Handful of Hollow

Chapter 3: Oscillate Wildly

**********


On Friday evening, Millicent had not stayed long at dinner; her housemates’ glares and whispers had rather ruined her appetite. Instead, after making a brief stop at the Hogwarts kitchens, where she was always met with enthusiasm, she had gone outside to walk the path around the lake. However, the air had been unusually hot and moist for a September evening, and she had soon tossed her half-eaten sandwich to the giant squid and returned to the castle. Bypassing the still empty common room, she’d gone directly to her dorm. Millicent had spent the remainder of the hour flipping through the Grimoire, but it had not been long before she’d heard the stir of the returning Slytherins downstairs. Shortly after, Blaise had entered the room. Millicent had barely looked up before returning her attention to the book, and Blaise had not said hello.

Now, having settled herself on her bed, Blaise removed her school robes and began to work at the buttons of her blouse, eyeing Millicent intently all the while. Blaise’s total lack of inhibition was the result of years of familiarity, but as always, Millicent looked away. It had always seemed unfair that Millicent should have to share a living space with a body like Blaise’s. Particularly since the owner of said body had never been affected with the slightest suggestion of modesty. After tucking the Grimoire safely back in her pocket of her robes, Millicent retrieved the velvet bag that held her tarot deck from under her pillow, barely aware of a half-dressed Blaise now standing some distance away.

Tugging at the loosely knotted drawstring of the bag, Millicent withdrew the deck. The cards made up a single edition of woodblock prints, designed and printed by Carling’s own grandmother, Astley Bulstrode. Astley had been one of the more artistic witches of the line, and a remarkably talented diviner. The deck was attractive, if perhaps a bit dated, and quite simple in its design. Like most wizarding decks, it was heavily based on traditional tarot designs, and the images on the Major Arcana and the Court cards were charmed to move. In a flawless loop, figures continually plummeted to their deaths on the Tower card. The Lovers were shamelessly affectionate, occasionally shooting the reader a cheeky glance in the midst of their passions. Death merely walked endlessly toward the reader, scythe in hand, but while the scenery changed, he never moved past the midground of the scene.

As neither Astley’s daughter nor Carling had ever been much inclined towards the arts of divining, the deck had passed over a century in various states of neglect. Millicent, however, could barely remember a time before the cards had been hers. Carling had spotted her for a sensitive by age eight, at the latest. She had been ten when Alden had found her asleep on the floor of his library surrounded by books on palmistry, and thirteen when she’d cut her first set of runes.

Despite Carling's own disinterest in divining, she was not one to dismiss another’s attraction to the subject. Patiently, she’d guided Millicent in divination as best she could, but by the end of Millicent’s fourth year at Hogwarts, Millicent was a considerably more proficient diviner than Carling had ever been. Of course, like most witches and wizards, Millicent had talent in several fields of magical study. While she enjoyed the self-introspection and vague insights into the possible future offered in divination, it was hardly her only interest.

Vaguely aware of Blaise’s movements through the room, Millicent laid out a short tarot spread, not looking up again until she heard the faint rustle of silk against skin. Now wearing a long dressing gown, Blaise stood at the other end of the room pulling a comb through her hair. She was still watching Millicent, but her face betrayed neither hostility nor warmth. Finally, Millicent lifted one questioning eyebrow, and after a moment Blaise opened her mouth as if to speak.

Before she could, however, the door banged open. Both girls started and turned as Draco Malfoy brusquely entered the room. Unlike Blaise, Draco had never been one for hiding his emotions. His lips were drawn to a thin line, his already hollow cheeks sucked in with fury. After shooting a meaningful look at Blaise, he turned his gaze to Millicent. Indignant, but without protest, Blaise pushed past him, her black silk dressing gown clutched closed by one hand at her throat.

"Hello, Draco." Millicent nodded at Draco calmly, and then began stacking the cards. She’d not needed a reading to know to expect Draco’s arrival. It had only been a matter of time. Really, she thought, it was amazing that it had taken him three days to find out.

Draco met her greeting with a dangerous smile, fury sparking behind his narrowed eyes. Millicent smiled back. "What do you want, Draco?"

"Everything," he replied automatically. A typical Slytherin response, and something of a joke between them.

Millicent completed the saying. "And so do I.” Replacing the tarot deck in the bag and gesturing towards Pansy's bed, she continued. “But we can't both have it."

Ignoring her invitation to sit, Draco remained standing near the open door, his slim arms folded across his chest, his shoulders hunched childishly. Already growing impatient, Millicent stood instead, crossing the long, dim room in a few measured steps. She closed the door hard, then turned and looked down at Draco. Face to face she stood a full five inches taller than he. Her size had always been an asset in conflict, she thought, as Draco’s venomous expression momentarily gave way to one of distinct unease. Millicent grinned.

Instantly Draco regained his composure, straightening to his full height and dropping his hands to his hips. Irritated, likely more with himself than with Millicent, he snapped, "I'd never considered you might be into the waifish, heroic type.”

Millicent lifted a dismissive eyebrow. “Is that what this is about? Honestly, Draco. Never crossed my mind."

"Then what the hell is this, Millicent? Just trying to get a rise out of me?"

Millicent laughed in spite of herself. Draco never had quite realized that the world truly did not revolve around him. His upbringing, of course, made that fact understandable, but hardly excusable. “You’re being ridiculous, Draco.”

"Me?” Clearly offended, Draco raised his voice. “I’m not the one-“

“No, Draco.” Millicent interrupted. “You’re not the one. This has nothing to do with you.”

Draco was outraged. He stepped closer and hissed. “ Don’t expect me to defend you this time, Millicent.” For an instant, Millicent thought she saw pleading behind those cold gray eyes, but she impulsively responded to the insult in his words.

“I’ve never expected your ‘protection’, Draco. I’ve never needed it.” Her tone was clipped, weighted with her irritation, but still lowered and steady.

“You’re a fool if you think you don’t,” Draco laughed, unbelieving.

Millicent smiled slightly. "What I think,” she answered, “is that people should mind their fucking business."

Open-mouthed, Draco stared, then abruptly turned and left the room. Anger bubbled up in Millicent, and on top of that, frustration. Since Tuesday she’d spent much time contemplating telling Draco about her new partnership herself. It had not been cowardice that had stopped her, but an indulgent attempt to hold onto and enjoy the calm before the storm.

Sighing, Millicent returned to her bed. She sat down hard, then stood up again and began to pace.

What Millicent had always considered to be her least Slytherin characteristic was her tendency to act without thinking. Or, at least, without thinking enough. At age twelve, as she’d been pulled from a scuffle with a sobbing Pansy Parkinson, a very impatient Professor Snape had cursed her impulsive nature, saying that such rash stupidity belonged in Gryffindor, but had no place in Slytherin.

On Tuesday afternoon, Millicent had been certain that in making that offer, she’d surprised herself much more than she’d surprised Hermione. She had seen potential and had grasped at it. It had been a moment too late that she’d remembered the risk she had been taking. In her mind, collaboration between herself and a Gryffindor was trivial. However, she held no illusions toward what would be her housemates’ opinions, and Draco’s most of all. In their minds, this matter would be seen as betrayal, construed as a willing alliance with a Muggle-born. Millicent’s attitudes toward Voldemort’s new rise had already unnerved many of her classmates. This would be confirmation of their suspicions, however accurate those might be. Still, Millicent did not regret making the offer - though she had to admit that its acceptance had come as a shock - because she had never been one to believe in coincidence. That both girls had chosen the same subject led to the supposition that perhaps there was some greater reason behind it.

Of course, Millicent claimed no certainty about the dynamics of fate, either.

**********

Millicent leaned back in her chair with a deep sigh. It was Thursday afternoon, and her Advanced Muggle Studies class was drawing to its end. She glanced to her left, where Hermione Granger sat, scribbling notes on a long crumpled parchment, her other splayed hand holding her place in the book laid out before her on the table they shared. Millicent frowned.

For a project meant to be a joint effort, very little had been said between the two girls, not just today, but over the course of the past ten days. They'd taken to sitting together during class and had informally met in the library several times, but they almost always worked solitarily, only occasionally stopping their work to compare their notes. Through these written exchanges it was clear to Millicent that, as she’d expected, the girls shared a thorough, methodical mentality. However, Hermione’s caution had not much waned since the beginning of their “collaboration”. She wasn’t cold, just too careful; too quiet. While distrust was hardly uncommon to Millicent, Hermione’s distance was keeping Millicent on edge. Millicent, for the first time, allowed herself to wonder if she’d made a mistake in asking for the Gryffindor’s partnership. Everyone else certainly seemed to find the situation illogical.

Their classmates had, naturally, been surprised at the partnership, particularly that it had been established by choice, but little had been openly said about the matter. Of course, it had not taken long for the news to spread through the Hogwarts student body.

Once Draco had found out, the subject had become common knowledge.

Draco and a number of the other Slytherins had been ignoring her since Friday, and she was finding herself the subject of many a skeptical stare from students of the other houses as well. That of itself was not much of a difference, really, but she was finding it difficult to readjust to Draco’s hostility after so many years of friendship, and even more so to respond without betraying her own aggressive tendencies. Her original certainty that he’d come around in time was fading daily. Carling had warned her years ago that the friendships of youth could not always survive the conflicting opinions of adulthood. She had been right, of course, and while Millicent was finding that she missed Draco very much, she knew well enough that the possibility of their reconciliation was doubtful at best.

That their divergence had come of what, to Millicent, was so small a matter, was regrettable, but as Millicent began to accept the fact that, in time, this turn of events would have manifested itself in one form or another, she comforted herself with the thought that it truly could have been worse.

The scratching of Hermione's quill slowed, and the girl looked up, meeting Millicent's gaze with open curiosity. Millicent quickly looked away, realizing with embarrassment that she'd been staring. Slowly the scratch of Hermione’s quill resumed. "I'll be in the library later, if you're interested," Millicent said as she began stacking her papers and books.

"I can’t tonight." Hermione’s tone was faintly apologetic, but distracted.

Remembering that tonight was the final day of Quidditch trials, Millicent nodded. Ron, Harry, Quidditch… logical. “I’d forgotten about the trials,” Millicent said.

Again Hermione stopped writing and looked up. She suddenly looked quite tired, Millicent thought, noting the dark circles below Hermione’s eyes. Already her summer tan was fading to a winter pallor, and the only color on her face aside from a smattering of faint freckles across the bridge of her nose was a spot on the left of her chin.

“It’s not just that,” Hermione said, sighing. “It’s my birthday. I’ve been encouraged to.. err… take the day off.”

Millicent smiled a little at this. Hermione didn’t seem comfortable with the idea, though she looked badly in need of some rest. Millicent herself wished she had such an excuse, or such an opportunity. But daily, it was growing more and more evident that her struggles, academic and otherwise, were just beginning. She’d wondered if Hermione was facing similar troubles in Gryffindor House. Somehow, it seemed unlikely. "Sixteen?"

"Seventeen, actually." Hermione smiled slightly in return.

Millicent nodded, dimly surprised. She should, by this age, have been used to always looking older than her classmates, when she so often was not. “Well, happy birthday, then.”

Hermione’s "thank you" was lost as Keeping dismissed the class.

**********

Hermione made her way slowly towards the Quidditch stands. The sun was low over the Forbidden Forest, but the day was still stiflingly hot, the heat riding heavily on the shoulders of the students out of doors. Beads of perspiration had wetted the curls around Hermione’s hairline, and though she had much earlier abandoned her school robes for some light Muggle clothing, she was still miserable. The Quidditch field seemed a far distance.

Hermione jumped slightly as a multi-colored blur zoomed past, circled behind her, then stopped quite suddenly before her. Ron dismounted his broom with easy grace and looked down at Hermione in disapproval before snatching the Transfiguration book she’d held in the crook of her arm.

“Haven’t they started yet?” Hermione reached ineffectively for her book as Ron hopped back and grinned.

His eyebrows raised, he ignored her question. “What,” he asked, “Is this? You promised you’d take the night off.”

Hermione yawned, still reaching for the book. “And I will - I just have one chapter to read.” Ron cocked his head, a doubtful, knowing smile tugging at one corner of his mouth. He took another playful step back as she lunged for the book. “Just one, Ron.” Ron waved the book in the air, well beyond Hermione’s reach. Hermione couldn’t help smiling. “Weasley, you do realize that as a prefect I could take points for this.”

Ron laughed and shook his head, then handed back the book and snaked one long arm around Hermione’s waist. “I love a woman with power,” her murmured. Hermione half laughed and half cringed as he pulled her into a tight embrace; the heat rising off his body was almost too much to bear. Planting a solid kiss on Hermione’s temple, he pulled away and remounted his broom. “Walk faster, or you’ll miss it. And you’d better not read the whole time.”

Hermione felt a flush rising to her cheeks as Ron took to the air. She stole a self-conscious glance behind her. About twenty feet back, Lavender and Parvati were grinning at her suggestively. Lavender winked. Hermione’s blush deepened, and she again began to walk towards the field, this time faster. Why Ron always felt the need to be so affectionate in public… Hermione frowned. He was worse in private. She’d been busy enough since school had started to avoid his attention for the most part, but only the night before he’d cornered her in the common room after she’d returned from the library.

Hermione had been faintly surprised to learn in her fifth year that Ron was, in fact, quite a talented kisser. He was perhaps not as skilled as Viktor Krum had been, but kissing Ron was pleasant. Better than pleasant, actually, she mused. Still, it seemed wrong somehow, like kissing a cousin, or worse, a sibling.

Hermione thought it ironic that she’d ever assumed that everything that had been missing in Viktor would somehow be found in Ron. Last night, Ron had breathed her name against her lips and Hermione had opened her eyes to discover that her shirt was half open, and Ron’s hands inside it. Nothing less than horrified at the realization of how far things had almost gone, she’d all but run to her room.

So much for Gryffindor chivalry, she thought, at once ashamed of the injustice of thinking it. It takes two, she reminded herself with a sigh.

Ron had been nervously apologetic at breakfast, and that had only lent her the certainty that she was the problem. For once, Hermione felt at a loss for a solution. She didn’t even feel that she was in possession of the necessary energy to attempt finding one. Her studies were exhausting, her prefect duties were exhausting, and Ron…

Hermione reached the stands at last, and took a seat next to Neville Longbottom. Noting the look of utter disappointment on his round face, she smiled at him sympathetically before following his longing gaze to the sky.

The dozen or so wizards and witches soaring through the air were all that remained of the Gryffindor team’s prospective players. Ron and Ginny were among them, both performing impressively. Hermione watched long enough to see Ron smack a Bludger in Harry’s direction before she opened her Transfiguration text.

A few pages later, Hermione rubbed her eyes and glanced up. Harry flew by slowly, looking more relaxed on his broom than she’d ever seen him. Tonight his only concerns were studying his potential teammates and avoiding Bludgers. She scanned the sky for the telltale red Weasley hair, found it, then looked back down. After another half hour of shifting her attention between the sky and the book, she felt certain that she’d been “reading” the same page for some time.

Stifling a yawn, Hermione closed her eyes. Just for a moment, she thought as she drifted to the warm place between sleep and consciousness.

When she heard her name being called, first by one voice, then by several, she looked up again, her mind barely registering horror before she heard a scream. That it was her own was immaterial.

**********

Hermione awoke to a strange rasping sound, rising and fading in a slow, consistent rhythm. A moment passed before she decided with some degree of vague satisfaction that the sound was her own ragged breathing. What might have caused her body to produce such an unhealthy wheeze was beyond her current capacity of concern.

Hermione forced her eyes open to find herself facing a familiar high ceiling at the end of an expanse of dim space. The sheer, white curtain pulled around her tugged at her memory, too. Thinking hard, Hermione pushed her chin to her chest and saw her arms lying limply across her blue and white striped chest. Not her pajamas. The hard bed beneath her was fitted in white sheets, and a stiff blue blanket was laid carefully over her legs.

Slowly, Hermione flexed her hands, amazed at the amount of effort this seemed to take, and intensely aware of the feel of cool air against her sweaty fingers. She blinked a few times, trying to settle the distant thoughts that ambled through her mind.

The Hogwarts infirmary? But it couldn't be June already.

Hermione pushed back the bedclothes and sat up. She was damp with sweat, and everything around her seemed fuzzy, unsteady. A gnawing sense of pain was descending upon her, both distracting her from and adding to her confusion. Shifting, she pushed the heels of her hands against her eyes and winced, suddenly aware of a dull ache on the right side of her face. She pulled her hands away, then tentatively returned one and patted at what seemed to be swollen flesh. She groaned.

With a few awkward movements, Hermione pushed her legs over the side of the bed, wincing as her bare feet met the cold stone floor. She paused a moment, taking a number of deep breaths, then stood. After another pause, she took a few fumbling steps. At once, she wished she hadn't. Gripping the bedpost, she vainly tried to steady herself. Her head pounded in protest to any movement, and she was alarmed to feel her legs weakening beneath her. She swallowed and closed her eyes, trying to suppress a sudden wave of nausea. It was too much.

She knew she couldn’t stand much longer, but wasn't certain she could maneuver herself back into a sitting position either.

She looked up as the curtain before her was pulled aside, the sudden movement forcing her to sway unsteadily. Immediately, Madam Pomfrey rushed to her side, gripping her elbows and leading her back to the bed. "You shouldn't be up so soon, Miss Granger."

"What happened?" Hermione managed to say, her tongue clumsy within her mouth. Hermione licked her lips, annoyed by the thick slur of her voice.

"Quidditch Injury." Madam Pomfrey helped Hermione sit down and gently pushed her back against the pillows she'd propped against the headboard.

"Quidditch? But I don't... oh." Hermione’s memory returned in a rush. She'd been in the stands when someone had called her name, and as she'd looked up... "Oh."

"Don't worry dear, nothing too serious." Hermione took little comfort in that claim as Madam Pomfrey began prodding and rubbing at Hermione's very tender shoulder. "Seems to be healing nicely."

"What?"

"Your collarbone. I've given you a potion for your head as well-"

“Collarbone?"

"Yes, broken collarbone. I could heal the black eye-" With this, Madam Pomfrey’s deft touch brushed the sore spot on Hermione’s cheek.

"Black eye? How...?"

Madam Pomfrey frowned as she moved her attention to the back of Hermione’s head. "As Mr. Longbottom tells it, the Bludger hit you in the shoulder, but you hit your head on the bench behind you."

"And the black eye?"

Madam Pomfrey gestured toward the Transfiguration text on the otherwise empty bedside table. "It hit you when you fell."

Bludgeoned by her own work ethic. How appropriate. Hermione grimaced as Madam Pomfrey located the remains of a large knot on the back of her head.

"As I was saying, I could heal the black eye too, but your body's already under a good deal of stress. It would be best to wait until tomorrow before administering any more potions. You'd do well to stay a couple of nights regardless." Hermione bolted upright, then weakly fell back against the pillows again. "Miss Granger, please don't strain yourself any further. Your body is showing signs of exhaustion completely unrelated to your injuries today. You need to relax. Professor McGonagall should never have allowed you to take so many classes." Madam Pomfrey's tone became disapproving and distracted as she conjured a pitcher of water and a glass.

The idea of spending so much time in the clinic had sobered Hermione considerably. She was pleased to find her tongue complying with her commands once more. "Madam Pomfrey, I absolutely cannot stay here. I have classes! I'm a prefect!" Madam Pomfrey placed the cup in Hermione's hand.

"There there, your teachers will understand."

"But it's my birthday!"

The mediwitch sighed. "Several of your friends have been waiting outside. At Professor McGonagall's suggestion, I've agreed to let them visit with you for a little while. When and if you're feeling up to it."

Hermione hesitated.

"I could send them away, if you like," Madam Pomfrey sounded hopeful.

Hermione took a small sip of the cool water, then looked up. "No, I think I would like to see them. For a moment."

Madam Pomfrey frowned, but after adjusting Hermione's bedclothes and helping her into a more comfortable sitting position, she disappeared through the curtain. She returned with Ron and Harry, both of whom were still dressed in their Quidditch gear and carrying a couple of brightly wrapped parcels.

“Five minutes, boys.” Madam Pomfrey left, pulling the curtains closed.

Hermione smiled weakly as the boys came forward, expressions of concern on both their faces, and something like guilt on Ron's. "How do you feel?" Ron gently kissed the left, un-bruised side of her face and then sat tentatively on the bed, taking her hand in his. Harry took the chair at the other side of Hermione's bed and gave her arm a gentle squeeze.

"I've felt better," Hermione answered, suddenly grateful for their presence. The three of them had shared a number of intimate moments in the infirmary over the years. As Ron slipped an arm around her shoulder, Hermione even allowed herself to lean into the warmth of his embrace, forgetting, for a moment, her thoughts from the afternoon.

"Did you make the team?" Hermione asked Ron, surprised to see - and feel - him tensing uncomfortably at the question.

"They both did - Ron and Ginny," Harry answered proudly. "Though the trials were cut a bit short..."

"Oh, I'm sorry," Hermione said, as she realized the implications of the statement. Of course Harry and Ron would have left the practice when she’d been injured.

"You're sorry? Oh Hermione, I'm sorry!" Ron looked quite pink.

"Why?"

"For…this." Ron only barely touched the bruising around Hermione's eye, then pulled his hand away as she flinched.

"You...?" Hermione hadn't considered that one of the Weasleys must have been responsible. "Well, of course it was an accident." Hermione forced another faint smile. Ron looked somewhat relieved.

Madam Pomfrey stuck her head through the curtain again. "Ms. Granger should get some rest.”

"But the presents -" Ron began to protest.

"You can come back tomorrow." Madam Pomfrey's tone said that any argument would be in vain. Sighing, Ron pressed his lips to Hermione's hand, whispered another apology in her ear, then deposited the small pile of gifts on Hermione’s bedside table. Harry bent to kiss her cheek as well, in a very uncommon, but not unwelcome gesture. "We'll be back first thing tomorrow," Ron promised. Hermione nodded drowsily as the boys departed.

**********

"Caraway." Millicent adjusted her bag as the door to the Slytherin common room swung open with a sharp whine. Briefly, every face in the room turned toward her, then just as quickly turned away again. Draco held her gaze as he murmured something to the small crowd surrounding him by the fire. The crowd snickered in response, and Draco smirked.

Rolling her eyes, Millicent climbed the stairs to the girls' dorms. Another wave of laughter was cut short as she slammed the chamber door. Blaise jumped slightly at the sound, looked up, and smiled. She was sprawled out on her bed, apparently working on some sort of Transfiguration spell. As she exhaled a wisp of smoke from the cigarette cradled between her fingers, the smoke turned into a sweet-smelling violet mist. The cigarette butts scattered across the floor indicated that she'd been working on this for some time. Millicent was certain that McGonagall would not have been amused. Nor would Snape, for that matter. "Honestly, Blaise." Millicent crossed the room and unlatched a window. "That'll kill you one day." She winced as a wave of heat flooded into the room.

Attractive hollows appeared below Blaise’s cheekbones as she inhaled. “We're all going to die. Might as well go out with a bit of style." Millicent laughed as she moved to another window. She had once heard Mileva say the same. The dramatic value of the habit far outweighed its consequences. "Owl came for you."

Millicent turned to see Blodwin, her father's massive Snowy owl, asleep atop the perch in the corner of the room. Millicent glanced at her bed, where a large parcel lay. Dropping her bag, she sat down and unwrapped the package.

Just the books you requested, and a few others that I thought might help with your research.
Love,
Alden

A number of paperback Muggle texts were enclosed, all of which had most likely been specially purchased in Cambridge. The gesture was unexpected, but not unwelcome. Alden had always eagerly encouraged Millicent’s scholarly pursuits. Beneath these were three familiar hardback books from Alden’s own collection. Millicent had searched for them in the Hogwarts library without success and had sent a letter to her father requesting them only a few days before.

"Draco came by earlier. Said he was sorry to hear about your girlfriend."

Millicent frowned thoughtfully as she looked up from the one of the garishly covered Muggle books. No matter what Draco had wanted to tell her, it was surprising that he’d wanted to talk to her at all. The look on Blaise’s face, however, said clearly enough that he’d not come to make peace. Blaise had maintained her characteristic distance and indifference over the past week, but Millicent knew better than to underestimate the girl. Her passive watchfulness masked a pensive mind, and Blaise always seemed to know far more than she ever let on "What's that supposed to mean?"

"How should I know?" Blaise asked as she pushed a perfect smoke ring through her smiling lips.

**********

Harry held another Chocolate Frog out to Hermione, then passed it to Ron when she declined. A massive pile of sweet wrappers had been building up on the foot of Hermione’s bed over the last half hour.

As promised, Ron and Harry had returned first thing in the morning. Hermione, however, had spent much of the restless night on the thin line between consciousness and sleep, and had only really fallen asleep after the sun had risen. Madam Pomfrey had sent the boys away, determined that Hermione should rest. When they had loyally returned at noon, it was to find Hermione quite awake and considerably improved since the night before.

Madam Pomfrey had seemed pleased by Hermione’s condition, and she too had been happily surprised to find that despite her long restless night, she was feeling much better. Still, much to Hermione’s annoyance, Madame Pomfrey stood firm on the necessity of another night’s stay in the infirmary. She already felt well enough to return to her own dorm, as the dizziness and nausea that had plagued her the night before were completely gone. Aside from some lingering soreness around her shoulders and head, and the remaining bruising around her eye there was no sign of yesterday’s injuries. When the boys had arrived with armfuls of sweets and sandwiches smuggled out of the kitchens, as well as a small prettily decorated cake from Dobby, she had been quite glad for their company.

After they’d eaten, Hermione had opened her gifts. From Dean she’d received a beautiful hand-drawn “Get Well/Happy Birthday" card, signed by dozens of Gryffindor students. Harry had given her the newest edition of Hogwarts: a History and an anthology of contemporary Muggle short stories. Ron had shyly handed her a small box, which opened to reveal a very pretty amber pendant on a thin silver chain. Hermione had allowed him to fasten the necklace, wondering at what it must have cost him. As her health had returned, so had her doubts, and Hermione felt strange at receiving what had likely been a costly gift from Ron when her feelings were so uncertain.

Her parents’ gifts had largely consisted of clothing and books as well as some money. A short letter had been included, but Hermione had barely glanced at it before tucking it into the pocket of her pajama top.

Over the course of their summer holiday in Italy, Hermione had been distressed to realize that she had grown quite distant from her parents. She supposed that to some extent most children who went away to school felt this way, but for Hermione, it was a bit different.

Upon receiving her Hogwarts letter, her parents had only briefly hesitated before agreeing that the opportunity should not be missed. The occasional odd happenings that had punctuated Hermione’s childhood had been proof enough of the validity of the letter, and as the two Dr. Grangers had always been open-minded, it was decided that Hermione should, indeed, learn the arts of witchcraft and wizardry, no matter how foreign the concept.

However, as supportive and encouraging as they had been and still were, Hermione’s magic had created an impassible barrier between herself and her parents, and one that had only widened over the years.

As an only child, Hermione had been the sole target of their attentions. They were, and always had been, overprotective. Hermione had thought it wise, even at age eleven, to somewhat limit their knowledge of the various goings-on at Hogwarts. She’d always hated lying to her parents, but they knew little of Voldemort or his powers, and would not understand how their daughter had become so closely involved with his assaults. As she’d grown more caught up in Harry’s struggles against the dark wizard, Hermione had found herself lying to them more and more. In the summer, lovely and relaxing as it had been, she’d realized that her parents barely knew her at all, and that likewise, she barely knew them. The fleeting sadness she’d sometimes seen in her parents’ eyes had confirmed that they felt that distance too.

The letter resting in Hermione’s pocket was only a reminder of this gradual loss of their connection. She knew it would be silly to send word of her recent injury, thinking back to their panicked confusion in second year when she’d been petrified. No, this too would remain a secret.

Hermione did not long dwell on the matter, however, instead directing her attention to the simple and belated celebration of her birthday. Now the three Gryffindors were cramped on the small bed eating what was left of the cake and other various confections. At Hermione’s request, Harry was giving a detailed recount of what she’d missed in Double Charms.

“Honestly Hermione, I don’t know what you’re so worried about. You’re a month ahead of the rest of the class,” Ron said stickily through a mouthful of chocolate.

“That’s not the point, Ron.” It was rare that Hermione missed any classes, and she’d, for a moment, been tempted to remind Ron that it was his fault she had this time.

“Really, half the class we just practiced tracking charms,” Harry said hurriedly, as he looked nervously between his two best friends.

Frowning, Hermione turned back to Harry. “Did he lecture?”

“Just a bit, on the theory.”

“Did you take notes?”

“Well, er, no,” Harry admitted with a lopsided grin. “Did you Ron?”

Ron appeared to be studying a Chocolate Frog card very intently. Hermione rolled her eyes. She’d have to talk to Dean. He, at least, was a reliably attentive student.

“Hey, look at this,” Ron said suddenly. Ron handed the Chocolate Frog card to Hermione.

Reluctant to allow herself to be distracted, Hermione hesitated before taking the card. “Carling, 1885-1996,” she read aloud. “A witch of the illustrious Bulstrode line-“ Hermione looked up in surprise. “Bulstrode?”

Ron nodded. “Yeah, I had no idea.”

Hermione nodded. “Credited with the development of hundreds of spells, charms, and potions, Carling is widely thought to be the most influential witch of the last two centuries.”

Harry leaned forward and peered at the card. “Well, now we know where Millicent got her looks.” Hermione looked at the face of the stern witch pictured on the card. She couldn’t deny feeling a bit unnerved by her piercing blue eyes and the heavy set of her jaw. “I’ve never heard of her,” Harry said.

“Everything is news to you, Harry.” Ron grinned.

“She is sort of a legend, Harry,” Hermione said, trying not to betray her impatience.

“But she was practically another Mad-Eye Moody. Not just in the face. She was really into her privacy,” Ron added.

“I hadn’t even heard that she’d died,” Hermione agreed. She’d been subscribing to the Daily Prophet for years now. It was odd that such an important death would have slipped her notice – or theirs.

“My dad mentioned something about it over the summer. It was pretty recent.”

“Was she a dark witch?” Harry asked. The look on his face said he obviously believed so.

“She did a lot of work for the Ministry,” Ron said, shrugging.

“I wonder if she and Millicent were close.” Hermione had certainly never heard that the two were in any way connected. In fact, Hermione had only ever known Carling as Carling. What few books and newspaper articles she'd ever come across mentioning the witch had never identified her by last name.

“Probably. She seems like a chip off the block,” Ron grinned.

“She’s not that bad, Ron.” Hermione was faintly surprised at the conviction in her voice.

“If you say so.” A fierce tension fell between the students at once. Ron and Harry glanced at each other warily, and Hermione frowned. The boys and most of the other Gryffindors had been tip-toeing around the subject of her willing partnership with Millicent all week. They had been appalled to learn that Hermione had not been forced into the project, but everyone knew better than to question Hermione’s judgment (and inevitably awaken her temper). Because Hermione stood firm on the matter, her housemates had no choice but to accept it.

While Hermione had grown fairly confident that she’d made the right decision, she did have some lasting doubts. Although Millicent had posed no real threat to Hermione since their second year - truly, she was one of few Slytherins who’d never felt the need to remind Hermione of her supposed genetic inferiority - her presence was, at times, quite unnerving. While Millicent was not even remotely hostile towards her, neither was she friendly. Aside from yesterday in class when Millicent had offered seemingly sincere birthday wishes, they’d barely spoken at all. Both girls clearly had their guards up, and Hermione was sure that their collaboration would never quite surpass the level of a pure business relationship.

Despite this, Hermione was developing a genuine respect for her partner. Millicent lived up to her academic reputation, and she was as aggressive a scholar as she had ever been a bully. Though Hermione felt a distant admiration for the girl, she very much wished that they were not so affected by their houses’ rivalry. Hoping for anything like a friendship would certainly be pointless. Still, Hermione had found herself jumping to Millicent’s defense continually over the past week.

Hermione was still glaring at Ron when the curtain around her bed was pushed aside once more. Tentatively, Ginny Weasley entered the small space around Hermione’s bed, and a moment later she was followed by Ellis Bliss. Hermione noticed Harry’s eyes light up at their arrival, and faintly she wondered which of the girls had inspired this. Distracted by this thought and the cheerful greetings of half the Gryffindor team, Hermione quite forgot her annoyance. “Help yourself to some cake,” she offered.

Ellis shook her head as Ginny took Ron’s own half-eaten slice from his plate. Hermione didn’t know Ellis well, as she was both a year younger and as obsessed with Quidditch as Oliver Wood had ever been, so when Ellis said “We actually just came by to bring you something,” Hermione was surprised and curious. Hermione leaned forward as Ellis withdrew a couple of paperback books from her bag and passed them to her.

“I ran into Millicent earlier. She asked me to get these to you this weekend,” Ellis explained. The books in question were quite obviously from some Muggle shop, and both had titles relating to witchcraft. With interest, Hermione opened the first book. On each page there were countless brackets, arrows, and underlinings, as well as the occasional note asking, “What do you think?” in Millicent’s slanted writing. Her fellow Gryffindors talked amongst themselves, not surprisingly, about Quidditch, as Hermione flipped through the books.

By the time the four students had left for their afternoon classes, Hermione was thinking of nothing but her project.

TBC