Handful of Hollow

Handful of Hollow, by Miss Mona

Chapter 1: Die Daily

Death implies change and individuality; if thou be
THAT which hath no person, which is beyond the
changing, even beyond changelessness, what hast
thou to do with death ?
The bird of individuality is ecstasy; so also is its death.
In love the individuality is slain; who loves not love?
Love death therefore, and long eagerly for it.
Die Daily.

-Aleister Crowley

*

Instinct, perception, and intuition had always run strong in the Bulstrode line. Indeed, many Bulstrode witches had attributed some degree of their success, their fame, and even their longevity to these three particular strengths at one time or another.

So it was, that with neither sound nor sight to alert her, responding only to gut feeling, Millicent knew – she was certain - she was being watched.

She had been standing before one of the enormous windows of her bedroom, watching furious clouds roll across the sky, and reaching blindly into a small bag of runestones when the sharp sense of hostile tension had first rushed over her. As her fingers had finally curled around one of the stones, her head had involuntarily snapped up and she had dropped the bag, runes scattering noisily across the floor.

That had been a mistake. Whoever was there - and someone definitely was - undoubtedly knew that their presence had been detected. Still, not wanting to further jeopardize herself in what she had felt might be shaping up to be a rather precarious situation, Millicent had held her ground. Rather than turning to seek the intruder, she had fixed her eyes on the transparently mirrored image of her room in the window before her, searching for some sign of the trespasser.

For several minutes now she'd been standing so: rigidly, completely still with her arms held tensely at her sides. Her senses were sharpened in anticipation, her left hand clenched tightly around the runestone, and her right instinctively seeking the wand in her pocket. She slowed her breathing and squinted slightly, trying to bring the room's reflection into sharper focus. Straining her ears, she could hear nothing but the blood pulsing wildly through her body, her own soft and even intakes of air.

Another moment passed before a movement in the glass caught Millicent's eye. She could barely discern a figure shift to lean against the shadowed doorframe of the chamber, the arrogance of her posture betraying her identity at once.

Her mother. What had she expected? Times were tense, that was undeniable, but...

Shaking herself mentally, Millicent allowed herself to relax. Still, she did not turn, instead waiting for Mileva to give herself away. Whatever fleeting sense of relief that had come from recognition had been immediately replaced by a new feeling of unease - Millicent knew that her mother posed a threat uniquely her own. Finally she saw another small movement in the window's reflection. The familiar sound of a striking match shattered the strained silence.

"Mother," Millicent said, more a response of acknowledgement than one of greeting. A tiny spark of orange danced across the window before the flame flickered out, permeating the air with the faint, but sharp scent of sulfur.

"Millicent."

Mileva slurred the name in her heavy Russian accent, extending each syllable carelessly. Exhaling a cloud of heady smoke from her cigarette, she stepped into the center of the room and smiled. Millicent turned to face her mother at last, catching the unmistakable spite behind Mileva's smile, and made a short gesture towards the two high-backed chairs set before her unlit fireplace. She was not surprised when Mileva made no notice of the invitation, and shrugging, Millicent turned back to the window and the view beyond.

Radclyffe Hall, her father's Classical Georgian Estate, was ideally situated between Cambridge and Grantchester, boasting a magnificent view of both the nearby city and the surrounding countryside, a view no less impressive in the melancholy haze of the wet English dawn. Outside, a weak gray light was struggling to pierce the clouds over the River Cam while a furious wind tore through the trees below and rattled the panes of the window. Millicent shuddered. It was going to storm; the air was heavy with moisture and electricity. The summer had been unusually full of such days, the sullen mornings giving way to raging evenings, an occasional sunny spell appearing only long enough to give a false sense of serenity before being cruelly overtaken again.

"I do hope you've enjoyed your summer," Mileva said, her dismissive drawl sounding far from hopeful.

"Mmm." Millicent nodded once as she shifted her gaze from the grays and greens outside and back to her mother's faint reflection.

The question had taken her slightly off guard, though she did nothing to show it. Her mother rarely took pains with such civilities as idle conversation, especially not with her. Of course, there was nothing really civil about Mileva now. Or ever. Standing loftily behind Millicent with that venomous smile playing across her face, her arms folded lightly across her chest as she took long drags from her cigarette, she looked nothing short of dangerous.

Which, in fact, she was. Years spent captive in an unfulfilling marriage had made Mileva cruel. At least that was how Carling had once explained it.

The tense silence reclaimed its hold on the room as Millicent turned, moved slowly to one of the chairs before the fireplace, and sat, at last giving Mileva her full attention. There was no reason to draw this out, whatever this was.

From across the room, Mileva was studying her, her critical eyes sweeping Millicent from head to toe, an undisguised expression of loathing clouding her eyes. Millicent calmly crossed her legs and placed her elbows on the broad arms of her chair, holding her mother's scornful gaze unflinchingly and posturing herself in a challenge that matched Mileva's own. Mileva's bitter smile slowly dissolved.

Now obviously annoyed, shadowed in the strange half-light of the room, Mileva looked more stunning and otherworldly than ever. She was famous for her beauty, and deservedly so. Black hair against white skin, heavily hooded eyes, arching brows, high cheekbones - she was all sharp lines and dramatic curves. A look of steadily increasing displeasure had twisted the perpetual pout of her mouth into a grimace, but she looked none the worse for it. She was perfectly seductive, but undeniably ferocious. There was something almost vampiric about her, Millicent thought. A hunter, her feral beauty seemed magnified by her passion for the hunt, the excitement stirred by the inevitable attack.

The attack. Millicent frowned and sighed, mentally steeling herself, waiting for her mother to speak.

"Your Father will be away for all of December and January," Mileva said at last as she stepped in front of the window. Backlit by the cool gray light of daybreak, Mileva became a featureless black mass of sensual curves, an eerie shadow amidst a swirling cloud of blue smoke. Menace Personified , Millicent thought, grimly amused.

"Yes, I know."

"With the passing of Carling, that would leave you alone with me over the holidays... should you choose to return." Mileva tapped the ash from her cigarette directly onto the floor and cocked her head expectantly.

Millicent was more startled by the casual mention of her grandmother's death than by her mother's clear disinterest in having her home for Christmas; this was not quite what Millicent had anticipated, but neither was it news. Millicent had already resigned herself to the idea of spending the holidays at Hogwarts. It would be her first holiday away from home, and while the idea was slightly alien, she could think of few things worse than being trapped alone with her mother in Radclyffe Hall for two weeks. The house was enormous, true, but there had never quite been enough room in the estate for Millicent and her mother to coexist peacefully, even when she had been a child. Besides, Millicent was certain that the first winter without her grandmother would be difficult enough without the added stress of her mother's company.

Millicent stiffened slightly against her chair and nodded toward Mileva. "I'll let you know," she responded, a hint of impatience tingeing the barely maintained tone of indifference in her voice.

"Yes, do." A fainter version of her mother's previous smirk returned as Mileva took several slow steps in Millicent's direction.

Stopping only a few feet from her daughter, Mileva dropped her cigarette to the floor, slightly lifting the flimsy material of her gown to reveal one slippered foot. She crushed the cigarette with the toe of her shoe, never dropping her hold on Millicent's eyes, then straightened to her full six feet, her hands trailing sensually down her narrow waist and falling to her hips. "Your father has made a deposit into your Gringotts' account. It is meant to last you until your birthday."

Millicent nodded.

"Well. Shall I send the house-elves to fetch your things?" Extending one slender arm lazily, Mileva gestured toward the trunk and small black bag set near the door.

Again, the simple civility caught Millicent off guard. "No, thank you."

Millicent flinched reflexively as her mother stepped forward and rather formally kissed the air beside her cheek. Making no attempt to return the gesture, Millicent remained seated, watching with a mixture of relief and disbelief as Mileva sauntered towards the door, threw one last callous smile over her shoulder, and left. Millicent shook her head. That had been too easy. All of the usual hostility she'd ever felt in her mother was there, but for once nothing had come of it. Things were different now, Millicent reminded herself. Six months ago, even three months ago, she would never have escaped one of Mileva's visits so easily.

Mileva's chosen form of aggression had never been physical, but until recently, her verbal lashings had been frequent throughout Millicent's life. Her father intervened on the rare occasions that he was made aware of their conflicts, and once Carling had come to live at Radclyffe Hall, the frequency of Mileva's attacks had waned considerably. But not stopped.

As a child it had all been quite painful, but now, almost a woman, and already a strong Bulstrode witch, Millicent had learned to take their confrontations in stride, her practiced indifference the only weapon that seemed to truly thwart her mother's attempts to intimidate.

Millicent let out a long breath and leaned back heavily in her chair, then opened her fist and finally looked at the warm black runestone cupped in the curve of her palm.

Ehwaz, the rune of abrupt change. Fitting, really. The surreal, painful summer was finally at its end, and she would shortly be returning to Hogwarts for her sixth year of magical education. There was nothing particularly novel in that itself, but Millicent would be more alone this year than ever before.

In sixteen years Millicent had learned to easily accept solitude - it had been both a constant and a comfort in her life - and she had always responded well to change. And anyway, she had already had two months to reconcile herself to the not unexpected loss of Carling. As her return to Hogwarts had grown closer, however, she had been surprised to find a sense of gnawing anxiety growing inside her, always lingering on the edge of her thoughts.

During her final week of the holiday, she had finally placed the nervous discomfort - it was the once-frequent correspondence she and Carling had shared that would now be so sorely missed. Carling had been more than a grandmother. Mentor, role model, friend. And mother, Millicent thought. The idea of losing their correspondence, such an important aspect of their relationship, had seemed to reopen the wounds she'd first suffered over Carling's death.

Standing, Millicent summoned the small black leather bag and the runes she'd dropped at her mother's appearance, then gently replaced them, the small jet stones clattering softly. She carefully dropped the bag into her pocket, taking comfort in the pull of its familiar weight, then pulled out her wand. Ebony, eleven and a half inches with a core of Thestral feather.

Carling had kept Thestrals in her younger years, or at least before Millicent's father had been born. In those days, the local Muggles had never been suspicious, thanks to a number of concealing charms, but when the superstitious wizarding population of Cambridge had heard rumors that the unlucky winged horses were kept so near, they had eventually begun to blame Carling for practically everything that ever went wrong in Cambridgeshire. The beasts had been quietly relocated to Carling's old estate in Northern Scotland, but after Millicent's birth, Carling had made a point of taking her granddaughter to see them every year on her birthday.

No animal had ever inspired such awe in Millicent as her grandmother's Thestrals. They were amazing creatures; their intelligence, strength, and superiority apparent in every move they made. What the rest of the wizarding world saw in Unicorns, Millicent felt in Carling's Thestrals. Yet unlike unicorns, the Thestrals were not drawn by purity, but by the worth and ability they sensed in their handlers, a mutual respect and interest. Millicent's affinity with the animals had been established immediately. "We magic folk forget our place sometimes, Millicent. We think we are all that is powerful in the world. Thestrals remind us of ourselves ," Carling had told her. Millicent had never needed reminding.

On Millicent's eleventh birthday, Carling had given her the wand. It was exceptionally beautiful, with intricate carvings winding elegantly up its whole length from the bottom, obviously fashioned with painstaking care. She had cherished the wand immediately, and even then magic had come easily to her. The wand was so close to perfect, a tool that channeled her power so smoothly it seemed almost to be an extension of herself. There was nothing like it to be had at Ollivander's.

During the first few weeks she'd been at Hogwarts, the wand had been an object of some envious admiration among her fellow Slytherins. Still, Millicent had never flaunted it.

The professors had been impressed as well, but by the ease with which she performed, not the wand. But as Millicent awkwardly shrugged off all praise and acknowledgement, there came a point that her talents were accepted, even expected, but infrequently acknowledged. Carling approved of this. "The Bulstrode women have never needed our powers to be validated by others, Millicent ," Carling had often told her. "You know your own strength - don't let praise make you lazy."

Millicent smiled. Carling had never given Millicent enough credit there. The majority of Carling's lectures had been justified and invaluable, but one thing Millicent had never been was lazy.

"Wingardium Leviosa ". Millicent's luggage rose smoothly from the floor and she carefully guided it through her bedroom door and down the wide central staircase of Radclyffe Hall.

Several servants stood at the foot of the stairs, bowing their heads and greeting her politely as her trunk was whisked away by two house-elves. As she fastened a light, waterproof summer cloak over her traveling robes, Millicent's eye was caught by the small, carefully wrapped parcel one servant held, on which her name was clearly written in her father's elegant hand. Millicent was surprised by her own eagerness as she reached for the package.

With the parcel in hand, she felt almost light-headed, and for a moment she simply held it, letting its weight settle comfortably against her splayed fingers. Then, gently, Millicent put it inside her bag. It would have to wait.

With distracted excitement she collected her nearby cat and her small schoolbag, then walked past the servants and through the open doors. Approaching the sleek black automobile parked outside, she turned and, one last time, looked at her father's monumental home, austere and severe against the darkening sky. It would be at least ten months before she would see Radclyffe Hall again, yet Millicent was certain she would not miss it.

*

Millicent sat towards the rear of the Slytherin table, her back turned to the tables of the other three houses of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Leaning her chin heavily upon her fist, she watched the Sorting Ceremony with unmasked boredom. As a sixth-year student, the ceremony no longer particularly held her interest. Like Harry Potter's annual brush with death, like the tired competition between the four Hogwarts houses, like Professor Binns' unvarying lectures in History of Magic, the unchanging rituals of the return to Hogwarts had become almost unbearably monotonous.

Millicent's mind wandered as she let her eyes trail the length of the table, pausing half-way up at the sight of her fellow sixth-year Slytherins. Draco Malfoy was sandwiched, as usual, between Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle, looking characteristically smug and aloof. Across the table Blaise Zabini and Pansy Parkinson were speaking excitedly, both gesturing wildly and laughing in turn. Lazily, Draco looked up from their conversation, met Millicent's eye and gave a curt nod. She nodded back and held his cool gaze until he looked away, then finished her visual exploration of the table.

The few seventh-years sitting nearby seemed as uninterested in their surroundings as she, and were speaking in low, fervent tones and throwing subtle but suspicious looks around the hall. For an instant, Millicent felt distinctly aware of her solitude. Had she not been so hungry, she might have skipped the ceremony and indulged her desire to get to that package... but no, the Welcoming Feast would be worth the wait.

She drummed her fingers against the table mechanically, receiving a meaningful look from one of the nearby seventh-years. Rolling her eyes and frowning, Millicent produced an apple from her bag and began to absent-mindedly rub it against the sleeve of her robes.

She was faintly surprised when two freshly Sorted Slytherins approached her and rather nervously sat down across the table; she'd never been very good with children, even when she'd been one herself.

One of the first-years, a rather pretty blonde girl, smiled brightly at Millicent. The other, a paler, pointier version of the first looked unsure of herself as she attempted to duplicate her twin's smile. The bully in Millicent seized the opportunity; Millicent placed the apple on the bench beside her and hunched forward, resting her elbows on the table and folding her large hands in the crooks of her elbows in a decidedly unfriendly pose. She fixed an unblinking and emotionless stare upon the two eleven year-olds, and watched with perfectly concealed pleasure as they began to squirm under the weight of her eyes. Eventually, the first nudged the other, who nodded quickly, and they hastily, clumsily, stood up together to move further up the table. Millicent smiled, and reached again for her apple.

"What an impressive display of Slytherin hospitality."

The corners of Millicent's mouth twitched slightly as she shifted her eyes toward the source of the voice. "Ah, now that's a face I've missed." Millicent shook her head seriously. "Draco, have I ever told you that you'd have made a lovely woman?"

Draco Malfoy draped his lean figure backwards across the bench next to Millicent and crossed his right leg over his left knee, surveying the tables of the other three houses coolly. "Do you think so?" He looked pleased. "I've often thought you'd have made a lovely woman yourself," he countered, flashing a playful grin at Millicent as he swept a strand of fine whitish hair back from his forehead with long fingers.

Millicent grinned and pushed him gently, though hard enough to make him falter momentarily. He glared at her as he shifted and smoothed his robes. Millicent laughed.

Only three people had ever been particularly important to Millicent. Draco, strangely enough, was one of them. This had not always been the case, as Draco had relentlessly tormented Millicent over her appearance during their first year at Hogwarts. However, Millicent had been a notoriously aggressive child, and had - quite physically - convinced Draco that she would make a better ally than enemy on one unfortunate occasion during their second year when Draco had been without the company of his sidekicks. She had been harshly scolded over the matter by Carling, but had not missed the laughter in her grandmother's eyes. The same night, Millicent had overheard her father discussing the matter with Carling, mother and son laughing rather proudly. "It's not every witch who can put a Malfoy in his place ."

Despite Lucius Malfoy's express wish that Draco avoid the young witch, it had not been long before Draco had approached Millicent again. Millicent had shrugged him off at first, but he had persisted. With time Draco's grudging respect for Millicent had become genuine admiration, and in spite of herself, Millicent, too, had developed something like a sisterly affection for Draco. Their verbal exchanges were reliably brutal, but easily forgiven, and in true Slytherin fashion, a source of endless entertainment for both of them. More important to Millicent, however, were their less common serious conversations. While they rarely agreed on any point, Draco was both intelligent and interesting - a friend worthy of her own intellect.

Draco's smile gave way to an unnaturally serious look of... well, on anyone but a Malfoy it would have been called concern, Millicent thought. She braced herself, recognizing at once the now all-too-familiar look that accompanied offered condolences. She'd seen the expression more times in the last two months than she could count.

"Millicent, I was so sorry to hear about Carling."

Millicent's half-smile faded, as she exhaled slowly and looked past Draco, nodding. "Thank you, Draco."

As the Sorting Ceremony came to its end, a significant silence consumed the hall, and both Slytherins looked toward the front table, an ever-ready look of boredom gracing Draco’s fine features. Dumbledore cleared his throat, smiled and lifted his hands in a warm manner. "Before the commencement of the Welcoming Feast, it is my pleasure to introduce Professor Keeping, our new Muggle Studies instructor. As many of you undoubtedly know, Professor Ridley is no longer with us." A faint murmur of surprise swept the hall. Dumbledore continued. "She has," he paused and coughed, "relocated to Thailand to study Eastern Muggle religions. However, I am confident that you shall all find Professor Keeping to meet Hogwarts's standard of excellence," he finished, as Professor Keeping stood, bowing her head at the mass of young witches and wizards before her.

Draco leaned toward Millicent. "There's a rumor going around that Keeping is a Squib, you know," Draco muttered with obvious disapproval as he reached for the plate that had materialized in front of him only a moment before.

Millicent began filling her own plate. "I didn't know. And I should think it hardly matters for a Muggle Studies Professor." Millicent, in fact, had heard the rumors that morning on the ride to Hogwarts, but had high hopes for Ridley's replacement, regardless of her rumored magical shortcomings. Professor Ridley had been 128 years old and a bit of an eccentric - in wizarding terms that was no small matter. While he was an undeniably kind and sociable wizard, Millicent had often felt that the subject matter of Ridley's lectures was questionable to say the least. Being raised so near Cambridge, Millicent had spent a great deal of her youth in the city. She felt she had a fair idea of what Muggles were and were not. Her father, Alden Bulstrode, who had been a Ravenclaw in his youth, had more or less confirmed her doubts when she'd mentioned that Ridley was her Muggle Studies Professor during holidays her third year. Disgusted, Alden had called him an old fool, and then in an uncharacteristic moment of verbosity, described in great detail the miseducation he himself had suffered in Ridley's class.

"Don't be ridiculous. It always matters. That's barely a step down from being a Mudblood," Draco said simply as he turned his attention back to the non-Slytherin student body.

Millicent rolled her eyes, but didn't press the issue. Fixing him with a disapproving look that he ignored completely, she caught sight of a row of conspicuous violet marks along his neck. Her frown melting into a grin, Millicent flicked the line of bruising hard with her middle finger.

"See a little action this summer, did you?"

Draco jumped slightly then frowned, rubbing his neck. "More than a little, I'd say."

Millicent laughed. "Who was the lucky boy?" Draco's promiscuity was already legendary, although his sexual orientation was, amazingly enough, a very well-kept secret.

"Lucky boys Millicent. I spent the summer in France after all." Draco grinned wickedly, still rubbing his neck as his eyes unfocused and a slight flush crept along his cheekbones. He appeared to be lost in what was an obviously pleasant memory.

" Lucius must be so proud." Draco winced.

"Well, as long as I produce a wealthy pure-blood bride..."

"Or groom, I should think."

"No. Heirs. They're a must."

"Right, well, in that case you might consider giving Parkinson a wave," Millicent chuckled as Draco finally looked up at Pansy, who'd been pretending not to watch them for the past fifteen minutes.

Draco smiled at Pansy impatiently. "Honestly Millicent, you ought to consider my offer."

Millicent snorted. "Oh get off it Draco."

"We'd be a perfect match. There couldn't be a more convenient marriage."

"Until your father decides you need an heir..." Millicent pulled a face and shuddered.

"You say that as if you don't need an heir yourself."

"There are other ways for me, you know."

Draco nudged her suggestively "Come on Millicent, wouldn't you make an exception, just for me?"

"Draco, you're lovely, truly. But you know how I feel about hetero-sex. And besides, I know you only want me for my money."

Draco's playful air evaporated immediately. He leaned close, his eyes wide. "You know I consider it below me to take notice of most of the Hogwarts gossip, Millicent," Draco began, and didn't skip a beat when she rolled her eyes and retorted, "Only because it typically starts with you."

He continued. "But I have to know. Is it true?"

Millicent pushed a forkful of potatoes around her plate. "Is what true?"

Draco refused to be put off. "Rumor has it that Carling left you everything."

Millicent paused theatrically, chewing slowly and pretending to think very hard. "Ah, yes. That. Well, no, that isn't true." Draco looked supremely disappointed. "She left Radclyffe Hall to my father."

Draco's eyes widened further. "And the rest?"

Millicent only smiled in response, though mirthlessly.

"Hell Millicent, you're probably as wealthy as my father." Draco seemed genuinely impressed. A calculating expression crossed his face as he sat back and shook his head, then returned his attention to the other tables.

"How's your mother taking it?" he asked a few moments later.

"Not well."

They said little else through the rest of the meal, until, with faint amusement, Millicent saw Draco's eyes begin to narrow.

"See something of interest?" she asked, already knowing the one thing that could inspire such an abrupt mood swing in her usually unmovable companion.

Draco nodded at Millicent, muttered something about "disgusting" and "Mudblood-lovers", then gestured to Crabbe and Goyle and walked away.

*

Hermione Granger sat at the Gryffindor table with her chin cupped in her hands and her face tilted toward the high, vaulted ceiling. The impressive display overhead showed that the weather had not improved since the students' arrival to the school. The torrential rain that had slowed the Hogwarts Express was still falling steadily, obscuring Hermione's view of the very black sky behind it. Occasional bursts of lightning flashed across the charmed ceiling, consuming the warm yellow firelight of the hall in brief casts of blue.

To Hermione's left, Ron Weasley sat with his arm draped awkwardly around her waist. Across the table, Harry Potter was smiling at them both, something like gleeful pride dancing in his eyes.

Hermione looked at Ron and smiled uncertainly, amusedly noting the flush her smile elicited from him. At the end of their fifth year, Hermione and Ron had finally moved beyond their five-year platonic friendship to one of romance, as seemingly the whole school had long expected. Even she had expected it, really. It was supposed to be this way. At the moment, however, she had her doubts. Or maybe she'd had her doubts for longer than she was admitting.

A long summer spent with her parents in the South of Italy had provided a rather convenient escape from her discomfort and confusion, not to mention the perfect excuse to decline the Weasleys' invitation to spend the summer at the Burrow. Yet, it had struck Hermione as strange that she'd never actually begun to miss Ron, at least no more than she had in previous years, and stranger still that when she'd returned to England last week she'd been overwhelmed with dread at the prospect of their reunion. Just nerves, she'd assured herself, but in her current state of discomfort she was no longer convinced. Well, at least she wouldn't have Fred and George to deal with this year. Their last weeks at Hogwarts had been dedicated almost entirely to the endless torment of Ron and Hermione. She shivered at the memory.

"All right, Hermione?"

Hermione nodded at Ron, then shifted slightly, and was pleased when Ron dropped his arm from her waist. Her relief dissolved as he, instead, reached for her hand and laced his fingers through hers. She attempted another smile, which he returned whole-heartedly. Desperately, Hermione tried to think of something to say. She'd never been so uncomfortable that she couldn't talk before, but between Ron, who was smiling at her admiringly, and Harry, who was beaming at them both between mouthfuls of pudding, Hermione felt unnaturally self-conscious.

When Ginny appeared at Hermione's right, a new sense of relief swept over her. She took the opportunity to reclaim her hand and embraced Ginny in a very warm hug. Ginny looked surprised, but not displeased.

"What's this, then?"

Ron spoke for Hermione, gently tugging a strand of her hair as he spoke. "She just can't get enough of us Weasleys, Gin. She's been in withdrawal."

Ginny rolled her eyes, but Hermione laughed and forced herself to relax. Ron's touch was tender, his happiness to be with her again simple, but genuine. Hermione allowed Ron to take her hand once more, hoping that all she really needed was time to get used to things again.

With Ginny came the subject of Quidditch. After the conversations she'd overheard on the train ride to the school, Hermione was almost sure that she was the only Gryffindor not trying out for the team this year. It wasn't that she had no athletic ability - she'd played Muggle football well before she'd come to Hogwarts, in fact. It was the flying. Flying had never come easily to Hermione, and Madame Hooch was probably the only Hogwarts teacher, aside from Snape of course, who didn't think Hermione was a genius. All but two members of the Gryffindor Quidditch team had finished their schooling at the end of the last year, which meant Harry, the new team captain, was left with the daunting task of replacing two Beaters and three Chasers over the course of the next several weeks with only the Keeper to aid him in his decisions.

Ron had nearly gotten the Keeper position the year before, but had barely lost it to Ellis Bliss, a tiny Gryffindor from Ginny's year who moved like a hummingbird. If it weren't for Harry, she probably would have made a phenomenal Seeker, but was certainly a talented Keeper. Not to be discouraged, this year Ron would be trying for Beater, a position that seemed to better suit him. Hermione knew from his letters over the summer that he was fairly confident about making the team. She also knew, from her less frequent correspondence with Harry, that Ginny was already practically guaranteed a place on the team as well, and not because of her familial connections, but because she was an athlete of the variety who could easily play any position not just proficiently, but extremely well. There had even been some talk of re-establishing the "Weasley Beaters" on this year's team.

As Ginny pulled both Harry and Ron into a very heated debate over the dubious talents of Neville Longbottom, Hermione was free to let her attention wander.

Up and down the table, students laughed and chatted happily, most seeming thrilled to be back at school. Several of the first-years at the other end of the table had their necks craned toward Harry and his friends, looks of awe and curiosity on their young faces. Older students around the table were pressing closer to Harry, Ron, and Ginny, the topic of Quidditch once again sweeping through the conversations along the table. Eventually, the chatter gave way to a bit of enthusiastic yelling. When Ron's infectious laughter rang out sharply in the hall, Hermione noticed many of the non-Gryffindor students abandon their own conversations in favor of watching the animated spectacle at the Gryffindor table. Overlooking the Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws, most of whom looked amused, Hermione's gaze fell on the Slytherins. Across the hall Draco Malfoy was speaking with Crabbe and Goyle and throwing malicious looks in her direction. The two larger boys stood up, Crabbe shoving the remnants of some sort of pastry in his mouth as he did so. They were headed for the Gryffindor table.

Ron and Harry were still arguing energetically, oblivious to the approach of their long-time enemies. Hermione frowned, dreading the expected start of year Malfoy/Potter scuffle. Or perhaps it would be more appropriately termed the Weasley/Malfoy scuffle. Since the beginning of her relationship with Ron, Hermione had found herself and Ron more and more the target of Malfoy's withering abuse - he had always hated Ron, but the idea of any pure-blood "degrading" himself by dating a Muggle-born witch had led to even more brutal confrontations between the rival students, most of which were focused solely on Ron and herself. As a prefect, Hermione had some authority over the Slytherin boy, but his bitterness about a Muggle-born having power of any sort over a pure-blood seemed only to push his menace further.

She nudged Ron and nodded toward the Slytherin table. Harry followed Ron's gaze and stiffened visibly before turning back in his seat and rolling his eyes at Hermione. Ron pushed unconsciously at the sleeves of his robes, his face set in a look of determination. The Gryffindors surrounding them were too wrapped up in what had by that time become a passionate debate to notice Malfoy's approach, but almost every face at the Slytherin table seemed to be fixed on the Gryffindors, looks of malicious anticipation on most of them. Hermione knew that it was most certainly more than mere luck that Professor McGonagall, at that precise moment, declared the feast to be over and asked the prefects to please lead the first-years to their respective dormitories.

Instantly, the hall become a swarm of activity, and Hermione smiled brightly at Draco over the sea of bustling students as she stood up to join the other Gryffindor prefects at the head of the table. Ron shrugged at her and lifted his eyebrows as if to say "oh well" as she took her leave, then after shooting a long, smug grin towards Malfoy, fell back into what had by then evolved into a full-blown argument with seemingly every other Gryffindor from the second year and up. Harry looked slightly more vexed by the near-confrontation, but he too smiled at Hermione as she left.

Hermione happily answered the first-years' questions as she led the way to the Gryffindor common room, carefully sidestepping the "Do you really know Harry Potter?"s. Between questions of which teachers to watch out for, typical detentions, and how to find the kitchens, Hermione could tell this year would be a challenge. But that was to be expected. Hermione had taken her prefect duties very seriously last year, but the Gryffindor mentality made being a prefect very hard work, and with Hermione's own not infrequent rule-breaking, she often felt it unfair to be too hard on the younger students when they got in trouble. Which was often. Despite the endless number of jokes that implied otherwise, Hermione was both a fair and well-liked prefect.

Politely greeting the portrait of the Fat Lady and teaching the first-years the password ("Animus Animi"), she led the excited students through the portrait hole, warmly recalling the awe and excitement she herself had felt at this same moment years before. "Okay, boys dorms up the stairs that way, girls come this way."Hermione stood smiling at the foot of the stairs leading to the girls' tower as the young students shuffled up to their rooms. "You'll find that your things have already been brought to your rooms. Don't be late for breakfast, as you'll be getting your timetables then. Breakfast is at eight, and classes start promptly at nine o'clock."

Harry and Ron came through the portrait hole as the last of the first-years disappeared up the stairs.

"Care for a quick chess match, Hermione?" Ron grinned devilishly. Chess was perhaps the only skill aside from flying in which Ron's ability was unquestionably superior to her own.

Hermione shook her head, laughing. "Some other night Ron. I've got work to do."

"What do you mean you've got work to do? Term hasn't even started yet!"

"I just want to look over my summer work one last time. Remember that quiz Snape gave us on the first day last year?"

"Yeah, and I remember you being the only student in the class who got every question right."

"That only proves my point." Hermione smiled.

Ron grinned, then suddenly bent down and gave Hermione a quick, timid peck on her lips, open in surprise. A couple of students sitting around the common room whooped. She flushed as he quickly backed away, grinning and flushing himself, then turned towards the stairs to the boys' dorms. Laughing, Harry followed close behind.

*

To be continued...