one. wishbone.
It feels like winter in the castle, even though it is only the middle of autumn. Her hands are numb and cramped from writing notes and brewing potions. No one thinks to offer her their coat.
In the place Ron used to sit next to her, there is Neville, chattering about some pastry he wants to get with her the next time they go to Hogsmeade. Harry sits on her other side while Ron sits across from them both, being fawned over by Lavender Brown. Ron is enjoying the attention. Why couldn’t she have been more like Lavender? Seeing the two together makes her want to cry. She is so undesirable that even Ron didn’t want her.
She’s gotten more jumpy recently. More aware of her surroundings. Maybe that is why she realizes the gray blue eyes that stare at her across the dining hall. He has the same dead look in his eyes that she does. Maybe that is why she recognizes him at first, even before she realizes who he is.
Draco Malfoy.
He’s a rumored death eater now. She has heard the rumors. Harry talks about it all the time. How he went to Durmstrang for his fifth year instead of Hogwarts, his suspicious behavior, and how he is even more of a bully than before.
He looks different. There is something harder about his features but all together more delicate. He is a walking oxymoron, she decides. He stares at her coldly as she continues to observe him. He’s grown broader, most likely as a result of quidditch and maybe something else. Strong. He looks strong, and for some reason, safe. His blonde bangs fall over his forehead. He’s handsome, Hermione notices wryly.
She doesn’t break eye contact, and to her surprise he doesn’t either yet. He looks as though he is memorizing her features for the first time. He looks like he sees right through her.
This feels dangerous, although Hermione does not know why.
His eyes grow darker as he finally comes out of the trance and shakes his head in disgust. He mutters under his breath.
Hermione watches his lips as closely as possible and can make out two distinct words: Mudblood bitch.
Hermione looks away sharply then, his whispered words stinging her as harshly as a slap to her cheek.
She probably should punch him again, but she doesn’t know where all the fight in her has gone. It’s still there, obviously, but hidden under layers of sadness that makes it hard to breathe.
After dinner, Ron comes up to her. She feels a bit nervous, this is the first interaction they’ve had without Lavender in a week.
Nowadays, they are always cozying up on a couch somewhere practically in each other’s laps and kissing each other’s faces off right in front of her. She is not proud of the fact that she has ran crying because of it a few times or stormed off in anger.
“Mione,” She hates that her heart beats faster because of the nickname.
“Yes Ron?” She masks her sadness
“I need help on the assignment for Charms,” he gives her a sweet smile that reminds her of old times.
“Of course I can help you. Do you want to sit somewhere so we can discuss it?”
“I was actually hoping you could just give me the answers? Lav’s waiting for me.”
Lav. He gave her a nickname too. She feels her heart fall. She wishes she could just say no and yell at him for being so daft. She knows he is shoving their relationship in her face.
“The answers are in my bookbag if you scrounge around a bit.”
“Thanks Mione! You’re the best.”
She watches longingly as he leaves to meet his girlfriend. Harry comes up from behind her and follows her line of sight.
“He’ll come to his senses one day,” Harry says and she absentmindedly nods.
She doesn’t know about that. He seems pretty enamored with Lavender right now. And besides, she doesn’t want to be someone’s second choice.
She focuses her attention on what it should have been all along: helping Harry find a way to defeat Voldemort.
༒
It is common that late at night is when Hermione’s mind comes alive. She has scars now, and nobody was there to put a bandage on them.
She feels time ebb and flows, like an ocean, like it has always done. Hermione has time, but lately she’s felt rushed. Like she’s living but not present. Waiting for something that will leave her behind.
Because the world doesn’t wait for lost girls, it doesn’t even leave them behind. It simply abandoned them without a second thought.
Coming back to Hogwarts is a strange feeling. She still feels as though she wants to know everything all at once.
She was not a little girl anymore. Being a know-it-all was not as cute as it used to be. She still feels feral for knowledge, for the information that would seep through her blood and veins, but sometimes she wonders if it is more of a liability than a benefit.
Harry does not know half the spells she does, though he is more formidable than her in a duel. Hermione has never been good with those life-death situations, choosing to overanalyze every spell and hex she can before shooting her shot.
It’s dark and lonely in the restricted section of the library. She’s researching for Harry. She’s picked up a book called The Curse of Dark Wizards.
Hermione’s wonders how Voldemort can hate muggleborns so much and lead hundreds of purebloods when he is a half-blood himself. She concludes that maybe it’s not so much the purity of the blood itself but the power that he will gain from hating it.
She reaches for a book on the top shelf, and when she realizes that she isn’t tall enough to get it—curse her shortness—she grabs her wand from her pocket. Except her wand isn’t there. It’s on the table where all the rest of the books she’s picked out are.
Before she can go to get it, a hand reaches up for her and hands her the book.
“Here, Mudblood.” She doesn’t even have to look up to know within an instant who it is. It’s obvious by the deep voice and the scathing tone.
She isn’t fazed by the use of the word. She’s used to it by now.
“Malfoy,” she breathes in surprise, finally looking up at him. His lips are pulled into a cruel smirk. His hair is jagged across his forehead but almost falls into his eyes now. His eyes are a glistening silver like a sharp knife held to a bloody throat. He looks vile. Dark. Wretched. Beautiful.
He almost takes her breath away. She almost shudders by their close proximity. He towers over her in a way that makes her feel tiny. Oddly, she’s not scared of him, even though she has nothing but her fists.
His mouth twists into a scowl. “What’s a good girl like you doing here in the dark all by yourself?”
She shrugs. “None of your business.”
Oh, he doesn’t like that, because the next thing he does is push her against the bookshelf. The next thing she knows, her wrists are pinned and Malfoy is whispering in her ear.
“I’m making it my business, Mudblood.”
She gasps a little. He releases her and strolls to her pile of books.
“Researching dark magic, are you?”
“I suppose so.”
He takes her wand between his fingers. “I think I’ll keep this.”
“What? You can’t do that! It’s—against the rules,” she says in indignation.
“I’ll let you in on a little secret, mudblood,” he says coming closer, “I don’t give a fuck about the rules.”
“Wait, please. I need my wand,” she says angrily and glares at him.
“Nah, I don’t think so.”
“I’ll tell Mcgongall,” she threatens.
“And what exactly will you tell her? That you were in the restricted section late at night after curfew? Even prefects aren’t allowed here without a pass.”
He’s infuriating. “You—you—you can’t do that. I’ll—”
“What will you give me if I give your wand back?”
“What?”
“I want something in exchange.”
“No! I’m not giving you something in exchange for something that is already mine.”
“Shame.” He turns and starts walking away with her wand. That arrogant prat!
“Fine. What do you want from me?”
He nods, then rolls a cigarette through his lips. “I want a kiss. Let me give you a kiss.”
Out of everything, she didn’t expect this. He’s making fun of her.
“I thought I was dirty. My blood isn’t the same color as yours,” she says sarcastically.
He swallows. “You are. However, a Mudblood will make for a good plaything.” If he was a bully before, he’s something much, much darker now.
“Fine. Just a kiss.” She’s never been kissed before and this is the way her first kiss goes.
It was supposed to be magical, with Ron. She had dreamed of it before. It would be both their first kisses. He would awkwardly take her hand and gently do it, then ask her if it was good afterwards.
But Draco…she doesn’t know what to expect with him. He crookedly smiles, his dimples showing a bit. She didn’t know Draco Malfoy had dimples. He’s never smiled at her before. They look all wrong for him. It makes him look a little sweet.
She leans her head up to him, half expecting him to laugh in her face.
He shakes his head. “Not on the lips.”
“Then where—” She lets out a soft moan slip when he unzips her skirt and starts touching her under it.
She jerks away. “Get off me, you asshole!”
“You promised a kiss. A kiss for your wand.”
“You jerk, I meant a kiss on the lips, not…not, there!”
“You never specified. Do you want your wand or not,” he asks heartlessly.
“No. Not like that. I’d rather tell Mcgonagall the truth and get my wand back that way.”
“Have it your way then. A kiss on the lips.”
“Oka—”
And then he lifts her on the library table and kisses her hard. She’s letting out quiet whimpers, especially when he starts to touch her breasts through her shirt. He tugs on her hair and she lets out a loud moan.
“Fucking hell,” he says under his breath, while he continues to ravish her. It’s not until he starts to put a hand up her shirt that she pushes him away.
“You got your kiss. Now give me back my wand,” she says in a steely voice. She feels tears starting to form, and it’s not because she didn’t like the kiss. In fact, she kind of hates herself for the fact that she liked it. A lot. What makes her cry is the realization that he didn’t do it because he liked her. He did it for some kind of a fucked up revenge.
He gives it to her wordlessly: she takes it and runs the hell away from this room.
༒
That night, Hermione dreamt of silver eyes.
Eyes that were not honey or golden but night dark. Pools of ink devouring light. She dreams of a girl in a green dress, her mother’s favorite color. Images of her mother’s old perfume bottles of Chanel no 5, unripe peaches, attic windows, unread books, dark lipstick, champagne, picnics in the summer, and dead languages come back to her.
She feels the cotton sheets of her bed hugging her in a cold sweat.
There are black earl grey tea and coffee cups on the windowsill, courtesy of Hermione. Parvati and Lavender will drink the occasional cup of tea sometimes, but never coffee. They don’t need to: they aren’t insomniacs like Hermione is.
The nightmares never stop, not even for Hermione Granger, the brightest witch of her age, she thinks bitterly.
She lights a candle and starts to rewrite her notes, preparing for school the next day, like she always does on Sunday. She focuses on the curve of her words as she writes, the way her letters look under the glow of the fire. Once she is done with that, she sketches detailed diagrams on fresh parchment and annotates her textbooks.
Fall is her favorite season. A cold breeze settles over her arms in the dorm; her coat is just warm enough. The clips in her hair barely keep her dark wild bangs out of her face. The timetable she keeps is stained with coffee and ink. Stacks of second hand books—half of them Muggle—romance—lie on her desk.
Hermione’s fingers are like ice as she touches her dark under-eye bags. Her nails are bitten and unpainted. She pulls out a leather bound notebook and pushes quill to paper.
She stops when she hears a noise in the room. High pitched giggling and then a deeper voice telling her to quiet down. A voice she knows. Ron. And Lavender. Together in bed. Out the corner of her eyes, she sees them kissing. Ron is shirtless. They slept together and he stayed in bed with her.
She is careful not to make a sound. She hides under the covers and blows out her candle quietly. They cannot notice she is awake. Small whimpers of sadness threaten to spill out of her at any moment; she feels like erupting into tears.
༒
She spends the day talking to her professors and busying her mind off of Ron and Lavender. Professor Mcgongall told her it might be good for her to start helping out in the hospital with Madam Pomfrey. She says it might expand her horizons and help with future job offers.
It is almost evening when she visits the hospital wing. It doesn’t smell like Muggle hospitals do, like antiseptic—a little bitter, with undertones of the artificial fragrance contained in soaps and hand sanitizers. It smells more like lavender and rosemary. It doesn’t look like Muggle hospitals either, all clean white lines and red marks on the machines. The beds are more beige and the walls look more inviting.
She hesitates before coming in fully and raises her right hand to knock on the door. She knows just three things about Poppy Pomfrey that she can list short and sweet on a nicely lined paper, (1.) She is kind, but stern. (2.) She did not like distractions. (3.) She was an exceptional healer.
“Come in,” a warm voice says from inside.
“Hi Madam Pomfrey,” she says confidently, feeling a bit like her younger self, “Professor Mcgonagall told me that you could use some help?”
“Ah yes, she did mention that. Being a competent witch as yourself, I suppose I could give you some work around here,” the matron says, not unkindly. “Start tomorrow. You can come in as soon as classes end.”
She felt useful and most importantly, needed. She hadn’t felt that in a long time.
As Hermione walked back to her dorm, her eyes met with the stormy ones of Malfoy, who stared at her coldly, accessing and watching. There was something brewing under the surface of his eyes if you looked closely.
Not that she was, of course, looking.