Nerves
The next week passed Hermione by, eventless. She stuck to the perfect routine inked into her diary, timed to the very minute. Wake up, shower, dress, breakfast in the dining hall, class, then study until dinner. After dinner was her ‘free time’, but every time Hermione tried to sit down and relax, it felt as though her brain was covered in ants – an itchy, nagging feeling that made her get up from her bed or the dormitory couch and find the nearest textbook and dive right back into her work.
But whenever she inevitably had to put her textbooks down—to shower, to go to the bathroom, to walk from one class to another—her thoughts always strayed to the same place; the place she was so desperately trying to avoid.
“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.”
Malfoy’s words bounced around in her skull, echoing.
At first, she felt indignation. How dare he think that he knows me, she thought, scrubbing her teeth furiously, the same Saturday night that she had stormed out of the pub. How dare he think that he’s got me all figured out. He was wrong—she couldn’t care less about their frivolous parties, their silly little society events. About being accepted by people who she would never have anything in common with.
In fact, even if she was invited to their events, she wouldn’t go to them anyway. She had better things to do, like make sure that her grades were top notch, that it was impossible for Oxford to refuse her application.
It was up to her to determine her future, pave a way for herself. Daddy couldn’t buy her a university acceptance, or a highly coveted internship or job. She didn’t have a safety net like all her classmates did.
Like he did.
When she put her toothbrush back in its holder that night, its bristles were all flattened.
But as the week wore on and his words had settled in her mind, their sting wore off. The longer that she sat with them, the harder it was to deny the kernel of truth that was buried beneath the layers of contempt in his speech.
That as much as she hated to admit it, she did care. She did mind.
And that feeling—knowing that he was right, that he’d figured her out so easily, that her cards were so effortlessly exposed—was a lot harder to sit with than the pure, indignant anger that she had felt towards Malfoy at the start of the week.
~
Hermione’s eyes dragged down as if weighed by bricks. She shook herself awake. History with Professor Binns was a struggle to get through at the best of times, but it was almost impossible on a Friday afternoon, even for Hermione. She was exhausted after her long week, and she could feel herself losing to the combination of the warm afternoon sun streaming in through the classroom’s tall, arched windows and Binns’ monotone drawl.
Theo poked her in the ribs. “If you’re already nodding off, how are you going to survive tonight?” he teased, his eyes crinkling at the edges.
Shit, tonight. Pansy Parkinson’s 18th. Hermione instantly revived as nerves flooded her system, having a better effect on her exhaustion than a cup of coffee could ever have had.
Theo had taken to a habit of sitting next to her in class. The looks and whispers that had been levelled their way after the first time he had pulled out the chair next to her almost made her ask him to stop, but he seemed so eager, so genuinely keen to sit next to her, that she couldn’t do it. And anyway, after a while she stopped noticing all the extra attention that was being directed her way.
He had asked her to the Soiree, after all. What did people expect?
Hermione gave Theo a tight-lipped smile, hoping that she didn’t come off as ungrateful for the invite to Parkinson’s birthday.
She turned her head slightly to the right, where Malfoy and the rest of clique, now missing a key member, sat. Malfoy, just as bored as the rest of the students, sat with his head in his hands in a seat directly in front of the classroom windows. His light hair seemed to absorb the afternoon sun, greedily drinking it in, such that his whole head appeared to glow, as if he was wearing a halo. His lashes, too, looked almost golden in the sunlight. He blinked lazily at Professor Binns, throwing long shadows over his sharp cheekbones with every blink.
Hermione looked quickly away, trying to ignore the rogue butterfly that suddenly appeared in her stomach. In her haste to look elsewhere, anywhere, she accidentally caught Parkinson’s eye. Parkinson held her gaze for a second, cold snake eyes boring into Hermione, then rolled her eyes and turned her attention back to Binns. The single butterfly became a whole swarm, flapping its wings in a nauseating beat.
Maybe she could fake an illness? It wasn’t quite flu season yet, but Hermione could pass it off as a weak immune system, or maybe a bad bit of seafood that she had had for lunch…
No, she steeled herself, mentally straightening her shoulders. This party shouldn’t scare her. Isn’t this what she wanted? To be invited, to belong? To hang out with someone that wasn’t Ginny for once.
Ginny...
Should she invite her? Could she even do that? Could a plus one have a plus one? Should she say something to her, or keep it a secret? Would Ginny hate her forever? Would she lose her only friend at this goddamn, stupid, pretentious—
Hermione felt her thoughts spiralling. She took a deep breath and looked at the old classroom clock. Barely 5 minutes had passed. It was going to be a long afternoon.
~
Even though it was Pansy’s birthday, the party itself was to be hosted at the Malfoy Manor—the absurd, overlarge, and disgustingly opulent mansion that signalled the generations and generations of privilege that ran through the Malfoy name and blood.
When Hermione pulled up to the house, however, sitting passenger seat in Theo’s car, she couldn’t contain her awe.
More of an estate than a house, the Manor sat grandly on a lone block of land, its nearby neighbors nowhere to be seen. Tall, angular roofs and arched windows were reminiscent of Godric’s Hollow Grammar, however the Manor had none of the school’s warmth, its old, age-worn charm. Instead, the Manor’s wrought iron gates—made of cruel, twisted black metal—long pebbled driveway, and dark brick exterior all lent themselves to the image of isolation, of loneliness.
Had Malfoy really grown up here?
It seemed a house fit for an old oil baron, or a retired millionaire hermit. Not a family, a child. Hermione thought of her own family home, growing up. It was small but cozy, with plush armchairs, department store paintings on the walls, and the sound of the TV that was constantly on.
Hermione couldn’t imagine growing up in a place this cold, big, and empty.
Theo parked next to a line of cars that had already arrived, off to the side of the Manor. He went around the car and opened the door for Hermione. She stumbled a little getting out. The knee-high boots that she had donned that afternoon had a stable, thick heel, but she wasn’t used to any footwear that wasn’t entirely flat and had to concentrate on her steps so as not to fall and make a fool of herself. She tugged on her white minidress, dug out of the very back of her wardrobe. It had a high neckline, bordering on a turtleneck collar, but it was shorter than she was used to.
The sun had already set and the temperature was cool that evening, raising goosebumps on her exposed arms, her thighs.
Hermione trailed behind Theo like a lost puppy, suddenly feeling very small and out of place as they made their way up to the Manor.
What was she doing here?
She wished that she had decided to let Ginny know; had asked Theo to let her bring her only friend.
Hermione felt the loud thump of the music before they had even stepped foot inside. Theo pushed the Manor’s tall double doors open as Hermione held her breath.
A kaleidoscope of lights and sounds assaulted Hermione’s senses.
Inside, it was chaos. Or was it just a regular party? Hermione wasn’t sure; she’d never been to one before. Theo put his arm out behind him and Hermione grabbed on as they navigated their way through a long hallway, now crowded with what looked like every single teenager who lived within a 50 mile radius. Portraits lined the hallway and the stern, serious faces of generations upon generations of Malfoys—sharp features; long, aristocratic noses; platinum blonde hair—flickered with the changing lights, synced to the pulsing beat of the music.
They made it down the hallway and into what looked like a drawing room. If the hallway was a dedicated dance area, then the drawing room was where everyone mingled. Impeccably dressed teenagers lounged on antique furniture, talking, laughing, drinking. Hermione spotted Pansy sitting perched on the arm of an armchair, delicately holding a champagne flute. A tiara rested on the top of her raven bob, lights reflecting off of the diamonds. Hermione had no doubt that an entire term's, no, year’s, worth of her tuition could be covered by that one piece of jewellery.
Pansy was surrounded by the rest of her friends, Malfoy included.
He stood in the middle of the throng, his head turned towards Pansy, who was telling an anecdote to the entire group, her features lit up with excitement and exaggeration. His arm was loosely draped Daphne.
Daphne looked positively glowing. If Hermione had no idea whose birthday it was, she might have guessed that it was the blonde’s by the smug expression on her face and the elated look in her eyes.
Hermione was starting to feel sick again; the butterflies has gotten loose once more. She flagged down a server—a server?—and grabbed a champagne flute off a golden tray. She tried to sip it slowly, but before she knew it the entire flute was gone, drained. Theo raised his eyebrows in a bemused way. “There should be stronger stuff in the kitchen, if you’re up for it,” he said, smirking in a way that made her feel glad that he was there with her.
Hermione smiled back, her nerves temporarily stilled by the alcohol and Theo’s presence.
“Come on,” he said, grabbing Hermione’s hand and dragging her towards his group of friends before she could object.