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January 7th, 1996
Yes, it’s my first day back from the winter hols, and yes, I’ve already spent five hours in the library. I’m doing just fine, despite Harry and Ron’s insistence that I need a ‘proper’ outlet outside of my books. (As if chucking balls at dangerous heights is somehow ‘proper’. My eyes might get stuck from how hard they’re rolling.)
I will concede that I’ve become slightly more unbalanced than usual this year. I suppose my knitted hats (which are a total hit amongst the elves, I might add), no longer require but a flick of my wand as I read, so I do spend most of my time studying. Perhaps I should ask Gin about starting up a knitting club. That sounds quite proper, wouldn’t you say?
Of course, even a ‘proper outlet’ might soon prove insufficient for my ever-growing frustration, considering we now live and study under the reign of Umbridge the Terrible. The woman didn’t allow us even one day of peace upon our return. My ears are still echoing with the sound of Filch hanging decree after decree this evening. I’m certain the Wicked Witch magically amplified the sound of his hammer to ring through the castle.
Every decree is positively infuriating, but tonight, one in particular made my blood boil with unadulterated rage. Apparently, we are no longer allowed to use the terms ‘inbred’, ‘rah’, or ‘toff’ (among others) as they are ‘insensitive and divisive’. Can you guess what term did not make the list?
Mudblood.
Best,
Hermione Granger
~·~·~
January 7th, 1996,
Well, I’m back at Hogwarts, or hell, as I like to call it.
Christmas was splendid, as always. Father gave me dragon-hide seekers gloves and a pair of boots to match, not to mention a Deck of Deception—cards bewitched so that the owner can see what each player holds. I plan to swindle Theo out of his platinum watch this week.
Of course, Mother gave me this sodding diary, like I’m some wussy first-year. She swore she’d know if I didn’t write in it each day—lectured me all the way up the stairs about the value of record keeping. She’s quite a pest when she wants to be.
Well fine, I’ll write. But no one get pouty if it"s short.
Signed,
D.M.
~·~·~
January 8th, 1996,
I haven’t felt so many conflicting emotions since I flew with Harry and Buckbeak to save Sirius. I’m not sure where to even begin! I suppose the beginning would make the best sense.
On the way to Charms, I realized I’d forgotten my gloves in the Herbology greenhouses, so I left Ron and Harry to retrieve them. I was walking back from the greenhouses for the second time (and Merlin, my socks were completely soaked; the snow was slipping into my boots with every single step) when I had the misfortune of running into Malfoy.
In typical fashion, he sneered at me. I glared back at him but continued walking, like the mature young woman I am. Well, I suppose the little cockroach felt brave without Ron and Harry around because as I passed him, a snowball hit me square in the back. I turned around to find him sniggering as if it was the funniest scene in the world—me getting hit by a snowball.
Usually, I would walk away. Nothing good ever comes from engaging with that spoiled ferret, but I suppose with the ‘High Inquisitor’ shite (pardon my language, but it is shite) taking place at Hogwarts, something in me snapped. As he walked away, I balled up a snowball of my own, the way Dad taught me, and aimed it right between his shoulder blades. Hard.
I usually find activities such as drawing a waste of time, but oh how I wish I could draw his expression! He whipped around to face me, practically losing his balance as he did so. His face was beet red, and he looked utterly shocked—eyes wide and jaw hanging loose—before he could fix his features into a glare. Good Godric, he acts like such a tough guy until a fourteen-year-old girl slaps his cheek or a single snowball dares touch him. The absolute git.
Anyway, he stalked towards me, as if I’d find him menacing (not likely after witnessing the aftermath of Buckbeak’s “attack”). But I squared my shoulders in response. The world gives muggleborns enough trouble, so I refuse to endure the antics of some silly fool like Draco Malfoy, especially without Crabbe or Goyle around to fight his fights for him. Though, I must admit, my chest filled with anxiety when he stopped a mere foot from me.
Despite that tinge of anxiety, I held my ground and raised my chin to meet his sneer. That only seemed to bother him more because he brought his face threateningly close to mine and glared into my eyes, then hissed, rather than whined, “This is war.”
I’ve heard Malfoy sound angry, pouty, disdainful, and cruel (oh, I’ve heard him sound cruel more times than I could count), but I’ve never heard him sound like this... I hate to admit that his whisper felt dangerous—so dangerous that it left goose pimples on my arms.
It was all I could do to silently glare back. (I’ve never realized his eyes hold a bit of blue in them; it’s odd what your mind notices in stressful moments.) I only let myself catch my breath once he finally stalked away.
So, you can understand my emotional conflict. On the one hand, I feel proud and vindicated by the events of today. His Highness, Prince Prat of Hogwarts Inquisitorial Squad has been completely intolerable this year, and it felt wonderfully invigorating to stand up to him (not quite as good as the slap, but certainly a close second). However, I also feel an undeniable bout of worry blooming within me. Slytherins do not fight fair. So I can only hope he grows distracted by his reflection in his shiny Inquisitorial Squad badge and forgets all about this.
I also can’t help feeling a bit exasperated. The boy is such a prissy drama king. (Whoever coined the phrase ‘drama queen’ was wrong; boys are reliably more dramatic than girls.) ‘This is war.’ Honestly! Who says something like that about sodding snowballs, for Merlin’s sake?!
Well, if this is a war, as he so claims, I am determined to win.
Best wishes,
Hermione Granger
~·~·~
January 8th, 1996,
That Granger Mudblood is so bloody obnoxious! Honestly, who does she think she is? Sodding Morganna? I’d suggest she take a look in the bloody mirror, but the state of her hair leads me to believe she’s sworn religious vows against viewing her reflection.
When I passed her today, I thought she could use some help removing the wand that’s planted firmly up her arse. And what better way to dislodge it than an ice-cold snowball? I didn’t even throw it hard! But you’d think I damn well maimed her based on her expression. Merlin, it’s so easy to rile her up. She gets flushed and haughty so damn quickly. I had a good laugh before continuing towards the greenhouses.
But Gryffindors can never let things lie, can they? And the little bitch chucked a snowball at me! And despite her total lack of quidditch skills, it turns out her arm is obnoxiously strong. (She probably does manual work on some lowly muggle farm). She left a welt on my back!
She doesn’t realize that she just started a war. And Malfoys always come out on top in matters of war.
It’s time someone put her in her place.
Signed,
D.M.
~·~·~
January 9th, 1996,
That blasted little ferret!
I just don’t understand Malfoy. We were even! Not to mention, he started it! But he just had to get the last hit.
He’d obviously planned it out—petty brat. He was waiting (hidden in the shadows like the little snake he is) at the precise point I always separate from Harry and Ron after Care of Magical Creatures for my next class. And not only did he hit me with a ridiculously large snowball (seriously, how much time did he waste rolling that??) but of course, I also had the misfortune of enduring an even more embarrassing situation, which I’d inadvertently created for myself.
When Malfoy hit me with his sodding snowball right in my chest, he burst out cackling louder than ever. I was scowling, rather confused, until he pointed to where the snow had hit me. I looked down to remember I’d undone my outer robes during that absolute hike back from Hagrid’s hut, and with the sun’s warmth, my very white shirt was now very see-through. He is a disgusting, foul, slimy perv!
Well, two can play at the game of humiliation. He’s going to get a taste of his own medicine.
Best wishes,
Hermione Granger
~·~·~
January 9th, 1996,
As always, Malfoys prevail. Granger bloody well deserved that snowball. The resulting see-through shirt was an unexpected bonus. The little prude turned bright pink at that! Always so damn easy to rile her up.
Who knew such a swot wore black lacy bras beneath her uniform? Granger always seemed the cream, full-coverage type. I’d plan to tease her mercilessly with this newfound information, but Pansy’s always been the jealous type.
Merlin, if Pansy even reads this, I’d be a dead man.
Signed,
One platinum watch richer, D.M.
~·~·~
January 10th, 1996,
As promised, Draco Malfoy got a mouthful of his own medicine today; quite literally, in fact, as I hit him square in the face mid-sentence. He pulled this ridiculously nauseated expression after swallowing the snow, gagging for a solid minute before finally snapping his gaze towards my direction. Silver-spooned spoiled brat—there is no way the snow tastes that bad.
A couple of Slytherins were pointing and laughing at his bright red, snow-covered face. Meanwhile, Crabbe and Goyle were cluelessly looking around for the culprit, but I’d hidden myself well. Malfoy might not have seen my face, but he certainly knew it was me who embarrassed him in front of his little gang of snakes. And that thought makes me smile each time it comes to mind.
Best wishes,
Hermione Granger
~·~·~
January 10th, 1996,
Fuck Hermione Granger.
Signed,
D.M.
~·~·~
January 11th, 1996,
Malfoy is such a prick. He’s the prickiest prick I’ve ever had the displeasure of meeting.
He charmed an entire slew of snowballs to pelt me, one after the other, while the boys and I went for a walk. By the end, my hair and robes were positively dripping, drenched with melting snow.
Of course, Ron blamed the entire thing on Fred and George, turning red with anger at his brothers. I tried to calm him down, but I couldn’t exactly tell him that I knew precisely who to blame, and he certainly does not sport red hair or freckles. Instead, I silently glared at Hogwart’s resident cockroach throughout the entire dinner hour. I’m disappointed, though unsurprised, to report that he looked far too smug for his own good.
The worst part is having to admit that it was rather clever spellwork. I’ve been playing with similar charms since the incident, loathe to discover they’re quite complex. But I’m a fast learner (certainly much faster than Malfoy; I wonder how long he spent practicing this wandwork), and I’m now able to launch small paper airplanes at the wall. It’s lovely magic; I just wish it didn’t remind me of a certain sodding Slytherin every time I cast it.
Merlin, it’s been a long day.
Ron argued with me this evening (part of why I spent hours practicing Malfoy’s spell). I don’t understand why he gets so upset with me out of the blue.
Best,
Hermione Granger
~·~·~
January 11th, 1996,
Magicking my snowballs was a mistake. Granted, seeing Granger’s reluctantly envious expression almost made it worth it. But it was overall definitely a mistake.
First of all, the little flames she floats around herself are surprisingly strong. All the snow that landed on her quickly melted, leaving her completely soaked. With her clothing hanging around her body, Weasel-king spent forever overtly gawking at her. Merlin, did no one teach him manners? It was honestly so appalling that I almost didn’t even enjoy Granger’s huff of outrage.
I suppose dinner made up for it. (Though I’m shocked the Weasel’s earlier nauseating, lust-filled gawking didn’t ruin my appetite.) She spent the entire meal throwing glares my way. It was downright hilarious.
Of course, I must admit that I’m slightly nervous. Granger will obviously attempt to one-up me with magic of her own. And despite her blood status, I’d be an idiot to pretend her spellwork is not top of our class.
I wonder if she’ll try to replicate my spell to get me back. Or maybe she’ll modify the charm to make the snowballs last all day? I’d like to say she wouldn’t attempt something as dangerous as casting modified spells at me—sodding reliable Gryffindor Holiness and all—but that bitch can be fucking vindictive. Rita still won’t return my owls after the whole ‘trapped-in-a-jar’ incident.
But Merlin, it would be bloody entertaining to see Snape’s reaction to snowballs following me into his precious dungeons. And she’d get into so much trouble.
I suppose I’ll report back tomorrow.
From now on, I’m casting anti-melting charms on my snowballs.
Signed,
D.M.
~·~·~
January 12th, 1996,
Today was awful.
Ron continued his cold-shoulder behavior, and I have no idea what I even did wrong. When I asked, he simply shrugged and walked away. At lunch, he rolled his eyes whenever I spoke and ignored me the entire meal. I don’t know how to act when he gets like this. I don’t understand why he behaves like such a child sometimes. And with the added stress of O.W.L.s, it was all I could do not to cry while excusing myself from lunch early.
I just wish I had someone I could talk to. Harry always sides with Ron, and Ginny is Ron’s sister. Anytime I try to speak with Parvati or Lavender, they exchange glances and frown. And I can’t even go to Hagrid’s because of that wretched, wicked witch!
The worst part was that even though I escaped Ron before my tears fell, Malfoy of all people saw me crying. It was mortifying. I was hiding under my usual oak tree, and by the time he saw me, it was too late to run or hide. I immediately tensed and glared, certain he was going to take the chance to throw a snowball at me in my pitiful state.
But he surprised me. He stopped and stared at me, and inexplicably, he just stood there. My shock increased when he slowly opened his arms out wide and pointed at his chest. In fact, I swear my jaw dropped in outright disbelief. I waited, ready to throw a protego at some hidden snowball. But it never came.
He continued to stand there until I tossed a half-hearted snowball at his chest. He rolled his eyes at the way the loosely packed snow fell off his robes, but he didn’t sneer or glare. My head spun in confusion as I watched him walk away. I’m certain I’ve never seen Malfoy do something like that.
And as I’m writing this, I’m realizing how utterly daft I was. Because actions do not lie. And Malfoy’s actions attest that he is not a kind person, so this was surely some kind of trap.
Oh Merlin, I’m such an idiot! Why did I ever believe Malfoy would give me a free shot like that? He has something up his sleeve, and now I’m left waiting for the floor to fall out from under me.
Ugh! Now I’m upset with Ron and anxious about Malfoy, all as I climb into bed. It’s going to be a long night.
Best wishes,
Hermione Granger
~·~·~
January 12th, 1996,
I’ll never understand those sodding Gryffindors. The drama in that house is loud and completely disruptive to the rest of us, and they all wear their emotions on their sleeves like bloody idiots. It’s beyond irritating.
That being said, I had a stroke of genius. With Granger crying about whatever idiotic thing the Weasel or Saint Potty did, I used the opportunity to distract her from retaliating after my legendary charmwork. I realized she would likely use yesterday as an excuse to maim the Malfoy heir in the name of ‘repartee’, so I gave her a free shot instead. Much less dangerous to the Malfoy line, and sure enough, she took it. And Gryffindors tout being the bigger people. So bloody hypocritical.
No matter. I no longer have to worry about her ending the Malfoy line in an attempt to one-up my spellwork.
That being said, Malfoys do not lose, and they always deliver the last punch. I will win this war using my biological upper hand—man’s superiorly taller, faster, stronger frame. Watch her attempt to outdo nature. Not likely, even for you, Granger.
Signed,
D.M.
~·~·~
January 13th, 1996,
I suppose it was Malfoy’s day today. I honestly wondered if he’d finally leave me alone after last night. I should have known better; after all, this is Malfoy.
The pasty menace came out of nowhere while I took a walk. He shoved snow all through the top of my hair, then jumped away before I could get him back or even push him off. And the git was laughing as he did it! Though, it didn’t sound like his typical sniggering. It sounded more full than usual. And it was probably the most unrestrained smile I’ve ever seen from him. I think I might understand why Lavender swears he’s gorgeous.
Though he’s still an awful person, and of course, I don’t personally find him attractive.
The worst part of it all was how gigantic the snow made my hair. The rest of the day, I wore a positive cloud atop my head.
Ron started talking to me again at dinner. (His first comment being, ‘Your rat’s nest is back! I missed it!’ Always the gentleman, dear Merlin help him.) So that’s good, I suppose.
Best wishes,
Hermione Granger
~·~·~
January 13th, 1996,
And I thought Granger’s hair looked atrocious on a day-to-day basis.
Her eyes look sort of like those caramels Mother used to buy me.
She desperately needs to invest in some hair products.
Signed,
Draco Malfoy
~·~·~
January 14th, 1996,
Turnabout is a beautiful thing. Malfoy wanted to mess up my already unruly curls? Fine. I honestly could not care less. I’m used to bad hair days. You should have seen his face when I ruined his oh-so-perfect hair. Of course, doing so was a bit difficult (Merlin, when did he grow so tall?), but I was able to reach.
Then, the little prat rudely broke our usual routine! He just couldn’t give me my due twenty-four hours, could he? No, instead, as I rubbed snow into his hair, he grabbed my wrist and held me in place while he rubbed snow right back into my hair, which was completely unfair considering he already ruined my hair yesterday. So, of course, I grabbed more snow to put in his hair. And we went back and forth like that until we were both on the ground covered in snow and somehow laughing. I’ve never laughed with Malfoy before.
He offered me a hand as I stood. I suppose outdated pureblood chivalry is engrained deep within muscle memory, even if the girl is a mudblood.
I didn’t realize his hair had so much wave to it. It’s rather sweet, actually.
I’m not sure who won. I suppose I’ll have to throw a snowball tomorrow to make sure I can confidently claim victory.
Today was a good day,
Hermione
~·~·~
January 14th, 1996,
My hair hasn’t looked this atrocious since Theo attempted to cut it with the hedge clippers as children. (Mother immediately pumped me full of hair regrowth potions muttering about how lucky I was to have not been hurt.)
Granger looked utterly ridiculous standing on her tiptoes to reach my hair like that. She has no grace, stumbling so hard she brought both of us down to the snow.
And she looked completely unperturbed by her wild hair after the fact. She didn’t even bother to charm it back down. Has she no sense of decorum?
I suppose she’s accustomed to her hair living entirely outside the bounds of reasonability. She doesn’t have a family name to represent. She does everything unrestrained. Her hair, her carrying voice, her too-big smiles and too-loud laughter. If Father ever heard me laughing that much, I’d receive another one of his lectures about propriety. Granger doesn’t have to worry about things like that, I suppose.
I ended up with the final snowball to her hair despite her best efforts.
She smells far too strongly of vanilla, and I swear the scent has been stuck in my nose ever since.
Signed,
Draco Malfoy
~·~·~
January 15th, 1996,
I got him! I hung back after herbology and hit him right in the back, just like he did to me the first time around. He flipped around and scowled at me, but his eyes looked soft. It’s easier to see the blue in them when he isn’t angry.
We passed in the corridor on the way to dinner, and he whispered, “Just wait until tomorrow, Granger.” Merlin, I’m so nervous about what he’s going to do. My heart won’t stop worrying itself about what’s to come.
Best wishes,
Hermione Granger
~·~·~
January 15th, 1996,
Alright, so her aim is undeniably accurate. I wonder if she grew up throwing snowballs with her siblings. Does she have siblings?
I think it"s her hair that smells like vanilla.
Signed,
Draco Malfoy
~·~·~
Dearest Draco,
I apologize if Comet woke you, but I needed my owl to arrive away from the prying eyes of your schoolmates and professors. I’ve cursed the parchment to disintegrate at the touch of non-Malfoy blood, so please send a response back with Comet so I know if my missive arrived successfully.
You’ll soon read in the news that your Aunt Bella and many other inner-circle members will escape Azkaban. It’s extremely important that you say nothing until the news is announced, and that you say nothing more than what the Daily Prophet prints.
In anticipation of this victory, some things have changed at home. We’re now privileged to have the guest of the highest honor staying with us. I know you planned to remain at the castle for the Easter Holidays, but you’ll need to come home. It’s important we show him what a bright boy you are. Your father and I agree it"s best if you join his great forces early, perhaps as soon as you graduate, to ensure a prime position.
The future we’ve dreamed of is now here. Work hard and stay in line. It’s never been more imperative, for all of us.
With love,
Mum
~·~·~
January 15th, 1996,
It’s 1 in the morning, but I’m still awake. I’ve reread Mum"s letter at least ten times now. I don’t understand why she and Father are opening the Manor up like some kind of hotel. We don’t need anyone else staying with us.
I don’t know what the hell Granger thinks is going on between us, but we aren’t fucking friends. We aren’t even acquaintances. All she’s doing is putting herself in danger—putting both of us in danger. Does she think the Dark Lord would look kindly on friendship between mudbloods and purebloods? Does she think I’d want to be friends with her?
And this whole damn snowball thing is the fucking icing on the cake. It’s a danger to me and to my family, and I can’t let it continue.
I suppose Granger will keep the final snowball.
Signed,
D.M.
~·~·~
January 16th, 1996,
I passed him after Care of Magical Creatures today, but he didn’t throw his snowball. I bet he was too nervous with Ron and Harry walking on either side of me. I suppose this means he’ll be planning something especially vengeful tomorrow. I’ll have to watch my step!
Best wishes,
Hermione Granger
P.S. His hair was all straight again today. I think I like it wavy best.
~·~·~
January 16th, 1996,
Her hair was blocking the sodding blackboard
Theo put together that my deck of cards is rigged. The damned snake demanded his watch back. I was honestly too tired to fight him on it. I can buy myself a better watch anyway.
Signed,
D.M
~·~·~
January 17th, 1996,
I guess no ambush today either.
Ginny said she’d join my knitting club.
I’m too tired to write.
Best,
Hermione Granger
~·~·~
January 17th, 1996,
Those with Evening Prophet subscriptions learned about the breakout tonight after dinner. I’ve hidden away in my bed, as the common room is full of nosy Slytherins asking me about Aunt Bella and the rest of the death eaters. Even Theo, Greg, and Vince, who could ask their own damn fathers! I suppose none of their families are quite as highly ranked in the Dark Lord’s circle as the Malfoys.
I wonder what Granger
I’m starving, only now realizing that I haven’t eaten since breakfast. Maybe I’ll have Vince and Greg nick me something from the kitchens.
Signed,
D.M.
~·~·~
January 18th, 1996,
The news was positively disturbing today. And no one wants to admit what’s going on; that’s the worst part of it all. Death Eaters are walking free, and Fudge won’t do a thing about it. It’s terrifying. I’m worried for Harry. I’m worried about going home this summer. I’m so very worried for my parents and aunts and uncles and cousins. And I’m worried for Malfoy. I am not sure what this means for him, but he looked ghostly as the owls began dropping the Daily Prophet this morning. I couldn’t help watching him after I skimmed the headline. As the whispers grew louder amongst rustling newspapers, his face turned white, and I could see his jaw clenching from across the Great Hall.
Of course, it only took a moment for him to revert to sneers and smirks. I know this was delusional of me, but those expressions seemed rather like a show. After all of last week’s… well, whatever that was… I’d figured he wasn’t like his family—I’d hoped he wasn’t like his family. He’d seemed so different one on one. But I was a fool.
I naively waited until he was without Crabbe or Goyle to ask if he was okay.
He’s sneered at me hundreds of times.
I don’t believe any have hurt so badly.
Hermione Granger
~·~·~
January 18th, 1996,
I don’t understand why she looked at me like she was going to fucking cry. What did she expect? She knows who I am. It’s not like we were ever friends.
She needs to leave me alone before someone gets hurt. She needs to stop acting like this is all a silly game—like life is some giant fucking snowball fight. What’s going on is bigger than some waste-of-time schoolyard game.
You can play with snow. Snow melts and disappears. But blood? Blood sets and stains. It sets us apart. It leaves permanent marks. And it"s inevitably on the horizon.
After all, this is war.
Signed,
D.M.
~·~·~·~·~·~·~·~·~·~·~·~·~·~·~·~·~·~·~·~·~·~·~·~
January 8th, 2004,
After the day’s events, I figured it was time I scrounged up this old journal.
I’ve been watching her, you know. Every day for the past seven months, since I was hired by the DMLE. Every day, I wonder if she’ll stop merely nodding at me when she’s forced to see my face.
Tonight, I finally got my answer.
I’m still not sure why Potter deemed it a bright idea to invite me to the celebration of his promotion. (He’s never been the sharpest bloke, has he?) I’d just stepped out of the Leaky Cauldron to catch my breath from the tirade of intrusive questions and thinly veiled scowls when I heard the door click open behind me. Her eyes grew wide when they met mine, every trail of gold within them visible in our proximity. Unfortunately for her, she’d only noticed my presence once she was already too far outside to covertly retreat.
She bit her lip as she stepped forward, and we stood side by side for a moment, seemingly trying not to breathe as we stared at the street lamps’ reflection on the fresh snow—as my pitiful, cowardly gut tried to muster the courage to say even a single sodding word. But once the scent of vanilla grew too strong, I merely swallowed—swallowed my unsaid words and conceded defeat as I stepped away, slowly returning to the door.
I stopped at the sound of her throat clearing. And as I turned to face her, it hit me—as in, a bloody snowball hit me square in the jaw.
Thank Merlin it wasn’t one of her signature tightly packed ones.
Stunned, I stood gaping like an idiot.
She giggled as she passed me, rolling her eyes. But I grabbed her wrist before she could reach the door, turning her to meet my gaze. Before allowing her to disappear back into the crowd, her cheeks undeniably ablaze, I whispered two, quiet words.
Game on.
Signed,
Draco Malfoy