their desired target it was as if her vision had suddenly cleared - been wiped away by the act of violence and the immediate fear of its consequence.
Crack.
Hermione had gasped as his head had whipped sharply to the side by the force of her blow. They both stayed frozen for a beat, two beats.
Slowly, ever so slowly, Malfoy had turned his head back to face her and lifted his hand up, feeling his jaw.
Hermione had hardly dared to breath. She’d really done it now. Her little outburst at detention was nothing compared to this. This was serious. This was bad. This was—
“If you tell anyone about this, you’re done for, Granger.” Malfoy's voice was low, threatening, his pupils enlarged with rage.
With that, he turned and strode away, leaving Hermione to make her way back to the Girls Dormitory, thoughts whirling like a storm inside her head for the rest of the evening and throughout the entirety of the night. She couldn’t remember the last time she had slept that badly.
Her position at Godric’s Hollow Grammar was precarious as it was; she didn’t need the stress of worrying about whether she would get kicked out because she had landed a blow on one of the school’s star pupils.
She tried to tell herself that it was all fine as she sipped her coffee. She wouldn’t tell a soul, and neither would he.
Malfoy was avoiding looking in her direction. He was staring at his breakfast—tea and scrambled eggs on toast—pointedly avoiding her gaze.
This bothered her. Over the last week or so she had gotten used to having to fend off his stares, and the freeze now felt uncanny. Look at me, prick, she thought.
But he refused, dodging both her gaze and Daphne’s extended hand, which was on its way to stroke his jaw, in one expert swerve.
Hermione knew better than to think that he felt bad for what he said last night. He most likely felt embarrassed that someone like her had placed their undeserving, proletariat hand on someone like him. It was probably a real shock that carrying the last name Malfoy didn’t stop someone from punching you.
She downed her coffee in one swoop and stood, brushing her hand over her Saturday outfit, not so different to her usual weekday uniform—a plaid skirt and cardigan, with white socks and loafers.
She had better things to do today than to ruminate over that blonde git.
~
Hermione’s head sprang up at the sound of the chiming bell, ringing sharply as the doors of the pub opened and closed for the first time in hours. It was an unusually quiet Saturday evening, with only a handful of customers making their way through the doors of The King’s Hearth, and Hermione had just settled in to finish Jane Eyre when the bell rang.
She put her book face-down on the counter and stood straight, ready to welcome the clientele.
Hermione’s heart leapt then sank as she clocked the customer’s tall build and platinum hair, gleaming even under the pub’s low lighting.
Shit.
Then she registered the second person following closely behind and wondered whether she had done something particularly heinous in a previous life so as to deserve the karma that was seeing Daphne hang off Malfoy like a handbag for the second time that day.
Even though Daphne was following behind, Hermione got the distinct sense that Daphne was the one leading charge. She clutched Malfoy’s hand, her arm extended in front of her, eying her date like a jockey eyeing its prize horse.
An image of a hostage situation suddenly sprang up in Hermione’s mind, unbidden.
Hermione contemplated faking a sudden illness as they took a seat at a table in the middle of the pub, right in front of the massive fireplace after which the establishment was named. She shook the thought out of her head – she couldn’t afford to miss a shift, especially not now, with the upcoming expenses of the ball.
Hermione took a deep, steadying breath, rolled back her shoulders, and made her way to their table with all the false confidence that she could muster. If she had to do this, let her get it over with quickly.
“Good evening,” she said as she approached their table, smiling amiably. Daphne, in the middle of saying something to Malfoy, paused and turned to acknowledge Hermione, then did a double-take, recognition flooding her icy blue eyes.
Daphne’s mouth morphed from a surprised ‘o’ to a devious smile as she took Hermione in, scanning her from top to bottom, starting from her head (messy braid, frizzy flyaways from the heat of the kitchen), over her uniform (a black apron, tied around a black shirt and skirt) and ending at her feet (practical, non-slip loafers).
Tonight was going to be hell.
While Nott was one of the few at Godric’s Hollow Grammar who was nice to Hermione, Daphne was the opposite: one of the few, along with Pansy, who went out of their way to be snide.
To the best of her knowledge, Hermione had never done anything to attract Daphne’s dislike. She wasn’t deluded enough to think that it was jealousy—what did Hermione have that Daphne didn’t?
No, she recognised the girl’s disdain for what it really was: barely contained rage.
Daphne took it as an insult that Hermione wasn’t stumbling over her own feet to try to keep up with them; wasn’t begging for a shred of attention or acceptance from all those who were ‘better’ than her. It baffled her that Hermione wasn’t interested in climbing ranks in any way she could, that she wasn’t trying to improve her own echelon through osmosis. Most of the students at Godric’s Hollow were exorbitantly rich but this, social standing, was the real currency at GHG—and Hermione wasn’t wealthy on either front.
Hermione would have bet her next paycheck that Daphne would have liked her much better if Hermione had openly tried and failed to be their friend. This, in Daphne’s eyes, would be understandable. Respectable, even. It was the natural order of things that Hermione should feel like she should bend over backwards to run in their exclusive circles.
Instead, Hermione was largely indifferent. She knew where she came from and didn’t kid herself into thinking that she could ever have something in common with the children of aristocrats, oligarchs, politicians, and royalty. Therefore, she didn’t even try—a fact which drove Daphne mad.
“Hello, Granger,” said Daphne, leaning back in her chair and crossing her arms, her perfectly manicured fingers resting lightly on her tan skin. “It is so nice to see you. I didn’t know you worked.” Her voice was like corn syrup—perfectly sweet and fake.
Not worked here. Worked, period.
Because working, especially somewhere like the King’s Hearth, was an unthinkable pastime for people like Daphne and Malfoy. People like them had the option, if they chose to, of never working a day in their lives.
They would though, inevitably, end up working jobs that showcased their power and status and place in the world—high-paid roles that they rolled out of bed into, because of their connections and last names.
For people like Daphne and Malfoy, work was not something that you did for money. It was something that you did to pass the time.
Hermione smiled at Daphne, gritting her teeth behind her closed mouth. “Can I get you anything to start with?”
Daphne glanced at Malfoy, eyeing him as if they were in on the same joke, but Malfoy simply looked down at the menu. Daphne’s smirk dropped a little when Malfoy failed to meet her eye, but it sprang back up again in a nanosecond when she looked back at Hermione. She leaned back in her chair, a red-tipped talon flicking her long, blonde hair over her shoulder.
Hermione raised her chin. “The ravioli is on special tonight.”
She could be civil for an evening. She could.
“Well, Draco and I are starving,” Daphne drawled, reaching her hand out across the table to touch Malfoy’s.
He snatched his hand away as if her touch burned.
Daphne flinched, her cheeks colouring. Hermione looked away, embarrassed for the girl. In that moment, it was clear that all three of them would rather have been somewhere, anywhere, else.
Malfoy cleared his throat and folded his arms across his chest, clearly uncomfortable. He was wearing his soccer uniform underneath his jacket; he looked like he had just finished practice.
Hermione wondered whether his knee had healed yet.
“Get whatever you’d like, Daphne, I’m not hungry,” he said in a measured voice. Daphne smiled at him with her mouth closed—a tight-lipped, sour smile that worked hard to retain the last of her dignity.
Hermione took down Daphne’s order—ravioli with a glass of red wine—and left them to it, with Daphne glaring at Malfoy from across the table, and Malfoy looking anywhere but at his date.
~
The pub door banged open, rudely thrusting Hermione out of her book and back into reality once again. She raised her head just in time to see a swish of long blonde hair before the door shut closed.
She looked over at their table, where Malfoy now sat with his head in his hands.
She slowly walked over with the cheque, noting the half-eaten plate of ravioli as she placed the cheque book on the table.
Malfoy looked up at her.
“Did you enjoy the show, Granger?” he asked mockingly, his grey eyes narrowed. Hermione wondered if the two of them would ever exchange a set of words that weren’t steeped in some sort of disdain.
“Why are your parents forcing you to date her?” The question came out her mouth before she could stop it. She flinched, hoping that Malfoy wouldn’t notice that she had just given herself away and revealed that she had eavesdropped on the conversation between him and Theo.
She bit her tongue and waited for Malfoy to rebuke her.
Instead, he held her gaze, steady.
“Because we all lie here, Granger.”
Hermione’s brows furrowed.
“Everyone at our school lies. To themselves, to others. My father lies to Daphne’s father, about us being a good match. Daphne lies to herself, about me liking her. I lie to myself too, when I tell myself that she’s fine, that I don’t mind being set up with her,” he said in a low voice.
“No one is honest. We all lie to keep up appearances, pretend that our lives are better than they are. That we’re happy. I thought you would be the one person to be honest, because you don’t care about all that, right? But you lie to yourself too. You pretend that you don’t care about not having any friends, but you do. It kills you that the only friend you have is Weasley. That you don’t get invited to parties or events. But it would kill you even more to admit it. So, you turn your nose and pretend you’re better than everyone else because you’re not from here; you’re not one of us. You pretend that you don’t mind being alone, because then it’s your choice.”
Hermione stood still, stunned.
Malfoy scoffed. “You’re just like everyone else,” he said spitefully, reaching for the cheque. He pulled a hundred-pound note out of his wallet and tucked it underneath the cheque book—more than enough money for the meal and wine. “Keep the change.”
By the time Hermione had found her voice again, he was nearly at the door.
“Fine,” she choked out spitefully, her voice unsteady. “I do mind. I wish I had someone here who I could turn to, who I could trust, besides Ginny.”
Malfoy turned around.
“But do you know what, Malfoy? I think you like to pretend you’re different too. But the sad truth is that I can see you 10 years from now, still with Daphne, still living a life that you like to think you have no control over.”
She tore her apron off and beat him to the door. “How’s that for honest, Malfoy,” she spat, looking up at him as she pushed the door open with one hand. With the other, she tucked the hundred-pound note that she’d picked up from the table into the pocket of his jacket.
“The meal is on the house,” she smiled. His wide grey eyes were the last thing she saw before she slammed the door and made her way out of the pub.