Chapter Text
“Gods, just look at it.”
“I really don’t want to.”
“Is that an arm…or a leg?”
“I’m afraid it may be a neck.”
“That can’t be right, but I really can’t tell at this rate. What do you reckon? An impediment jinx?”
Hermione shot a sharp glare at the clearly insane ginger beside her.
“Are you mad? Why would you want a better view of…that.” Hermione nodded at the terrifying sight before her eyes.
“Well, they’re going at it so fast! I’m not quite so adept at hexing moving targets.”
“Oh, no…the sucking has commenced.”
Both Hermione and Ginny cringed as Lavender began making a small whimpering sound at Ron licking lasciviously at her neck. The pair made a convincing impression of a pretzel on the Gryffindor Common Room armchair.
“I think I may heave my breakfast.”
“You haven’t had breakfast yet.”
“Oh…that’s right. Shall we then?”
Hermione sighed, shouldering her book bag and turning towards the portrait hole. Ron and Lavender had wasted no time at all in continuing their relationship once 8th Year term had begun. Ginny had spent a considerable amount of their first month back at Hogwarts treating Hermione with a feigned silent treatment and a glower whenever the restored couple locked lips.
Hermione knew that Ginny didn’t blame her for breaking up with Ron. They had given it a go during the summer months, becoming inseparable following the Battle of Hogwarts. But the little chemistry that Hermione had felt in those small moments on the run and during the chaste kisses they’d given each other quickly dissipated as soon as life returned to normal. It became clear that the two were better off as friends and their relationship stalled at just-barely-open-mouthed kisses and hand-holding.
Five minutes later, Ginny sat spooning eggs on her plate while Hermione took distracted sips of her pumpkin juice, her attention fully on her daily planner. With any luck, she could organize her time tables for the day and fit in an extra hour or two for some extraneous research. Though the hope had been futile in the past few weeks as Hermione’s N.E.W.T.-level classes (the most out of anyone in the eighth or seventh year group) had overtaken the majority of her time.
Coming back to Hogwarts had been both a relief and a strike against Hermione’s nerves. She had felt the excitement coursing through her in the summer months, just as in previous years. Her shopping list for Diagon Alley had been filled to the brim:
- Quills, including one for formal letter-writing that left a nice flick at the end of every character;
- Black, red (to better correct Harry and Ron’s essays), and color-changing ink bottles;
- Parchments, scented and unscented;
- Note-taking journals, one for every subject, of course;
- A new pair of rather lavish dragon-hide gloves for handling dangerous ingredients in potion-making;
- A brand new set of brass scales; and
- A telescope that triangulates points in the eyepiece with just a tap of your wand.
After a year of traipsing through bogs and sleeping in tents while she dreamed of what it would have been like to wear her Head Girl badge on the Hogwarts Express, she would finally get to go back to school. This was everything she had been wanting, one of the many memories of a peaceful existence that kept her fighting.
But with that gap in her school year, Hermione had also felt panic. What if she had forgotten how to brew certain potions that would be necessary in her N.E.W.T. level? Or what if she had forgotten the proper wand motion for a bubble-head charm? She had filled her head with all of the offensive and defensive charms and jinxes necessary while they were on the run. What had she needed a knitting charm for while hiding out from Death Eaters and Snatchers, after all?
Furthermore, what if she had forgotten the exact way that McGonagall liked her Transfigurations essays written. Such a different style than say Flitwick’s preference for precise descriptions of the wand motions rather than the theoretical framework of the spell itself. Merlin, what if she had forgotten how to study?! She was so accomplished at keeping a strict study schedule in her previous Hogwarts years, ensuring that she could truly finish a two-roll parchment essay within the self-prescribed 1.5 hours. An hour would be assigned for revision the following night.
For this reason, Hermione had taken up journaling to a further degree than in her past. Though she’d always wielded multiple note journals and timetables around study periods, Hermione had recently learned of the bullet journaling method and took it up with a fervor. Dotted pages filled with precise rectangles and bullet pointed lists marked with x’s for completions and exclamation marks for important tasks. Careful coloring to fill in trackers for daily chores ranging from study time to her daily water intake (Parvati and Lavender would exclaim “So important for your skin!”). And in this obsessive hobby Hermione had found a kind of peace that she otherwise could not obtain from the half-hearted pats on the back from Harry and Ron: “You’ll do great, Hermione. You’re not Head Girl for nothing.”
No, of course not. Hermione had a reputation to uphold. Be it in classes, or as a war heroine, or even as an upholder of school rules. No matter how many coughs mysteriously sounded like the word “swot” around her. Whenever these moments occurred, she thought of what her aunt, an early education teacher, always said. Kids crave discipline - they need rules and boundaries in order to feel safe. And after a year of sustained danger, Hermione was taking it upon herself to ensure the students’ security. Even if nobody else seemed to care for it.
Glancing around, Hermione could see Seamus and Dean chatting animatedly about the upcoming Quidditch season - one that would be led by Ginny this year in what was an un-surprising move by Professor McGonagall. Although nearly all of their class had returned for their 8th year, Harry had been offered a fast-track ticket into the Auror training program. His more than acceptable O.W.L.S. and the fact that he had defeated Voldemort was enough for the Ministry of Magic to offer him the role. He had debated heavily on the decision, Ron and Hermione there by his side, but in the end, the Auror career field had won out.
Although as former Captain it was upon Harry to choose his successor, how could he possibly pick between his girlfriend (an exemplary chaser, now Seeker, having always coveted Harry’s position) and his best friend / battlefield partner. Perhaps, Hermione thought, Harry had known who he would have chosen, because leaving the decision to Professor McGonagall could have only gone in the very clear choice of Ginny Weasley.
Lifting her pumpkin juice to her lips, Hermione turned her attention to the other side of the table only for her hand to freeze mid-air her eyes narrowed in on Cormac McLaggen. His eyes were already resting on hers, seeming to have been waiting for her to turn to him and he took the moment to bite into a sausage suggestively. His hungry eyes were clearly trying to get a reaction from Hermione. “Oh, god,” Hermione grimaced, but she was gratefully distracted by a shout.
“Oi! Scooch over there, would you, Longbottom? That’s a fella.” She looked up to see Neville sheepishly moving aside as Ron and Lavender took their usual spots at the Gryffindor table, back to the rest of the Houses and to the world as they angled their bodies towards each other.
Hermione could hear Ron scraping bacon onto his plate as she took a moment to scan the Great Hall. She could see the Ravenclaws bent over their own planners and other parchments in labored concentration, some like Anthony Goldstein whispering intently to the person beside them. The Hufflepuffs another table away chatted very much in the same atmosphere as the Gryffindors. Hermione could see that her peer Head Boy, Ernie Macmillan, was engaged in a heated discussion with a large group at the center of the table. She lifted her gaze higher to peer at the Slytherin table. She half expected to see a fight had broken out or Dark artifacts being passed around the table, but the Slytherins looked almost as subdued as the Ravenclaws, speaking to each other but not at the same full volume that the Red- and Yellow-clad students did.
Hermione wasn’t very familiar with the eighth year Slytherin group beside those who had tormented her life the past six years, but she could recognize Blaise Zabini from the Slug Club and an uncomfortably handsome Theodore Nott who Hermione had seen lurking in the library corridors and at the back of all of her N.E.W.T. classes. Hermione’s glance skated over the familiar shapes of Millicent Bulstrode, Goyle, Malfoy, and Pansy…wait a minute. Her eyes quickly shifted back to Malfoy who had caught her lingering gaze on the Slytherin table. Grey eyes fastened on her and she could feel the sneer from across the room.
She quickly looked down at her planner with a huff, not even sure why she felt like she had lost some sort of battle. Honestly, she had every right to scan the tables as Head Girl. But she had better things to do than to engage in some chicken fight with Malfoy.
Hermione searched for something to quickly scribble down in order to pretend she’d moved on from the moment. Unfortunately, little inspiration came and she circled her pen above the paper for a few seconds, too afraid to make any unapproved markings - the horror! But curiosity began to creep in, slithering its way into her neck, daring to crane up again. Her eyes quivered, making them itch. “Don’t look, don’t look, don’t look…” she muttered in a singsong voice to herself.
She looked. Although Malfoy was now turned towards Goyle and Pansy having just clearly said something hilarious as the other two guffawed, she could see his eyes shift back on her as if he’d been waiting to catch her in the act again. This time, his lip curled and he pushed forward in his seat, lifting his hands, as if to say “what are you looking at?”
“Hermione!”
She jumped at her name being called.
“Ginny! Uh…yes?” She tried to climb her tone back down.
“I was just asking you if you’d be oh-so-willing to help me review my Transfiguration essay tonight. I’ve got about 10 inches left that needs to be devoted to the application of Gamp’s Law to inanimate-to-animate transformation.” Ginny huffed out.
“Can’t. I’m sorry, Ginny. I’ve got patrolling tonight.” A moment of pure panic in Ginny. “But there’s a book I can lend you that may be of some use to you.”
The consternation in Ginny’s eyes quelled, the duo headed to their first lesson of the day, double Herbology, followed closely by Neville, Ron, Lavender, and Dean from their Gryffindor class. Students from other houses also filtered in, but Hermione kept her attention staunchly on setting up her workspace even when a pale blonde head appeared in the corner of her eye.
The rest of the day went according to Hermione’s strict time tables: N.E.W.T.-level Charms followed by her Ancient Runes peer study for Professor Babbling. A quick lunch, then a brief patrol of the corridors where Hermione had to pull multiple pairs of fifth-and-sixth years apart - “Honestly! You’d think you were in a brothel!” And finally, Hermione rushed into DADA breathless from running to Gryffindor Tower and back to the third floor.
“Here,” Hermione panted, placing the book before Ginny as she settled into her seat.
“Oh, thanks!”
“What’s that?”
Ginny quickly folded up a piece of parchment she’d been writing on a moment prior. “Oh, nothing, just a letter I’m writing to Harry.”
“You must miss him so,” Hermione pouted.
Ginny let out a nervous laugh. “Oh, you know…of course, I do. It’s been a tough month but,” she shrugged, “we’ve been through worse stints.” Her smile faltered and Hermione knew she was thinking about the long months they’d spent on the hunt for Horcruxes, nobody knowing whether they were alive or not. The dread Ginny must have felt, only being able to maintain nervous satisfaction that she didn’t hear anything. No word was good news after all.
“Anyway, I wanted to warn you that Seamus is intent on throwing a small party in the Gryffindor common room tonight.”
“What! Whatever for? It’s a Monday.”
“Well, apparently to celebrate the end of You Know…Voldemort.”
“Again?”
“Yes, well! You can never celebrate that enough, right?”
Hermione’s responsible groan stopped Ginny's laugh. “Oh, Gin. They can’t do this every time.”
“I know, I know. But…they’re just enjoying themselves. Come on. Plus, I’m not telling you in order to beg you to not stop the party; I’m telling you cause I want you to come!”
“You know that I can’t.” Hermione huffed, turning her chin up in a resolute manner. “I have…”
“Yes, yes, I know. You have patrols. Just get a Prefect to cover your shift! That’s what they’re there for.”
“Ginny. I can’t possibly do that. I would be abusing my powers. I need to set a precedent for the school. If I was caught at a party after having shifted my duties to a Prefect like they were my lackey, what that would look like?”
Ginny gave a resigned sigh and ended the conversation.
“On top of that, you really shouldn’t be at the party when you have an essay to complete…” Hermione muttered. Ginny glared at the bouncy curls now absconding Hermione’s face as she bent over her notes.
Later that night as Hermione paced the corridors, she thought about what Ginny had said. Didn’t she know she’d rather be at some party than patrolling the dark, creepy corridors. At least that’s what Hermione could tell herself just then - though all her past experiences with the Gryffindor parties had been ones of sublimation to the whims of Ron and Harry (but mainly Ron).
She didn’t want to be in the spotlight, or around the raucous group of extended friends whose sense of fun was to chant “Chug, chug, chug, chug,” whenever someone tipped over their full pint of mead. She was perpetually finding a way out - claiming to be too tired, or needing to wake up early. Thanks Godric to Harry who always found a reasonable time to go to bed; she’d typically follow suit.
Ron, however, always craved the energy of those late nights, placing himself at the forefront of those chugging competitions or any other drinking game that one of the boys inevitably dreamt up. Hermione couldn’t blame him. After seven intimate years of being Ron’s best friend, and a short stint as his girlfriend, Hermione knew better than anybody else that he needed the attention, having lived under the shadows of his more successful brothers and Harry.
Lavender, Hermione could at least admit, was a better match for Ron in this respect. She seemed to enjoy sticking by Ron’s side throughout the night, only flouncing off to giggle at something that Parvati and the other girls were conversing about.
A year ago, Hermione wished she could be that same person who begged for a reign of Peace and Quiet in the common room as she finished her homework. But Ginny’s request lingered in the back of her mind.
Hermione rounded the corner, planning to call it a night once she walked this last section of the fourth floor, but the sight before her halted her mid-step.
Although the corridor was only dimly lit by the moonlight shining in through the windows, she could see the outlines of two figures against the wall, pressing their bodies close together. Her eyes adjusted to the lighting and she began to make out the key details of the figures even more precisely - a girl with straight, flowing brown hair, back to the wall, and that unmistakable flash of white.
She felt her breath leave her. He was now moving a hand that had been placed at the edge of the girl’s hips under her untucked shirt. The girl, some 7th- or 6th year Ravenclaw that Hermione only recognized from passing in corridors. The girl was rudely gorgeous. Of course.
Now really! Even if Malfoy was no longer Prefect - those duties stripped after he endangered the entire school - it didn’t mean he shouldn’t have some sort of allegiance to responsibility. He was an eighth year for Godric’s sake! Older than the girl whose breasts he was now palming. The Ravenclaw let out a breathy moan and Hermione found herself caught in between indignance and humiliating curiosity.
She’d never been touched in that way, though she’d felt Ron’s gaze linger on her body during those late humid nights at the Burrow, arm and arm with Ginny while Ron and George shot non-combustible bottle rockets in the grassy fields. A new product coming soon at Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes. But Hermione never allowed the gaze to continue to anything concrete, choosing instead to head to bed early or clasping onto Ginny for dear life. No wonder Ron hadn’t protested when Hermione broke it off. And then had immediately latched on to Lavender in an incessant sucking-mouth competition.
That was enough. “Excuse me,” she said loudly, and their eyes shot to her. The pair uncoiled themselves and she could see what’s more that Malfoy was removing the other hand from underneath the girl’s skirt, a state previously unseen by Hermione. “I would advise you to head to your dormitories immediately. 10 points from each of your Houses.” Malfoy rolled his eyes, running a hand through his hair. Even from the distance, Hermione could see that he was still panting. “Honestly, Granger…”
“Now, Malfoy, or….”
“Or what?”
The girl who had now straightened her skirt appropriately and tucked her shirt back in took a a wary glance at the two of them and nervously hurried off.
“Or…detention…?” Even though Hermione had meant to say the words with conviction, the traitorous question mark came out as she suddenly realized that with the other girl rushing off, she had found herself alone in a dark corridor with Malfoy.
Feeling like her job was now complete, she turned on her own heel and strutted back down the way she came. Even if it was the long way back to the Gryffindor dorms, she didn’t care to try and pass Malfoy. But to her dismay, she could hear heavy footsteps behind her. Hermione tried to quicken her pace, but how could it outmatch a Seeker?
“Where you off to, Granger?” Malfoy sneered, his footfalls directly behind her now, falling steady in line with hers. “Tut, tut, tut, can’t stand the sight of some snogging. I always knew you were frigid.” Hermione found herself whirling around, taking Malfoy aback as he collided into her.
She braced herself for the impact with her elbows jutting out and pushed Malfoy back to a respectable distance. “I’m not frigid!”
Collecting himself quickly, Malfoy spat, “Oh, yeah? Then tell me how the Weasel found himself back in Brown’s arms. Practically starved of affection, I’m sure.”
Hermione could feel herself reddening. The audacity for Malfoy to be so crass! This was none of his business! And yet, how dare he be so right. The truth had been so easy to bear when it remained unspoken even if it clouded her mind the past month at the most inopportune times. Even if she had just been berating herself with the thought moments ago.
She could feel her hair frizz with energy ready to explode at him. But no, she’d rather not give him the satisfaction.
“Sod off, Malfoy!” Hermione willed herself back around and off to the Gryffindor Common Room, grateful that she did not hear Malfoy’s steps behind her in pursuit.
By the time Hermione had made it back to the Gryffindor Tower, the ticking time bomb inside of her had deadened to a heavy weight of shame. Those feelings struggled to take hold as she was hit by the uproarious sounds of laugher, music, and chatter as the Fat Lady portrait swung open. The party. Of course. She had almost forgotten.
“Hermione! There you are.” Ginny came rushing over from a group of seventh year girls that Hermione had only really begun to get to know.
“This is still going on?” Hermione looked around the room to see that the bulk of the noise was coming from a smatter of eighth year and seventh year boys playing a card game, including Seamus Finnigan and Neville Longbottom.
“Yes, though it’s settled down a bit. As you can see,” Ginny nodded her head to a dimly lit section of the common room, and Hermione was shocked to discover not one or two but at least four pairs of students wrapped around each other on armchairs or chaises snogging voraciously! Of course Ron and Lavender were one pair, while she was surprised to see Dean Thomas with a girl she didn’t recognize, and Parvati Patil with a 7th year boy. The last pair she recognized as sixth year students.
“You have got to be kidding me!” Hermione’s voice reached a deafening pitch. First Malfoy, now this. She couldn’t get away with the reminder of her own inexperience.
Ginny frowned. “Oh, come off it.”
Hermione’s eyes snapped to Ginny, which made the redhead drop her disappointed expression quickly in favor for a look of feigned innocence.
“What, Ginny! I can’t just ignore that. Take away points from other Houses, meanwhile I allow such a display in my own House. It’s favoritism!”
“It’s just…it’s our final year. This is the time to…live a little.” Ginny gave a devilish smirk, grasping Hermione’s shoulders with both hands and shaking her firmly to loosen her stiff stance. Hermione struggled to slide Ginny’s hands off of her.
“Exactly! This is our final year and we should be enjoying the normalcy! Enjoying our studies.”
“Hermione…”Ginny started in a gentle tone. “This is normal. We’ve all been through hell.” Ginny looked at the couples. Her face fell slightly, and she dropped her gaze to her fingers which had begun interlacing themselves nervously. “We’re teenagers. This is what we’re supposed to be doing right now.” Ginny was still looking at her hands, but a moment later gave a cheeky smirk to Hermione and nudged her.
This. Normal. Yes, of course. Hermione thought about the couples holding hands in hallways and stealing kisses in between classes. How many of those normal moments had Hermione ruined with clearing her throat or snapping her fingers in between two lovebirds’ faces.
Hermione had made it a personal mission to fill her schedule from wake to sleep with seven N.E.W.T. classes, a peer study, personal research projects, and her Head Girl duties which she took extremely serious. Perhaps too serious? Here Hermione had been burying every moment of her day in work - trying to bury the memories of the dead. But of course, Hermione’s idea of coping couldn’t be everyone else’s.
And Ginny was right. This was…normal. Hermione thought back to her fifth year, before the war, when she’d still felt those butterflies whenever she got a grin from Ron, or when an owl swooped down with another letter from Viktor. She’d almost forgotten that feeling. She’d almost gone…frigid. Oh, god, Malfoy. He’d probably combust from being right after the prudish display of power Hermione had wielded that night.
“You’re right, Ginny. You’re absolutely right…” Ginny lifted up her eyebrows. Hermione visibly relaxed and gave her friend an embarrassed grimace.
“It’s alright. Hey, come and have a butterbeer with us.” Ginny began to pull Hermione towards the girl group.
“Actually…I think I’m just going to head to bed.” Ginny frowned. “It’s just I’m exhausted from today, but, I promise I’ll join the party next time.” Hermione held out her pinky for Ginny to grab but was met with a confused expression. “Oh, just something muggles do. To make a promise.”
“Ah, like an unbreakable vow.”
Hermione laughed. “Exactly.”
“Well, alright. If you promise. I’ll see you in the morning then.”
Hermione nodded and headed upstairs with just a last quick glance at the couples who either continued kissing or had separated only so far as to be able to whisper things to each other mere inches away.
What if she was going about this entire thing the wrong way? Even during their sixth year when the war had been looming over their heads, rearing its ugly head as everyone waited for something horrible to happen to mark the official start of war, Hermione had sated herself with small curiosities that had come to a screeching halt with Ron in the form of Lavender and Cormac with his bigheadedness.
And before then? She hadn’t felt anything close to that since Viktor. Viktor, her first kiss, dance, date, everything. Viktor, who still wrote her letters, telling her about how the war and Voldemort’s death had affected Durmstrang and the rest of Eastern Europe. Despite the distance, Voldemort had inspired those pure-blooded zealots that remained from Grindelwald’s reign. Viktor who used his status to campaign for equality, even as interviewers tried to steer the conversation away and towards the latest Bulgarian team win.
She had felt something in that kiss, though innocent it had been. Viktor had been practiced and patient with her; soft, which had been exactly what she’d needed in that first moment. And there had been a deep heave at the bottom of her stomach, no, beneath that? Hermione shook her head, trying to recall. It had been so long since she’d felt that feeling. She really couldn’t know for certain.
She had fully intended to plop herself down on her bed, bury her head and the evening’s thoughts underneath her pillow, but instead they steered her towards her tiny writing desk. She tapped the square glass case in the corner of her desk, a wordless Lumos sending a ball of light into the spelled enclosure, holding the illumination over her writing things.
Those small curiosities. Wasn’t she curious still? Yes, she replied to herself truthfully. She had felt curious those brief few moments in kissing Ron and holding his hand at the Burrow, only to be let down by the anticlimactic sensations. She had been curious to see the way the four couples downstairs had wrapped around each other, seeming to fit perfectly together like some elaborate puzzle. And to be perfectly honest, she had been especially curious to see the way Malfoy had pressed the Ravenclaw against the corridor wall, his hands doing a disappearing act under folds of her uniform. She thinks she knows what Malfoy had been doing with his other hand, but how could she know - that lesson had never been taught to her.
Is that what frustrated her the most? That all of her other peers seemed to be in the know of something big and not-very-secret. All of them had that knowledge. For once, Hermione Granger did not have the correct answer.
No, of course she didn’t know what he was doing to that girl, Hermione thought. She didn’t have the empirical evidence. She stiffened. A thought forming like a Patronus lighting up the darkness in her mind. First, small whisps of smoke - a vision of empirical research written in her parent’s biology text books that she had poured over in her summers back home. Next, a gush of silver material shooting to the forefront of her brain - scientific experiments that had gathered quantitative and qualitative data in order to prove a hypothesis. It was the basis for most logical deductions in the muggle world after all. And finally, her fully formed Patronus in the form of an Otter, bounced off of her teeming nerves, a plan fully locking into place. The Otter would have winked at her from her subconscious if that image wasn’t absolutely ridiculous.
Hermione flipped furiously through her journal to a blank page reserved for notes and the like she might need to jot down throughout the year. This was going to be an important one. She hesitated, about to grab her regular school quill and ink, but slid the desk drawer open instead searching for a gift she’d given herself at the start of the term from the quirky ink and parchment shop in Diagon Alley. Unbottling the color-changing ink bottle, she grabbed a new quill and began to write in great, balloon letters: The To-Do List.
She would have been scribbling furiously but held back in order to preserve aesthetic over function in that moment. Pressing her quill to the written words, she muttered “Red…no…no, green….hmmm..pink? Ugh…purple. Yes.” She finished the page off with a few well-placed magical stickers from a pack she had kept in the same drawer as her ink bottles. Flashing hearts, blooming flowers, and words of girlish encouragement like “Grl Power” now permeated the page.
Finally, Hermione capped her quill, laying everything down to peer at the social experiment that would would take up the next few months of her time. The parchment read:
The To-Do List
1. Snogging
2. Breast fondling
3. Dry Humping
4. Fingering
5. Handjob
6. Blowjob
7. Receive Oral Sex
8. Intercourse