Chapter Text
Hermione
The bricks shifted, sliding and opening—breaking to forge a small gateway.
A door.
She pressed through and was immediately assaulted.
Not physically, no. It was all her senses. She blinked once, twice, her brain adjusting. Maybe it was a mirage. A conjuring of all time and space and objects into one location. She took one cautious step further, then another…
The room was completely filled. Stuffed. Rows and rows deep.
On one side, dozens of plush, wing-backed chairs stacked on top of each other at least two stories high. A fantastic marble bust of a person she didn’t recognize, a wardrobe, tea sets, costumes, gowns and dress robes all sat piled next to one another. On the other side, she saw a baby crib, a holiday tree, and all throughout, were books upon books upon books. On the shelves that lined the walls, but many covering the floor, stacked in piles. Discarded, some spine up, crushed, ripped and torn, like so much else in the room.
It was where every beloved piece of furniture, art, and memory that had any meaning to anyone was pushed out—cast away. It was where every memento was sent to die.
The quiet tinkling of a song played on a gramophone—with no beginning or end.
It was the scattered brain of a demented English professor.
It was mourning.
A bird locked in a gilded cage magically hovered in a corner. It chirped in the distance.
How deep did this room go?
There were no windows, no natural light. She should have been afraid to be here alone. But, she felt something like nostalgia settling deep within her.
Her task? Find the diadem.
It could take hours, weeks—months, in fact. But it was her duty, her purpose.
She buried herself deep within the room on that first day. Making sure to mark a path to find her way out.
The next day she set up traps, in case someone ever followed her in. On the third day, she sat, nestled between a row of coats, bags and a mound of costume jewelry, her back against an old kitchen sink and vintage Quidditch memorabilia. She realized she felt a sense of peace.
Sure, she looked for hours each day for the diadem, cataloguing and organizing. But, then she could read and study without the leering eyes of her peers. Sit quietly without the gossiping witches in her dorm. Who was dating whom? Who had won the last Quidditch match? Who Ron Weasley had been caught kissing? She didn’t want any part of it. Had never really made a connection with anyone in her dorms. It was painful to listen to them joke and pick at one another.
She was an only child and she had always appreciated her time alone. Time to herself.
Her legs stretched out, crossed at the ankles, flipping through old, yellowed copies of The Daily Prophet.
“Arcrena Whitewater, the first female Minister of Magic was sworn in today, July 17th, 1674. Whitewater is excited to accept the new position, willing to uphold peace and safety to the wizarding world—”
A shuffling in the walls. Stretching and shifting of mortar and bricks.
Quiet, languid footsteps.
Hermione froze. Someone had come in. She’d been caught.
There was an uptick in her heartbeat. It battered in her ears. She needed to breathe.
Inhale.
Exhale.
The footsteps paused, just as hers had done—she suspected whomever it was, was taking in the room. Evaluating, comprehending.
She heard the assailant tinker about and she had remembered the traps she had set, just in case. For this exact reason.
She waited.
Then—
A loud clattering sound came from a dozen yards away. A muffled curse.
Yes. Got ‘em.
She got on all fours, peering through the mess of furniture to see the would-be-burglar. She could just barely see the tall form that had tripped and fell.
A black suit. A blond head.
Gods damn it.
Bloody Malfoy.
She looked up comically at the vaulted ceilings and quietly cursed the gods.
Her wand.
She needed her wand. Where was it? She scrambled around, whispering “Accio wand! Accio wand!” with no luck.
And that's how he found her. Crawling around on all fours, searching fitfully for her blasted wand.
“Ah hem.”
She shuffled and struggled to stand. Sweeping her hands down her skirt to straighten it. Looking up, she noticed his eye was catching the movement.
“Yes?” she questioned, her chin high in the air. “Can I help you?”
“What are you doing in here, Granger?” he asked, oh-so-high-and-mightyly. Tie-pin perfectly in place, oxford buttoned all the way up to choke his neck. The Slytherins were always so very well put together. He was no exception.
“Well, I’d like to ask you the same thing, Malfoy.” She must have looked quite rumpled. Her hair had fallen haphazardly from its magical charm. Her tie was long gone, oxford unbuttoned at least two off the top, and the tail in the back had unfurled from her skirt. She’d been categorizing the musical records by composer and had gotten quite dusty. The stack of Prophets caught her eye with the large moving photograph of Former Minister Whitewater who had broken barriers and stereotypes. A role model for all young wix.
He was looking at a point above her shoulder somewhere. She turned to see what had captured his eye. “What are you looking at?”
When she turned back around, his gaze was roaming her face, her lips, her neck. She felt the slight burn of her cheeks as she waited for him to speak.
She snapped her fingers twice to try to catch his attention.
“Helllooooo? Anyone in there?” she teased. “What’s going on, Malfoy?”
“Hmm? Oh, well... I... err... I’m meant to work on a project. Top secret.” He looked around the room, acting quite shifty if she was being honest.
She was confused at his demeanor. Tried to pick it apart and study it. She’d wait and do that tonight, in her bed, while she stared at the ceiling and replayed this encounter over and over. Why wasn’t he being cruel to her? Outwardly vicious?
She couldn’t help herself. Words spilled out before she could hold them back, “What sort of project?” Not that she would help him. Harry had already suspected he was a death eater. Maybe she could extract some information from him, deliver it to the Order.
“I’m…” He trailed off, gaze swirling around, taking in the room again, before he paused and looked back at her. “You never answered my question. What are you doing in here?” His face looked gaunt, pale with dark circles that settled under his eyes.
When was the last time you slept? She wanted to ask. But, that was inappropriate.
“I’m working on a special project as well, if you must know.” She decided then it would be a fantastic time to put herself together. She combed her hair with her fingers, and flipped it all on the top of her head and re-fastened it. Buttoned her top two buttons and found her tie and secured it. Pausing before she tucked her shirt back into her skirt, she realized how intimate this might seem.
But, she was here first.
He could turn his stupid pointy face around if he didn’t want to watch a Mudblood fix herself. Bending at the waist, she leaned down to stretch her cream knit stockings back in place as they had slouched down beneath her knees. First the right leg, then, as she moved to the left, she glanced up and noticed he was eyeing every movement.
“Maybe it's the same project,” she said in jest, then tightly stretched her stockings again and toed on her shoes.
“Doubtful,” he whispered.
“Well, I’ll be here most days, in the morning. You can work on—whatever it is you’re doing in the evenings. Then we will never have to see each other.” She wanted to exude confidence, a boldness she would feign until she got out of his view.
“Perfect.”
“Great. Well, I’m off then. She grabbed her things, and brushed by him.
That night she would rearrange their movements. Disassemble the memory and break down his tone. His lilt. Why had he been so kind? No. Not kind. Indifferent? She could deal with rage and fury. Could understand annoyance and prejudice. She was used to it by now. But, all she really felt from him was exasperation.
'Perfect'. He had said. She made the comment that they would never have to see each other and he said it would be ‘perfect’. She’d stick to the schedule, not mention it to anyone, because she herself wasn’t technically supposed to be mucking about in the Room of Requirement, either. They’d act as if nothing had ever happened and things would be perfect.
Well, things were not perfect.
For some reason, as days passed their well decided hours of operation slid into one anothers.
While she was supposed to be mornings only, she’d end up in the Room well past lunch, and eventually his after-dark hours began to creep earlier and earlier. Neither one mentioned the fact, it had just happened.
~*~
She hurried through the castle halls, her robes billowing behind her, footsteps tap-tapping off the cold stone. Morning light spilled in through tall, narrow windows, catching the dust in the air like drifting sparks. The portraits began to wake, the subjects yawning while suits of armour stood sentinel, their shadows stretching across her path.
Her breath picked up. A slip of nerves zipped through her.
Her Mary Janes continued to click a frantic rhythm against the flagstones. She dodged a pair of lovesick 7th years that slipped beneath an archway and rushed into a broom closet. She glanced once over her shoulder, giving a quiet tsk that no one would hear.
She could pretend to be angry about it, but deep down she felt a twinge of jealousy. Of course, she would never admit that to anyone else. The truth was, she would love to be pushed into an empty classroom. Would love to be cuddled. Would love to feel wanted so much that a wizard just had to have her right there and then.
No, not just any wizard.
A very certain wizard.
Finally, she reached the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom, stray hairs flying loose from the fastened bun on top of her head. The magical bobble was meant to keep her hair locked in place, however nothing short of a miracle could keep her wild locks from expanding, reaching and drifting.
The clock tower rang somewhere deep within Hodwarts, signalling the time.
Class was beginning, and the castle seemed to lean in, listening and chuckling at her rushed state.
She technically wasn’t late, however, the thing about time is that if everyone else is early, then what does that make you?
The class was full, the students already seated with their chosen pairs.
That's when she saw it. An open seat. In the back corner.
Of course, it was next to him.
She wasn’t daft enough to think he had actually saved her a seat.
Had he?
They had spent three weeks in the Room together. A few hours each day. But, they never spoke outside of that safe space. Quick glances? Sure. Nothing more.
Immediately, she was aware of everything. She caught his scent—spearmint and parchment, clean laundry, and freshly scrubbed skin after a scalding shower.
In that moment, every small movement mattered. Was her elbow too close to his? Would someone notice? She was completely conscious of everything beside her.
The crisp sound of him turning a page.
The warmth that emanated from him.
The room dimmed to a soft blur as she tried to sit still, so very still, even though her heart beat panicked in her chest.
She chanced a quick look. An infinitesimal glance. And in that greedy glimpse, she got an eyeful.
Of his beautiful face. Of his blank expression.
No, not blank. There was a slight sneer, and one brow was arched rather charmingly.
It was different out here, with their peers. He was more rigid, unforgiving, callous. What had it been about the Room that made their exteriors peel away? To relax?
But class started, and Professor Snape began the lecture.
She stared ahead, pretending to listen.
She was surprised really, that no one seemed to care that she sat next to him. The Slytherin Prince next to the Mudblood.
What would they think if they knew they were spending hours together?
A quiet smile formed on her face.
Huh. No one seems to give a flying fu—
“Ms Granger?”
Oh bugger, she hadn’t been paying attention. Professor Snape had asked her a question, and she had been so busy thinking about Malfoy that she had missed it.
“Hmm?” Her brows met her hairline.
The Professor began to walk to her desk, his arms crossing over his chest.
“Well, Ms Granger? He drawled.
She fiddled with her quill until it almost snapped. She caught Malfoy in the corner of her eye, scratching away on his parchment.
She felt the burning of her cheeks. Her classmates started to turn their heads to gawk at her.
Say something! Anything!
Her breathing picked up and her heart began to thud loudly.
Could everyone hear it?
Was she breathing loudly? She was definitely breathing too loud.
Hold your breath. Then it won’t sound so loud.
The telltale flush started at the back of her neck, curled around and crawled down into her throat.
As her mouth opened, a creaking sound gasped out.
That’s when she felt it. A kick to her ankle.
No, softer than that.
A nudge.
As a reflex, she scooted her foot away.
But, it followed her.
Lined up against hers.
And stilled.
Her eyes slightly snuck over to Malfoy's side of the table. Had he had a stroke?
His parchment ever so slightly scooted towards her.
A centimetre.
Not even.
A millimetre.
Not even enough that anyone could see it. But she could feel it.
One word was circled over and over:
Yes.
“Yes!” She blurted.
“Correct, Ms Granger. A successful defense relies on a prepared mind. One can prevent Legilimency if one is expertly trained in Occlumency.” The Professor moved to the front, the eyes of her classmates following his gliding form.
Hermione took a calming breath, inhaling deeply through her nose, then exhaling through her mouth.
The adrenaline was still thrumming through her. Her breath caught behind her tongue, a soft whimper eked out.
She wanted to cry from embarrassment.
She wanted to thank him for saving her.
Focus Hermione.
So, she did just that. She focused on the Professor at the front of the class.
Listened to his words, and wrote her meticulous notes.
Underlined and circled.
Starred and bulleted.
Until the class was over, and she realised—his foot, his entire leg rather, had never left hers.