Handful of Hollow

“I wish you’d mentioned this earlier, Millicent.” Alden Bulstrode pushed thoughtfully at what remained of his lunch, then set aside his fork and frowned. “I don’t like it. Not at all.”

Millicent shrugged, but made no other response; none was expected. Instead, she added a generous spoonful of sugar to her tea and began to work through the complicated stirring pattern used in the preparation of Wolfsbane potion. This she had picked up from the Grimoire only the evening before, but already she could complete the passage in its entirety with a precision that would have pleased even Professor Snape. Or would have a month ago, anyway.

Now it was doubtful that a successful preparation of the potion itself would be sufficient to move Snape, who, in fact, was the dominant topic of the day’s conversation. Though now that Millicent thought about it, it wasn’t technically a conversation if only one person was involved.

“Not at all,” Alden repeated. Millicent sighed.

For the past hour, her father had been carrying on so, expressing disdain and concern and the occasional reprimand between bites of his lunch. Silently, Millicent had finished her own meal halfway through his intermittent discourse, and had passed the rest of it sulking over her tea. It was rare enough that she saw her father, and to have this visit spoiled by Snape, of all people, made her regret his mention at all, never mind too late.

Still frowning, Alden picked up his fork again and held it over his plate between ink-stained fingers, poised as though it were a quill, and the plate before him a parchment bearing some difficult equation.

“I can’t imagine what he might be thinking…” Alden trailed off as an attractive young witch in deep violet robes appeared at his left and replaced his empty glass with another, full to the brim, as the last three had been, with a rich wine smelling of spices. “Thank you, my dear.” Alden smiled at the witch, revealing a row of even white teeth. Always effective, Millicent thought dryly; the witch flushed prettily and batted her eyelashes.

“My pleasure.” She answered as though she meant it. This wasn’t unusual. When she was young, Millicent had supposed that Alden’s charm was inherited from his father - it certainly hadn’t come from Carling, who had been pleasant enough in her own way, but markedly reserved in contrast to her charismatic son. A few summers ago, however, Carling had finally set her straight, saying in a tone that had invited no further inquiry that “that man” had been able to rely enough on his good looks that his personality had been left to rot. Since then, Millicent had secretly suspected that “that man” was a Malfoy – likely enough among the Wizarding upper class - but Carling never had said, and Alden had never seemed very interested in the matter.

Her eyes still on Alden, the witch made as though to take Millicent’s tea. Millicent covered the cup with her hand. “I’m fine.” The witch nodded, but barely glanced at her before returning her smile to Alden, then making her way back to the bar. Her hips rolled pleasantly as she went, and for one spell-bound moment, both father and daughter watched her go.

“What he might be thinking…” Alden said again a moment later, the distraction already forgotten.

But the violet-clad witch was still eyeing Alden hopefully from behind the bar as she dried a glass with a cloth bearing The Three Broomsticks’s unimaginative logo. The motion was more than a little provocative. Millicent smiled in spite of herself.

Alden frowned. “It’s no laughing matter, Millicent.”

Reluctantly returning her attention to the conversation, Millicent nodded. “No, of course not. But,” Millicent added, her hand drifting again toward the sugar. “I still think you’re over-reacting.”

“And I think you’re under-reacting, Millicent.” Alden returned, a small, knowing smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Which is rather unusual.”

Millicent attempted an innocent shrug. “He’s never liked me, Alden.”

“But he’s never singled you out like this before.” Alden paused pointedly. “Has he?”

Millicent hmmed in assent. “No, he hasn’t.” And he hadn’t. Professor Snape was renowned and reviled for favoring the students within Slytherin house, and until now, had never given Millicent a detention she didn’t completely deserve. “But I’ve never provided him a reason to before.” And this was true, too. Millicent had received detention in nearly every Potions class since the night of the eclipse. There was little room for doubt of Snape’s motive.

“Don’t be ridiculous. I’d hardly call a promising working relationship a ‘reason’. To be treated so by your whole house – even your house head – it’s appalling. House loyalty shouldn’t interfere with your schoolwork,” Alden said for what must have been the fifth time.

“But there’s more to it than that.” Millicent took a moody sip of her tea, grimaced, and reached for the milk.

“Yes. Yes, I know, of course there is. But nothing that excuses this.”

Alden looked thoughtful for a moment, dabbing at his mouth with a carefully folded napkin. “You’ve always been able to look after yourself, Millicent. But you’re right. More than house rivalry is at stake here. You ought to consider speaking to Dumbledore.”

Millicent looked up, surprised. “If I thought it might be worth my while, I would.”

“Surely he deserves more credit than that.”

Millicent snorted. “Even with Professor Snape in his employ?”

“Well, I don’t think Snape would ever harm you directly.”

“Obviously you’ve never tasted his tea,” Millicent grumbled under her breath.

“What’s that? You’ve taken food from a Death Eater?”

“Dad, people will hear you.”

“Well?”

“Not much of.” The truth was, potions master or no, Severus Snape’s tea tasted somewhat like heated dishwater. “It was just that first day, when he called me into his office.”

“Millicent, you must use some caution!” Alden chided, his voice rising again.

“But you just said-”

“Yes, yes, but there’s no reason to tempt fate. What if he’d put Veritaserum in your tea? What if he’d- ”

“I’m only sixteen. What could I have to confess?”

“Don’t be so naïve, Millicent. He was sixteen once, and no doubt he already had plenty of secrets at that age. Why should Severus Snape -” People really were staring now.

“Alden. I think you’ve had too much to drink,” Millicent snapped, and maybe she was right; her father wasn’t the sort to usually tolerate such blatant insolence. But Alden lowered his voice and gave Millicent’s hand a reassuring pat.

“I’m sorry,” he said, softly now. “But I don’t trust him, Millicent, and you shouldn’t either. The details of his clearing with the Ministry were hushed up so entirely… It never did make sense to me. Dumbledore surely had his reasons - he always does. But it’s been almost twenty years. People change. This fair-weather loyalty is not loyalty at all.”

*

Hermione maneuvered herself through the door of the newly built (but strangely weathered-looking) Hogsmeade Book Shop with a measure of success that surprised even her. The books she’d purchased were neither so very large, nor particularly heavy, but there were quite a lot of them. As she’d not thought to shrink or levitate them while she’d still had easy access to her wand, getting back to the school, she was belatedly realizing, would be no small trick. But tackling the door had been a start. Her chin pressed firmly to the book on top, Hermione pressed past a group of witches and wizards crowded below the shop’s awning and out onto the cobbled road and into the rain.

Rain, she hadn’t noticed the rain. Clumsily, Hermione spun back around and made to step again onto the curb, but in the turn, lost her footing and stumbled. The books flew forward in an impressive arc, and she, with far less grace, followed. To Hermione’s great surprise, both she and the books were caught in mid-air, the books by a well-aimed hovering charm, and she by a too-firm grip on her upper arm.

“Watch your step, Granger,” a familiar voice said as Hermione was pulled out of the rain and back under the awning.

Millicent, an amused smile pulling her lips wide, let go of Hermione’s arm as quickly as she’d taken it. Hermione gave a weak smile in return, then turned her attention to the arm in question, now stinging furiously beneath her school robes. She wondered vaguely if the prevented fall might not have been less painful than Millicent’s grip. “Thanks,” she said anyway.

Millicent shrugged, unconcerned or unaware of Hermione’s pain. Her attention was now focused on the well-dressed gray-haired wizard who stood at her side. Waving his wand smoothly, he collected and stacked the books that his charm, Hermione surmised, had left hovering haphazardly among the throng of witches and wizards seeking refuge from the pouring rain. The books tidily stacked, the wizard summoned them forward and smiled. “So, this is Hermione Granger.”

Hermione stole a curious glance at Millicent, her arm quite forgotten.

Millicent nodded. “Granger, this is my father, Alden Bulstrode.”

Hermione could now see that the two shared a remarkable likeness - but at the same time, none at all. Mr. Bulstrode was large in frame, like Millicent, but lacked Millicent’s impressive height. His skin and hair were pale and unremarkable compared to Millicent’s dramatic coloring, but the broad, long features of his angular face were very like his daughter’s, though they suited him just as well as they didn’t Millicent. He was, Hermione thought, quite good-looking. At least considering his age.

“It’s a pleasure.” Mr. Bulstrode stepped forward, produced a charming smile, and took Hermione’s right hand between both of his, giving it a firm shake. “I’ve heard so much about you.” Hermione looked at Millicent again, her interest piqued. Millicent’s eyes were wide, her smile quite gone. “All of it good, of course,” he added, though whether to reassure her or Millicent, Hermione could not tell. If it had been the latter, he’d failed; Millicent looked mortified.

“Thank you,” Hermione said, grinning. “I’m familiar with your work. It’s a privilege.”

“Ah, and I yours. Your editorial in The Prophet last spring… what was it?” Alden frowned and looked at Millicent, who was now looking more blank than vexed. She shook her head at her father as he turned back to face Hermione. “Elvish Welfare, wasn’t it? An excellent essay.”

Hermione gaped. “You read that?” Crammed, as it had been, between the obituaries and a mail-order advertisement for Haldengarth’s Hair Re-growth Potion, Hermione was certain that few had even noticed the severely edited article. But flattery won out over her disbelief, and Hermione was suddenly very certain she liked this man.

“Indeed, yes. It kept popping up, shall we say, around my study. You have some fans among my staff.” Hermione’s face fell. “And how is your project coming along?” Mr. Bulstrode asked, oblivious, as he nudged the stack of books toward her with a casual flick of his wand.

“Um, very well, actually.” Hermione eased the books from the air back into her arms and replaced her chin on the top of the stack. “We’re working through the first draft already.”

“Excellent, excellent. I must tell you, Miss Granger, how pleased I am that Millicent’s finally made a friend who can match her for intelligence.” He winked at Millicent, who was now looking murderous. Hermione couldn’t quite suppress a grin.

“Well, ladies, the rain seems to be letting up,” Mr. Bulstrode said. Indeed, the gathering of witches and wizards who’d been crowded under the awning were drifting out into the now gently falling rain. “I should be off.” He placed a hand on Millicent’s shoulder, gave it a few pats, and smiled. Millicent’s returning smile was a bit hard, Hermione thought. She could practically feel the embarrassment burning the girl’s face an unnatural pink. “I’ll send your mother your regards.”

Millicent’s smile tightened at this, then softened a little as she let herself be pulled into a half-embrace. “Thanks for lunch.”

“Was my pleasure. Keep in touch, dear, especially about Snape. Miss Granger.” Mr. Bulstrode nodded, then stepped into the street, and with a loud pop, Disapparated.

*

“I’m. Well. Sorry about that,” Millicent said finally, staring vaguely at the spot where her father had stood a moment before. Definitely too much to drink, she thought.

Eventually, Hermione’s silence forced her to look up. The Gryffindor was grinning crookedly, eyebrows lifted, her head cocked in mock curiosity. “About what?”

This Millicent decided to ignore. “So, are you here alone?” she asked quickly, looking past Hermione, half-expecting the belated appearance of Harry Potter and Ron Weasley.

“Yes.”

“Heading back?”

“I am.”

“Want a hand with those?” Hermione looked puzzled for a moment, then a simpler smile appeared on her face and she shifted her hold on the books so that Millicent could take half the stack into her own.

The rain had let up fully by now, but the sky was still a threatening grey, darkening swiftly around a setting sun they could not see. For several minutes the girls walked in silence, Millicent pacing herself to accommodate Hermione’s shorter stride. Despite her father’s lectures and loose tongue, the day had been pleasant, and this companionable silence was pleasant, too.

“Your dad seems like a very nice man,” Hermione said at length.

Millicent winced. “He means well.”

When Hermione shot her a sideways smile, Millicent was surprised to find she could return it easily enough.

“I mean it, you know. I’m a bit jealous. My parents have never visited me during the school year.” Millicent wanted to protest that her parents never visited either, but it seemed unfair to complain about her mother’s pointed absence from her father’s occasional visits. And she definitely had no desire to explain that, not to Hermione or anyone.

“You can hardly blame them. Muggle transportation is so inconvenient,” Millicent answered finally, but noting Hermione’s sudden frown added, “I didn't mean...”

“I suppose so.” Hermione sounded more wistful than offended, and Millicent started to ask why, but thinking of her own reluctance to talk about her mother, decided against it.

“I’m sure they would if they could,” she offered, but Hermione merely nodded distractedly. A few moments of silence followed, and Millicent felt vaguely helpless when she glanced at the small girl, hunching sadly against the stack of books in her arms.

But at length, Hermione seemed to recover herself. “I don’t mean to pry, but what did your father mean when he said ‘keep in touch about Snape’? He’s not making you do anything weird at your detentions, is he?”

“Weird?” Millicent wondered for a moment what Hermione meant, then decided she’d rather not know. “Just the usual. Crushing billywig wings, cleaning cauldrons, you know,” Millicent said, wondering if Hermione did know; it was hard to imagine Hermione in detention.

“It’s still awful.”

“Could be worse.” Millicent didn’t really mind the work as long as it didn’t interfere with her studies. And these days, any excuse to get away from her housemates suited her just fine.

“I guess so. But it shouldn’t be happening at all.”

Millicent smiled, faintly touched by the conviction in Hermione’s voice, but discomfited by it, too. “So,” she said, eager to change the subject. “You write for The Prophet?”

Hermione grinned suddenly. “That’s a funny story…”

*

Hermione made a few desperate swipes at her hair with a comb missing half its teeth before giving up and crossing the room. Parvati looked up from the Divinations text in her lap at her approach and smiled curiously. “Something wrong?”

“No, but if you have a minute…” Hermione gestured hopelessly at her hair, tangled well beyond her powers to control. Parvati grinned. Both she and Lavender offered their services on a regular basis, but it was rare indeed than Hermione came to them for help. She felt a pronounced sense of defeat at Parvati’s contemplative smile. However, after mistakenly falling asleep in greenhouse three - which, it turned out, was the current home of a rather vindictive pixie - that afternoon after helping some third-years with a complicated Herbology assignment, there seemed to be no other alternative.

Parvati ushered Hermione to an ornate stool set before the broad mirror on the west wall and tapped her wand against her palm thoughtfully. She knew more beautification charms than Hermione thought entirely proper, considering Parvati’s low marks in Charms, but Hermione sighed appreciatively as Parvati set to work on the mass of tangles.

As if on cue, Lavender pushed open the door. “Makeover?” she squealed, practically skipping across the room.

“No, not a makeover! I just needed a little…" Hermione trailed off awkwardly. "Help.”

Lavender produced her own wand, took a long look at Hermione’s hair, and exchanged a conspiratorial look with Parvati. “Is this Ron’s doing?” she asked, grinning.

Hermione sighed. “Hardly.” Truth was, she’d been putting as much distance between herself and Ron over the past few weeks as she could manage. It was tiring, really, avoiding him so actively.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Parvati sounded hopeful, but Hermione merely shrugged.

“I’ve been busy.”

“I’d heard that, actually,” Lavender chimed in. “Ron was looking for you earlier, said something about -” Hermione met Lavender’s knowing gaze in the mirror, squirming. Lavender frowned. “Are you all right?”

“Can’t we talk about something else?”

The girls sighed in disappointment, but turned their focus back to their work and the day’s gossip, which Hermione tuned out with the ease of five years of practice. Within minutes Hermione’s hair fell in glossy ringlets down her back. Impressed, she moved to stand, but a hand on each shoulder pushed her back onto the stool. “Ah ah ah. Not yet.” With wary obedience, Hermione settled back onto her seat. She closed her eyes, for a moment giving into the feel of gentle fingers against her scalp. Maybe she should submit to their ministrations more often, she thought drowsily.

When the gossip ran dry, Lavender changed the subject. “And how are things going with Bulstrode?” she asked.

Hermione brightened a bit at this. “Very well, actually.” When she and Millicent had presented their work to the Muggle Studies class in mid-October, Keeping had been pleased. So had Hermione. But while Hermione responded to praise like a flower to light, Millicent, she had noted, had looked somewhat pained by the attention. Still, their work was progressing well, and Millicent had admitted as much, later, in private.

“Well, that’s to be expected. You’re a good match.”

Hermione jerked her head up suddenly. “What?”

“Virgo and Capricorn. Both Earth signs. Good working match,” Parvati concurred.

Hermione scoffed a bit, then thought about this and looked up again. “How do you know she’s a Capricorn?”

“We-ell,” Lavender said guiltily, “We took a peek at her star chart in Divinations.”

Hermione laughed a little, then closed her eyes again as Lavender came around to stand in front of her. “You could have asked her.”

Parvati giggled. “We weren’t quite that curious. There now.” Hermione looked up at her reflection and smiled. Two simple clips held her hair away from her face. The circles under her eyes had disappeared, and the slightest touch of color across her eyelids and lips completed the effect. Lavender and Parvati leaned in on either side of her, beaming with satisfaction. “The prettiest girls in Gryffindor, aren’t we?” Parvati asked. Hermione had to agree.

*

The flickering torches lining the narrow hallway gave off only a dim, patchy glow, but Millicent recognized her surroundings at once. A high vaulted ceiling was overhead, even polished stone underfoot, and at the end of the hall, one large ebony door was thrown wide, spilling a warm golden light across the floor like an invitation.

Millicent had not been to Carling’s North Scotland castle since the summer. Then, there had been no light in the hall at all, and the door at its end had been firmly shut and spell-locked. Curious, confused, Millicent walked toward the door, her steps echoing heavily around her.

The chamber at the hall’s end was not as she’d last seen it. Carling had been a busy witch, and her workroom had always been cluttered and unkempt. Now the shelves lining the walls were tidy, filled with clearly-labeled glass vials on one side and massive books carefully arranged on the other. Two well-polished worktables shone brightly in the room’s center, reflecting the fire under the simmering cauldrons set nearby. A neat pile of scrolls lay on one, a smooth obsidian sphere the size of her fist on the other, and a few feet left of it hung an unfamiliar caged owl. At her entrance, the owl gave a piercing cry, pushed open the cage door, and flew to the opposite end of the room, where a fire burned brightly in the hearth. The chairs set before the fire were not the worn grayish armchairs Millicent remembered from her youth, but high-backed, sturdy, and deep green. As the owl alighted on the back of one, a figure rose from it and stepped forward.

For a moment, the surprise was so great that Millicent could not move. Instead she gaped stupidly. She was looking at herself, an older version of herself, taller and broader and sharper. Millicent took a step back, but her other self beckoned her closer. As though against her will, Millicent took a step, then another, until she was face to face with her own critical eyes, her own wolfish smile. Millicent flinched when her other self placed both her hands on her shoulders and nodded.

“Took you long enough.” She said, and she pushed.

And then Millicent fell, through the stone floor into an endless velvety black, too startled to cry out, but flailing madly, her fingers clutching hopelessly at open air.

*

When Millicent woke up, she thought she was still dreaming. Blaise, wearing something black and clingy, was leaning over her between the bed’s hangings, her black hair curtained around her and casting shadows across the planes of her face, an inquisitive smile curling her dark mouth. Lovely. Millicent closed her eyes and passed her tongue over her lips. She’d had this dream before.

Blaise laughed at this, and at once Millicent opened her eyes again, then bolted upright. Blaise was standing straight now, and Millicent saw that Pansy was there too, holding the curtain aside and peering over Blaise’s shoulder at Millicent with disdainful curiosity on her pale, pinched face. “What are you doing?” Millicent snapped. Now completely awake she grasped pointlessly at the bedclothes.

Pansy sneered. “We’re getting ready for class. You’ve been making noise.” Dropping the curtain, she walked away.

“Bad dreams?” Blaise asked with a grin before following suit.

Millicent’s bed hangings fell around her again, one slim line of torchlight slicing through the darkness. “Don’t remember.” Millicent muttered, the raw scratch of her voice muffled within the shelter of the heavy hangings. But she did remember, she remembered it perfectly. The dream had been strange to her, not least because Millicent so rarely dreamed with such lucidity. At length, Millicent peeled back the bedclothes, twisted and tangled as though she really had been flailing, which she supposed wasn’t all too unlikely, then pushed her hands against her eyes and frowned. Her head ached. Carefully, Millicent slid out of bed and stood. Her whole body ached. Millicent wondered if she had time for a trip to the infirmary before breakfast; the thought of a Pepperup Potion suddenly seemed very appealing.

“What time is it?” Millicent asked, her voice still thick with restless sleep.

“Ten past eight,” the clock on her bedside table answered automatically. As if on cue, Blaise and Pansy left for breakfast, Blaise throwing Millicent one last grin before she disappeared through the open door.

“Shit.” Millicent reached for the glass beside the clock, and in the process knocked over the pitcher of water set next to it. It thudded against the carpet and rolled under her bed, trailing a line of water in its wake. Millicent drank what was left in the glass, then carefully stepped over the puddle, her thoughts flitting briefly to Hermione’s concern for the house-elves that would be left to tend to it. She dressed in a rush, only briefly stopping at the mirror next to the door.

“You look awful,” the mirror said, tutting.

“You always say that,” Millicent answered, passing her wand hurriedly over her hair and smoothing her robes before swinging open the dormitory door.

“It’s always true,” The mirror called after her, its voice ringing merrily down the stairs.

By that time, it was late enough that Millicent expected to find the common room empty. It wasn’t. Crabbe and Goyle were leaning against the wall by the door, massive arms crossed over massive chests in a crude imitation of ennui. It was a pose that looked, Millicent thought, altogether much better on Draco.

“Morning, Crabbe, Goyle,” Millicent said. Goyle grunted and looked past her, another trick of Draco’s, but Crabbe gave an uncomfortable half-smile.

“Happy Halloween, Bulstrode,” he said. Goyle thwacked Crabbe hard across the chest, then worked his arms back together and glared at Millicent. Crabbe looked down, suddenly seeming very interested in his shoes.

Millicent shook her head and reached for the door handle, but the door swung open before she quite got to it, and there stood Draco himself, an expression of extreme irritation twisting his delicate features. He was looking, she noted, completely past her.

“I told you to wait for me by the door,” he snapped, eyes flashing between his cohorts swiftly.

“We are waiting by the door,” Goyle answered.

“Outside.”

As the two shimmied forward, Draco glanced at Millicent, his usual sneer firmly in place. “Out of detention for a change?” Draco asked.

Millicent rolled her eyes and stepped toward the open door.

“Ah well, it’s early yet.” Grinning, Draco turned round and began to walk away, but before she quite realized what she was doing, Millicent grabbed the boy by the back of his shirt and slammed him roughly into the door. Draco’s mouth opened in surprise, then closed in a smug smile as Crabbe and Goyle moved forward. Millicent shoved Draco back again, his head sounding a dull thud against the wood, then dropped her hand and pushed past them.

*

“Are you sure you’re all right?”

Millicent looked up and forced a smile. “I’m fine.” Hermione cocked a skeptical eyebrow. “Really.”

“You haven’t written anything for fifteen minutes.”

“Neither have you,” Millicent pointed out. Hermione had been watching her in evident concern through almost the entire Muggle Studies period, but at this she flushed slightly and turned her attention to the parchment before her. Millicent smiled a little and began flipping through one of the books on her table with a shaking hand, quite unable to focus on its contents. Hermione was right to wonder – Millicent had felt distracted and out of sorts since waking up that morning, the memory of her dream the only clear thought she'd had all day. Her trip to the clinic had done nothing to settle her mind or the ache behind her eyes.

Millicent inked her quill and drew a series of wobbly spirals in the margin of the book before feeling Hermione’s gaze on her again.

“I’m fine,” she said without looking up. Hermione sighed.

*

It was normal, Hermione knew, for adolescents to sometimes feel like they were performing their lives more than living them – normal for them to imagine the people around them an audience, following their every move, forming swift opinions around hastily constructed scripts.

Vainly, Hermione was trying to convince herself that such was the present case. But when Ginny had entered the Great Hall some five minutes ago, she’d shot Hermione a furious scowl before retreating to the far-most end of the table, from which she and the group of fifth-years huddled around her were now staring pointedly. Slowly, end to end, it seemed the rest of the Gryffindors at the table were being pulled into the tension that lay heavily between the two girls. Parvati and Lavender looked thrilled, Neville quite confused, and many more just uncomfortable.

For the third time in as many minutes, in a hissing stage whisper, Ginny began to recount the events of the afternoon: how after their final class of the day, Hermione had pulled an extremely eager Ron into an empty classroom, not for the expected reason, but to break his loyal heart.

Ginny might as well have been pointing for the way her classmates were staring now.

So much for making a subtle entrance. Hermione felt herself bending under the weight of her Housemates’ stares, glares, and sympathetic smiles, and for a moment she considered making an escape. But no, Ron had been conspicuously absent ever since she’d left him alone in that dark classroom, and Harry had too. Hermione was still clinging to what had earlier been certainty that Ron would make an appearance at the Halloween Feast, but even as the food began to appear before her eyes, he didn’t come. Neither did Harry.

Hermione risked another glance up the table. Ginny’s gaze was still fixed in her direction, though everyone else seemed momentarily distracted by their filling plates. A hand on her shoulder made Hermione flinch, and when she looked up with more dread than hope, it was to meet a pair of sober green eyes. Hermione let go a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.

“Harry.” Anxiously, she scanned his face for reassurance. “Is Ron… is he okay?”

Harry sat down and sighed, raking his fingers through his already untidy hair. “I don’t know. I think he’ll be down in a bit.” He sounded uncertain. “You should, I mean, I wish you would talk to him, Hermione. I don’t think you, er, he doesn’t really know what to think.” Harry frowned and reached for a nearby glass of pumpkin juice. “I have to admit, I don’t really know what to think myself.” Hermione sighed. It had all seemed so obvious to her.

Harry took a long pull of his drink before turning to face her again. “Are you okay?” he asked.

“I think so,” she said finally. Harry nodded. “I will be,” she added.

Harry patted her shoulder awkwardly, then looked up, suddenly aware of the number of Gryffindors staring their way. When he scowled at them, most looked away. Ginny scowled back. Like mother, like daughter, Hermione thought.

Hermione pushed her face into her hands, wishing she could keep it there until Ron arrived. She felt wretched. As wretched as Ron had looked that afternoon, she thought guiltily.

In the dim light of the disused classroom, Hermione had said all the impersonal things she knew not to say. It’s not you, it’s me, but can’t we still be friends? Or something like that, like a bad television program, like a Hollywood movie. He had looked at her blankly, a still hopeful smile pulling at his mouth. Then, in one awful moment, he had understood. And that’s when Hermione had left the room. She couldn’t bear to see that look on his face, couldn’t bear knowing that she’d put it there, and months of unhappiness suddenly seemed so trivial that she’d wanted to curl herself around him and beg forgiveness. But she couldn’t. And so, she’d left him, and she’d known – she knew - she was right. This was right.

So why did she feel so miserable?

Suddenly Hermione was glad Ron hadn’t shown up. She stood, knocking over Harry’s pumpkin juice in the sudden movement.

“Hermione!” Harry jumped back ineffectively as the juice splashed down his shirt, then grasped at her arm. She pulled it away.

“I have to get out of here.” She could feel the stares again, but this time she didn’t care. Her pace quickened as she drew nearer the door, and by the time she was through it, she was nearly running.

Hermione slowed down as she rounded the corner to the entrance hall and stopped dead when she saw Ron standing halfway up the staircase and looking right at her. Ron blanched as she took an unconscious step back. “Ron…”

Ron managed to produce a weak smile as he took the last of the steps. “Hey, Hermione,” he said. And he walked past her.

Hermione spun around and opened her mouth, thought better of it, and closed it again. She sagged against the wall for a moment after Ron had gone and groaned. She was going to have to get used to this. She couldn’t run away forever.

But maybe just for now. Hermione straightened, took a quick glance back toward the Great Hall, then stepped purposefully toward the front door. A walk would do her some good.

*

Hermione allowed herself a small smile as she made her way across the lawn toward the lake. A bitter wind pulled at her hair and robes as she walked, but the chill was welcome after the oppressive atmosphere of the Hall. The waning moon overhead provided a mild glow to light her path, and the crunch of dead leaves underfoot was comforting in its immediacy. Determined to think of anything but the day’s events, Hermione hummed tunelessly to herself and tried to pick out constellations.

As she drew near the lake, Hermione veered off toward a cluster of trees where she sometimes went to study when the weather was fair. She had no intention of studying just now, of course, but – Hermione stopped short. Someone was crouching perfectly still at the edge of the lake, no more than twenty feet away. As she drew closer, Hermione realized with slight surprise that that someone was Millicent. She had seemed unwell in Muggle Studies that afternoon, but if she was ill, Hermione couldn’t imagine why the girl would be outside, un-cloaked, on such a cold night. Hermione stopped several feet from the crouching Slytherin and when Millicent didn’t look up, she coughed. “Do you mind if I j-” Millicent didn’t move.

Suddenly uneasy, Hermione broke off and stepped closer, then carefully knelt a couple of feet to Millicent’s right. “Mi- Bulstrode. Are you all right?” By the soft moonlight Millicent looked very pale. Her head was tilted downward, her eyes fixed on her reflection in the water, eyebrows furrowed in concentration, lips moving soundlessly. The tension of her shoulders, of her arms braced on her knees seemed to suggest that something held her in place, and had been for some time. "What-“ Bewildered, Hermione reached out a hand and waved it before Millicent’s face, retracting it when there was no response.

A hundred disjointed thoughts scurried unbidden through Hermione’s mind. Dark magic, fever, seizure, drugs... Confused and concerned, Hermione fought her initial instinct to go for help. Something was obviously wrong, but Hermione had no idea what, and she didn’t want to leave the Slytherin alone in this state. Anxiously, she settled back on her heels, weighing her options and watching for some sign of change.

She didn't have to wait long; after only a few tense seconds had passed, Millicent suddenly jerked her head up, and almost in the same movement, pulled herself to her feet. Clearly shaken, Millicent took an unsteady step toward a nearby tree, letting it support her weight with outstretched arms. Horrified, Hermione jumped up and watched as Millicent coughed and spat, then pulled both arms around the tree, leaned in, and moaned. Before she could even think about what she was doing, Hermione was at her side.