Malfoys Make a Wish

1960 :: Malfoy Manor

Abraxas Malfoy had one wish. The Malfoys are famous for their blonde hair, grey eyes, but most importantly—an heir. While Abraxas knew he already had all of these, he wanted more. He wanted a daughter. With the Malfoys’ long history of sons—lone sons—he knew this would remain nothing but another dream of his. So, with a long pang of despair, he buried this longing in the back of his mind. Long forgotten, he tried to become the model father to his son, Lucius Malfoy, and lead him to be what a pure-blood must be. He remained a good husband to his wife, Freesia Malfoy, and together, they lived a long peaceful life inside the wrought-iron gates and diamond-paned windows of their manor.

That is—until she came.

Abraxas never thought of himself to be a greedy man, but a man deserving of all he has and will have. It just so happens that he deserves whatever he wants, and by nature’s kind generosity and good judgment. A month after Lucius’s 6th birthday rolled around, he noticed that Freesia started getting sick in the morning. She would wake up with bags under her eyes and a face pale as the albino peacocks his father passionately cared for (perhaps more than his son) before he died. Abraxas didn’t think of it as anything serious until a week passed, and Freesia was not getting any better. He was not ready to raise a son alone. He wasn’t even ready to be alone. It was then that he decided to put matters in his own hands.

“Freesia, love, is something wrong?” Abraxas asked after waking up, for the ninth time, to the sound of Freesia’s heaven-sent morning ritual.

“Nothing’s wrong, Abraxas,” his wife denied. Even from afar, he can feel the glare sent to him.

“It’s the eighth time you wake up sick,” he said mellowly. He knew how stubborn Freesia can be, especially in the morning. The public always views Malfoy men as cold and iron-fisted and their wives as mere followers, but that couldn’t be any farther from the truth when it comes to Freesia. Outside the manor, Freesia is quiet and polite—she only speaks when spoken to and she only smiles when necessary. But, inside the manor, she is a fearsome mother—strict, but never too much for her husband.

“I said it’s nothing!” 

“Darling, you look pale every morning,” he retorted.

“Everyone in the manor is pale, Abraxas!” Freesia quipped.

Abraxas sighed. No matter what was bothering Freesia, he wasn’t getting it from her anytime soon.

“I’m flooing our Healer.” 

“Nothing is wrong! How many times must I tell you—”

Abraxas didn’t hear the end of that sentence. What he heard was endless vomiting. Taking that as his cue to leave, he went to the fireplace to call their healer through the floo. Moments later, Healer Calderon was at their manor, checking the reluctant Freesia.

It wasn’t after an hour that he heard the news.

“Lord Malfoy, you are having a child,” Healer Calderon beamed.

“A-a child?” Abraxas stuttered. Malfoys never stutter.

“Yes, Mrs. Malfoy’s 5 weeks along.”

Abraxas couldn’t believe what he heard. His eyes widened and his ears perked, stunned at the news he received. Quickly, he put his emotions aside and faced the healer as the rightful Lord of the Ancient and Noble House of Malfoy. 

“Thank you, Healer Calderon. I trust that you’ll serve us along the way,” Abraxas said, his chin tilted upwards.

“As you wish, Lord Malfoy. If I may, I will have to take my leave. It’s quite a busy day at the hospital,” the healer replied.

“You may.”

When the healer left, Abraxas dashed through the door and into the arms of his wife who was lying on their bed with a smile reaching from one ear to another. He felt tears run through the seams of his robe, dancing along with the silk as it crumpled from Freesia’s grasp. He looked at his wife and smiled. Her face was a work of art, strands of blonde framing her brilliant blue eyes as it continued to rain streams down her face.

“We—we’re hav—a child,” Freesia managed to break through her sobs.

A second heir. 

The first among the Malfoys in hundreds of generations.

“I know,” Abraxas whispered. A tear escaped his eyes.

“I know, darling. I know.”

1961 :: Malfoy Manor

The night was dark. The skies were barren of the moon and stars, bleeding nothing but the eeriness of black as the wind thundered and a lone thunderbolt fought through the thick clouds in the vastness of the dark above.

Abraxas Malfoy trembled with fear as he cradled his daughter in his hands, heavy with blood from his newborn child. He felt his hair rise as a chill passed down his spine. She had long curly hair the color of the sun and eyes cold as steel gray. She had the daintiest nose, reminiscent of his mother's. She was a sight to behold, a proper Lady Malfoy. But more than anything else, she was a wish come true. 

For the second time, he was ready to embrace the hardships of raising a child with open arms. He expected bags under his eyes. He wanted the sleepless nights. But instead of loud wrenching wails of foreign life, Abraxas heard not a single sound from his child.

She did not cry.

Instead, she stared back at him with those big doe eyes.

Freesia thought she heard someone whisper a name, but Abraxas looked like he heard nothing at all. Must be the childbirth, that’s all.

"Hermione. Hermione Jean Malfoy," Freesia panted as she fell asleep from exhaustion.

"Hermione."

He felt his child whimper in his arms, her fingers tightly coiling around his as he traced her face.

For a moment, the fear Abraxas felt had passed.

Holding Hermione closer, he kissed his daughter's forehead, still quiet as a mouse.

1961–1970 :: Malfoy Manor

When Lucius Malfoy heard he would have a sister—a consanguine sister!—he was ecstatic. He was the first among hundreds of Malfoys to have one, a notable feature The Daily Prophet proudly published the moment Freesia was spotted sporting a pregnant (“Not huge!” she insisted) belly. With that, he was even more certain that he was destined for greater things. Perhaps even greater than what his father could achieve, or what his father thought he could achieve. He was already a leader in the making, but now, he too is the protector of the family.

He felt taller than the rest of his Pure-blood peers when they flocked to him the following afternoon after The Daily Prophet announcement, asking all sorts of questions about being a brother. Once again, the Malfoys were the talk of the town. Even children heard of the news, knew the news, and talked about the news. Everyone was buzzing with anticipation for the House of Malfoy and when everyone was talking about them, eyes were always on Lucius. And when Hermione came, they were everyone’s favorite pair. No one can stop talking about the luscious silky hair of Lucius and the spirited curls of Hermione whenever they walk past them. They can’t help but stare and be mesmerized when the two younglings arrive at Pure-blood events, accompanied by their parents. They were at the top of the chain. The Malfoy family was always the family you want to hate, but also the family you can’t help but idolize. They were wealthy—vastly wealthy—and powerful, having been the family of the best potioneers, inventors, politicians in the entire history of the European wizarding world. With the three of them, Lucius thought they looked elite. But now that there were four of them, they were royals.

It’s safe to say that Lucius was more than thrilled to guide his younger sister into being a Pure-blood witch. He was excited to show her the ways of magic, to teach her the grace and elegance in dancing, and to enlighten her to the privileges of being a Malfoy. He waited and waited for her to grow into a talented young lady, but he found himself stuck waiting. Hermione was a fast learner: she began walking before she was a year old; she held books like a schoolgirl and seemed to understand the large ancient tombs in their library; she even befriended their peacocks, for crying out loud! But, she does not speak. She was quiet. She would nod and shake her head, point to what she wants or what she doesn’t, she would laugh and cry . . . but for some reason, she wouldn’t talk. She was setting a bad rap for the Malfoys. Thankfully, Lucius was a patient and caring brother; he was willing to do anything for the betterment of his family, and most importantly, his sister.

Even attend pretend tea parties.

Lucius would never admit this to his peers, and never will, but the reason he’s unavailable every Thursday afternoon is not because of his private tutors. Rather, he had a scheduled “meeting” with his sister every 4:00 pm. They would meet at their garden porch (the one with the crawling ivies surrounded by the subtle pink of Juliet roses, not the one with the Alstroemerias . . . Hermione hates the smell of those poor yellow things) and carefully arranged the Meissen-porcelain antique (it was an eight-piece set made in the 1600s) tea set their father bought as toys for Hermione. His younger sister wasn’t one to waste a good teacup, but she would always lay a third one. Once or thrice (or maybe seven times), Lucius tried to hide it from her as a lesson. But, all those endeavours were rendered useless, as Hermione would know anyways. She would cry and swat Lucius away, much to his dismay. In the end, Hermione would always triumph over him, winning the third piece back. He didn’t know why she kept on insisting on a third cup, but he just assumed it was for her friend—whoever and whatever that is (‘Please don’t be a muggle,’ he thought). He just went along with his sister’s antics. She’ll learn.

Thus, Lucius and Hermione would reserve every Thursday (and now, Tuesday) afternoon for a peaceful discussion over tea (courtesy of Tilly, their house-elf) and a stroll along their vast garden, past the peacocks, Flying Seahorses, Bicorns, and other creatures he didn’t care for. Holding her delicate hand, Lucius would tell Hermione of all the tales he knows, and all his adventures with his friends. It was Lucius’s time of peace, reserved only for him and his sister. After the first time they had their afternoon stroll, Lucius was convinced nothing could ever go wrong.

Until that one afternoon when his father brought home a young Runespoor snake, a gift from the Notts. 

Being a busy man, his father couldn’t care less for the creatures in their manor. They were often left to their servants, or in case of their absence, their house-elves (‘Barely competent, if you ask me,’ Lucius would often remark.). Unfortunately for the two, their servants were unavailable that day, and the house-elves were in charge of the Runespoor.

As expected, the Runespoor escaped.

Lucius knew it would happen. Still, he thought it was very absurd of his father to trust their house-elves with a snake. They were tiny, helpless, and icky. Very ugly, too. 

In the middle of their afternoon tea, the Runespoor slithered to the third seat on Hermione’s left and Lucius’s right. Quickly, he acted on impulse, like the tough wizard he will become.

He ran away from the snake.

“Hermione, come here!” 

Lucius saw red. He didn’t know what to do. He felt his temples beating erratically at the sight of the serpentine. His sweat started to pour down his robes and his breath became shorter and shorter by the minute. His mind was fleeing, but his body was frozen in place. Hermione was at risk. He was at risk! He could die any minute . . . They could die any minute!

Bloody useless elves!

The snake was ready to pounce at Hermione and devour her three-ways, one part for each head. Just when he thought everything was all over—his life, his picture-perfect manor, and his future—something terribly, terrifically, timely snake trade happened.

Not with the elves.

Not with one of the Runespoor’s heads.

But with Hermione.

Hermione finally spoke.

No, Hermione hissed.

“Hsssessslssslsssosss.”

He was astounded. Lucius staggered backward in disbelief. He fell to the ground in his attempt to flee, but he was paralyzed at what he saw.

The snake bowed to Hermione and hissed in reply. Like a domestic pet, it coiled around her feet and climbed to her shoulder, where it perched and laid its claim like a bird to its nest. 

Lucius, with his limited knowledge of magic, tried to push it away from Hermione.

But Hermione caught his hand.

“No, Lucius,” she said firmly as if she was speaking on a daily basis. 

‘Hermione finally spoke her first words,’ Lucius thought. He should be happy. He should be beaming with joy, ready to share the news with his parents. Instead, he was shaking from fear. His legs felt like a mere decoy, props to complete his willowy bod.

Before he could register what was happening, the snake hissed again. With that, Lucius ran to his father.

He ran as fast as he could, through the thickness of their garden, until his feet gave up on their own. Desperate and distressed, he called for help.

“Tilly!”

The elf popped up at a pop.

“Yes, Young Master Lucys?” the elf asked, bowing at his feet.

“Bring me to father, at once!” he said.

“Yes, Master,” the elf said without a second thought. Quickly as she appeared, they arrived at his father’s study.

“Is there anything Tilly can do for Master Lucys?” it asked Lucius with its big frightening eyes.

“Nothing, Tilly. You may go,” Lucius said firmly.

Abraxas was leaning by the old wooden desk in the corner of the room, busy reading what seemed like an endless pile of letters.

"Father! I—Hermione! She-she's—"

"Lucius, son, can't you see I'm busy," Abraxas groaned into his hands. "Why don't you come back when you come up with a coherent sentence like a proper Malfoy?"

Lucius felt his throat tighten as bile barged into his stomach. He took a deep breath, regained his calm demeanor, and fixed his posture. With his chin up high, he began speaking.

"Hermione is speaking to the Runespoor snake, Father."

"What?!" Abraxas finally snapped his attention to Lucius.

"The snake perched onto her shoulder. I tried to remove it, but Hermione insisted it stay," Lucius explained. "She was hissing to the snake, Father."

Lucius felt small under his Father's gaze. Abraxas did not speak for what to him was the longest seconds of his life. After he felt his eyes off him, he let himself breathe.

"Tilly! Take me to Hermione."

Abraxas quickly stood, and in a moment, he was gone.

What soon transpired was a pattern of Abraxas attempting to steal the snake, Hermione defending the snake, and Lucius trying to hide in the bushes. Later that night, Abraxas had a solemn talk with his son.

"Lucius, what you saw your sister did, you mustn't tell anyone," Abraxas warned as he stared fear into Lucius's eyes.

"But why, Father?"

"She's a Parselmouth, son. That means she will grow to be a powerful witch, like a true Lady Malfoy. But many will fear this ability, Lucius. They will fear her, fear us. In turn, they will hunt us. Power scares the weak . . ."

Lucius barely caught a wink that night.

1961–1970 :: Malfoy Manor

Freesia adored her two children. Lucius was growing to be a strong boy and a powerful wizard, having his first accidental magic at only six years old, a year earlier than the average. On the other hand, Hermione was a beauty. Her wild curly hair made her look like a princess, and she had the most beautiful eyes that rival the moon. But, her Hermione was a wild card. She began walking before she was one; she held books like she knew how to read; she walked in the manor like she knew it better than her brother. Still, she did not speak. 

That is, until she turned three. 

Freesia muses on the fact that the first words she spoke were “No” and “Lucius.” Already, she seemed like a stubborn lady, surely inheriting that from Freesia herself. But, what she did not dote upon was the fact that her daughter—youngest and only daughter—was a Pareselmouth. She had nothing against the Snake Speakers, in fact, they didn’t even cross her line of thought until recently. Freesia knew what happens to Parseltongues, and she feared for their safety.

“Abraxas, what do you mean she’s a Pareselmouth?” Freesia shook her head as she heard the news. 

“She talked to the Runespoor, Freesia, wouldn’t even let go of it!” Abraxas threw his hands in the air in frustration.

“B-But how? Neither of our families had a Parselmouth,” Freesia said in disbelief.

“I don’t know, darling,” Abraxas sighed. “She’s always been an odd witch.”

And odd she was.

When Hermione turned four, the planner and the dreamer heads of the Runespoor attacked the critic and died. Shortly after the incident (As Abraxas eloquently put it), Hermione began having nightmares. 

It began on a Wednesday night.

They heard a long piercing scream from the left wing, Hermione’s wing.

Quickly, the couple rushed out of their bed.

“Tilly!”

The elf appeared with a pop.

“Take us to Hermione, at once,” Abraxas ordered.

It should have been a peaceful night, with the stars twinkling above and the Eltanin star illuminating the dark. The moon hung like jewelry, a faint light between silver and gold.

They saw her.

Hermione’s hands were thrashing the bed. Her face was flushed and her back kept arching upwards. Pillows flew from her kicks and the beddings ripped from its clean and polished state.

Freesia rushed to her daughter, trying to keep her hands from moving.

Hermione begged. “No! N—Not Luci-us! Please! Mommy!”

It was the same chant over and over again.

Freesia captured her daughter’s head and held her tight to her chest. “It’s okay, darling. Mommy’s here. It’s okay.”

It took a while for her to finally calm down.

When Hermione’s breathing stabilized, she patted her head to wake her up. Slowly, Hermione regained consciousness.

“Mommy?” 

“Hermione, are you alright?”

“Mommy, Lucius?” Hermione pleaded.

“Lucius is sleeping, dear.”

“Please, Mommy. He was hurt! A boy—dark hair—h-he hurt Lucius! He was bleeding, Mommy! All over the bathroom floor! I—” 

Freesia entangled her hand with Hermione’s and sighed. “It’s okay, darling. It’s just a dream.”

For the first time, Hermione cried.

Freesia didn’t know what to do. Hermione never cried like this before—sure she whined and complained like a child, but crying for crying’s sake was a first time for her little one. Freesia felt her heart beat faster and sweat began collecting at her neck. 

“Would you like to sleep next to your brother, Hermione?”

“Y—cough—Yes, Mommy.”

“Alright, Abraxas, call Lucius. Tell him to accompany Hermione for the night.”

After that night, Hermione kept having the same dream: Lucius bleeding all over the bathroom floor after a boy his age, dark hair, shot a spell at him. Freesia wasn’t certain what spell this was, after all, Hermione had a hard time recalling the dream. Disturbing as it was, it became a normal occurrence among Hermione’s odd ones. Lucius never left his sister alone at night ever again.

Often, she would wake up in the middle of the night to check on the two. Or just to dote on the two. It never fails to warm her heart: the sight of Lucius protectively hugging her sister as she slept and Hermione wrapped around Lucius’s arms while hers was wrapped around her (Unicorn? Dragon? Both? Oh well. She likes it.) plushie. It was a time where for once, her children felt normal.

But just like every other normal thing in the Malfoy family, it came to an end. (Seriously? Are all Malfoys just obsessed with sticking out like a sore thumb?)

It was a week before Yule that their normalcy—or the lack of it, really—began to make sense.

 “Mistress Freesia! Master Abraxas!”

Tilly barged into their room with a frightened look. It was three in the morning, certainly not a pleasant time to be woken up. She’ll have to discipline Tilly later.

“Little Miss! Little Miss is troubled!”

Freesia snapped to reality. Hermione? 

“What happened, Tilly?” Abraxas bolted awake.

“Nightmare, sir! Tilly heard her screaming for the Mistress!” 

Freesia’s eyes widened, and within a few seconds, she was holding Hermione’s hands yet again. Abraxas held Lucius as she tried to wake her daughter who wouldn’t stop screaming for her and for help.

“Mommy! Help! M-Mommy! Save her, please!”

“It’s okay, love, I’m here. Everything’s alright.” Freesia tried rocking Hermione back and forth into calmness. 

It took a while for her to wake up, but when she did, Hermione did not calm down.

“Mommy!”

“Hermione, dear, it—”

“Mommy! Don’t go to the ship, Mommy!”

“What ship?”

“The ship! The ship tomorrow!”

The Parkinsons’ Yule Gala? 

“It will storm, Mommy! Don’t go, okay? Don’t go! Y-you die!”

Freesia’s heart stopped. It was an eerie thing to hear, even from Hermione, in the middle of the night.

“Hermione, it’s alright, it’s just a dream,” Freesia reassured her daughter—herself. 

“No! Don’t go, Mommy!”

Freesia felt Hermione’s eyes sharpened on her. She can magic coursing through her curls as if it was coming alive. The lights started flickering and the air around her thickened, the atmosphere felt of death.

“Don’t go!”

“It’s for family-friends, Hermione. It’s disrespectful if we are absent,” Freesia stared at her daughter coldly. She was starting to get frustrated. Why was she even arguing with a child about family relations in the first place? She was the adult here!

“No!” That word again. “Don’t go!”

“Hermione! You’re being absurd, darling,” Freesia snapped. Still, she was quick to put on her mask and speak like a proper lady. “It’s just a dream, sweetheart . . . Nothing more,” she kept on repeating. It was starting to get a little monotonous.

But Hermione begged to differ.

Suddenly, Hermione’s hair came alive, fluttering around like wild snakes. Freesia swore she almost heard them hiss. The windows broke and the lights finally gave up, leaving nothing but the darkest to meet them. Abraxas, quick on his feet, shoved Lucius to his back, protecting him from the shards flying everywhere. Freesia screamed in shock, and her motherly instincts took over her, shielding Hermione from the sharp pieces of glass. Abraxas pulled up a wandless Lumos and brought light back into place. He took a look at Freesia. Like a blue moon, Freesia saw the rare expression in his eyes: a haunting, pleading stare. Freesia sighed. She knew Hermione was odd. But sometimes, she wished she wasn’t.

“Alright, Hermione. I won’t go.” Merlin, this child.

Suddenly, the lights in the room went up. The window healed itself and formed anew like nothing ever happened. 

Accidental magic or not, Freesia feared for their life. Hermione was either going to be their wealth or their death.

Two days later, news spoke of a storm catching the Parkinsons’ ship in the middle of the ocean. Three servants died.

1961–1970 :: Malfoy Manor

“Freesia . . .” Abraxas started.

When the news broke out, Freesia was reading an old book on Herbology in their porch at the southern part of their manor. 

“Yes, darling?” Freesia asked without looking up, her nose stuck deep in the book. It was the newest edition, she had to finish it.

Without a word, Abraxas handed her the latest release of The Daily Prophet, and on the front page, she saw what Abraxas came to her for: “Storm wrecks Parkinson ship, 3 dead.”

Freesia froze. She was supposed to go to the Gala. She was supposed to be dead.

“Do you remember Hermione’s outburst last time, love?” Abraxas sat down next to her.

“I-I do . . . But Abraxas—”

“She was right.”

A long pause grew between the two.

“She knew,” Abraxas whispered as he lowered his head.

“I could’ve died!” Freesia muttered. “She knew,” she echoed. “She’d Seen it.”

The two exchanged a knowing look. It was a look that had grown on them over the years. They had been married for 12 years and engaged for 17.

“No one must know,” Abraxas affirmed. “Not even Lucius.”

“He’s her brother!” Freesia scrunched her eyebrows. “He has the right to know.”

“It’s too dangerous. She’s already a Parselmouth. He will come for her.”

“But he hasn’t been around for years since Hogwarts, Abraxas,” Freesia retorted. “For all we know, he’s already dead!”

“You know it’s hard to kill a man without a soul, Freesia. We were lucky to be born years after him.”

“But he’s gone, Abraxas,” Freesia fumed. “He won’t come for Lucius or Hermione. I-I won’t let him!”

“I know,” Abraxas sighed. “But he’s already here, Freesia. Dumbledore told the Board he wanted a teaching position, but the old coot rejected him. Almost half the Board wanted him back, darling! It won’t be long before he seeks for us.”

“Can’t we just stay out of his way?”

“You know we can’t. You know what he will do.”

Freesia was silent. Knowing well that if she once more disagreed, another conversation of the same outline will follow, she retired from the argument.

“Very well. Do what you must. But you must tell her. Abraxas”—Freesia pointer her finger at his chest—“protect her, do something! She’s only four, darling, too young. Too gullible.”

“I know, mon chéri. Lucius will be entering Hogwarts soon,” Abraxas quipped. “I’ll start training her in dueling and transfiguration once he’s out. You can start teaching her potions and charms, darling. It would be best if she knows more.”

“You’re brilliant,” Freesia praised.

“I know,” Abraxas chuckled. With that, they shared a chaste kiss—a quick moment of clarity for the time being.

They had a plan, but telling Hermione was the hardest. It was hard to find her without her brother around, still shaken by the dream of Lucius bleeding.

They had the opportunity to corner her one morning when Lucius was out with his peers. They sat her down in the drawing room, despite her irrational aversion to the area. A talk like this needed a nice setting, after all.

“Hermione,” Abraxas looked at Freesia for help.

“We have something important to tell you, dear,” Freesia offered.

“It’s something you mustn’t tell anyone, nor your brother.”

Hermione grinned, a reaction that certainly neither of them expected. “Is it a surprise, Daddy?”

“No. It’s a lot more serious than that, honey,” Freesia caressed Hermione’s back.

“What is it?”

The couple looked once more at each other and nodded.

“Do you remember the dreams—nightmares—you’ve been having?” Freesia hinted.

“Yes, mommy.”

“They’re not just dreams, little one, they’re”—Freesia tapped her nose—“they’re part of your Sight.”

“Like a Seer?”

“Yes, sugar,” Freesia smiled without reaching her eyes, still clouded with fear. “Do you know what it is?”

“Yes, I’ve read about it,” Hermione beamed.

“Seers are very powerful witches, Hermione,” Abraxas joined in as he carried her to his lap. “But many envy this power.”

“Just like the Parselmouths, Daddy?”

“Yes, so you must tell no one of this power, understand?” 

“Even Lucius?”

“Yes, even Lucius.”

“But why?” Hermione whimpered. 

“Because he can be in great danger if he knew, Hermione,” Abraxas replied.

Hermione couldn’t do anything but nod in return.

“What do we do, Daddy?”

“We’ll be teaching you means to protect yourself. Defense, transfiguration, potions, charms. But you mustn’t tell anyone, even about your lessons, Hermione. Are we clear?”

“Yes, daddy.”

“Alright. We’ll start once Lucius is in Hogwarts.”

“Yes, daddy.”

The couple considered that conversation a win, and in the meantime, they allowed themselves to rest and avoid the worries. Tomorrow can wait.

1961–1970 :: Malfoy Manor

It had been three years since Lucius entered Hogwarts. Since then, Hermione and Lucius exchanged letters weekly. Lucius would boast of his achievements over his classmates and his magical prowess, while Hermione would tease his older brother for his arrogance while still cheering him on. He promised he would teach Hermione if she needed help at Hogwarts, though both already knew the latter wouldn’t need help. Unbeknownst to him, Hermione already has private classes from their parents, on top of her hobby of reading books. Mondays and Tuesdays were for dueling, Wednesdays were for Transfiguration, Thursdays for potions, and Fridays for charms. Saturdays and Sundays, on the other hand, were for Pure-blood etiquettes. 

Truth be told, Hermione was a little overwhelmed by the hectic schedule. Sometimes she wishes she could just have another afternoon stroll with Lucius, but she knew everything had changed since the talk. Still, she was grateful for without the Sight, she would be without a mother.

Thankfully, in the midst of her bed chambers, she had her friend. Tilly insists he’s not there, and her parents think he’s just a creation of her imagination. But she was certain he was real. Like them, he had shiny white blonde hair and cold grey eyes. Funny, he almost looked like Lucius. Except he had a softer chin, but still pointy.

“I’m so tired,” Hermione grumbled.

“Don’t need to hear that from you.” Her friend chortled. “Your nest is already a statement.”

“My hair’s fine!” Hermione barked, but a tiny smile betrayed its way to her face.

“How did today go?”

“Oh, the usual, got my arse beaten by Father in dueling,” she said with a yawn.

“Language, young lady.” She heard her friend snigger.

“I learned that from you,” she said as she mockingly hit his arms.

“Doesn’t mean it’s right.”

“Doesn’t mean I won’t use it.” Hermione stuck her tongue out in retaliation.

Her friend didn’t say a word back but snickered in return.

“I didn’t peg you for a rule-breaker, Granger,” he smirked.

“You keep calling me that, ‘Granger,’ what does it mean?” she queried with her eyes big and curious.

Her friend chuckled. “Forgive me, princess. Old habits and all that,” he said nonchalantly.

Hermione laughed. It wasn’t uncommon for him to be as odd as her.

“You’re odd, Draco.”