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Victim of the Fall	By : PrettyDesdemona Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Draco/Hermione Views: 32726 -:- Recommendations : 5 -:- Currently Reading : 7
Disclaimer: I do not own the Harry Potter universe or any of its characters. I do not make any money off this story. Only love!

Chapter List
- 3
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- 5
CHAPTER 4

JOYFUL GIRL

“Because the world owes me nothing, and we owe each other the world.”

Her goodbyes to the Burrow were strained and harsh. Ginny gave her a serious look and a hug that lacked heart; Ron nodded gruffly and Molly cried. Hermione was uncomfortably glad that at least someone was sad to see her leave. The others, including Harry, were nowhere to be seen.

“See you at school.” said Ginny stiffly.

“Yeah,” Hermione responded, “See you there.”

The air hung between them heavily and she sensed there was more that the younger woman wanted to say but Hermione didn’t have the energy for another of those conversations with Ginny. She turned quickly on the spot before Ginny could add anything more and the suffocating darkness engulfed her.

When she opened her eyes and wiped the rain water from her lashes, she found herself in the courtyard behind the Leaky Cauldron. As she made her way into Diagon Alley she adjusted her coat and tucked a few stray curls back into her scarf, hoping that she did not look as awful as she felt.

It was strange, she thought, to be walking through Diagon Alley now. The last time she had seen it, many of the shops had been boarded up and witches and wizards had been slumped in their doorways, begging for wands. People had shrunk from her in fear; but of course she had been wearing another’s face then. That incarnation of the usually busy and bright street had felt ruthless and terrifying. Though that might have had something to do with why she was there.

Sometimes, Hermione had awful premonitions of what the world might have been like if they hadn’t defeated Voldemort. And that imagine of Diagon Alley always preceded them. She couldn’t imagine living in a place that was dark like that, that was cold and unforgiving and unsafe like Diagon Alley was that day. During the war, there had been something to fight for, no one was winning or losing, it was just all out battle. But if they’d lost, if Harry had died, that darkness would have stretched across generations, across decades. She found it hard enough fighting that darkness, but imagine living it?

The thought made her shiver. Voldemort stood for all the most evil things in the world, murder, rape, indoctrination, hate. And for that she pitied him. Like any muggle drug addict, like any man who hit his wife or any mother that neglected her children, he was brought up by a system that let him down. Someone drove him to what he was and Hermione couldn’t help feeling scared that all the children left behind now, orphan or not, were being brought up by the same system that created Voldemort. Was it worth risking it to just trust that they wouldn’t end up like that? All it would take was one, one child to be looked over, abused, discarded, and that child could be like him. That child could grow up to recreate the darkness.

Kingsley Shacklebolt may be Minister now, and he may be stronger and smarter than Cornelius Fudge; he may be kinder and possess far more humility than Rufus Scrimgeour, but he wasn’t the system. Men like Lucius Malfoy were the Ministry and women like Delores Umbridge wrote it’s laws.

And ultimately, the laws and the Ministry were still corrupt, Voldemort or no. They created him, they fought to bring him down and they would create another incarnation of him if they didn’t change.

History repeated itself until humanity learnt the lessons.

Hermione mentally shook herself. She wished desperately that she could avoid following that train of thought to its end. It only served to make her want to look over her shoulder. It only made her panic. She reminded herself that Diagon Alley was almost back to the normal, back to the bustling place she had known in her childhood. Normal aside from a slight chill feeling that hung in the air which had nothing to do with the temperature.

But what could she do? As clichéd as it was, she was just one person. She might have a little influence as a result of her fame, but nothing that could really change things.

Her fame was a burden and a blessing. She hated it though it stroked at her ego. Not that she’d had any opportunity to experience it’s results first hand as she hadn’t left the Burrow properly in nearly three months, but she’d gotten the letters, she’d read the Daily Prophet and, on occasion, Witch Weekly. She knew what people said about her, Harry Potter’s left lieutenant, the brains of the Golden Trio, the brilliant muggleborn.

She wondered, if she were pureblood, would she be known as the brilliant pureblood? Or would she just be a brilliant Witch?

As she walked down Diagon Alley, crowded despite the rain, she kept her head down, not wishing to make eye contact with anyone that she might know who would want to trade pleasantries. This was easier said than done. Whispers followed her through the crowd, heads turned and people pointed. She hoped, desperately, that no one would feel the need to approach her.

That didn’t stop the whispers though, they scratched through her head like nails on a chalk board. Her hands shook and she felt a sweat break out on the back of her neck as panic began to leak through her body.

Oh no. Not here.

She bit her tongue to stop it from convulsing in her mouth, causing her to feel like her throat was closing up as the beginnings of an panic attack rolled over her, urging her to turn heel and run. Her vision darken around the edges. She wanted to lie down on the cobblestones and feel the dirty rain water soak cold into her flushed cheeks. But that wasn’t what war heroes did! War heroes didn’t lie down in the middle of a busy street to rock backwards and forwards and cry. They were supposed to hold their heads high and soak up the attention. She wished she were arrogant. Things would be so much easier if she were arrogant.

Just keep walking. Just keep walking.

She pressed her fingers against her wand in her pocket, knowing she couldn’t hold it while she felt like this. The last time she’d held her wand in her hand as some form of comfort while she panicked, she’d set half the fields surrounding the Burrow on fire. Instead, she took deep, careful breaths as she walked and started the now familiar exercise she always did when panic attacks got the better of her. She would begin by counting five things she could see around her, then five things she could smell, feel, taste and hear.

Ok. Focus. Take a breath, and count.

One, there’s Eyelops Owl Emporium; two, a witch with black tree tattooed up her arm; three, a little puddle of frogspawn on the cobblestones outside the apothecary; four, the loud sign of Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes poking up over the roof of Ollivanders; five, Draco Malfoy walking out of Quality Quidditch Supplies.

Wait.

Draco Malfoy?

Hermione was so shocked at his presence in Diagon Alley, (in fact his presence anywhere other than Azkaban was the shock) she entirely forgot to keep panicking.

Her feet suddenly changed direction and made to follow him, if only to demand to know why he wasn’t rotting in some tiny, dank cell somewhere. She knew enough of the Malfoys to know that their fortune had prevented their incarceration from being over publicised but she knew they were, at least, in Azkaban. Or so she’d thought. Perhaps it was just Lucius and Narcissa?

“Miss Granger!” a familiar voice called out behind her and her stomach churned. She tried to ignore it and quickened her pace, weaving her way through the crowd towards Quality Quidditch Supplies.

“Hermione Granger!” the voice called again. She noticed with distress that more people were turning their heads to look in her direction. Malfoy turned too and caught her eye. For the briefest of moments he looked utterly terrified. Then he disappeared. Hermione was baffled. That wasn’t like Malfoy, he was supposed to sneer condescendingly and raise a patronising brow as if to say, yes, he was here in Diagon Alley, buying broom handle polish and what the fuck did she think she was going to do about it?

Suddenly, a hand closed around her arm and she fought off the instinct to draw her wand. That didn’t stop her fingers curling around it in her pocket though. She turned to see the red and shining face of Horace Slughorn.

“My word!” he puffed. “I’m an old man, Miss Granger! Running through a crowded street does nothing for my constitution!”

“Sorry Professor! I didn’t hear you!” She plastered a grin onto her face as the old man wiped his brow with a silk handkerchief drawn from the pocket of his tight waistcoat.

“Where are you off to my dear?” he asked.

“Flourish and Blotts.” she replied.

“Ah, off to buy your school things I suppose?”

“No, no, sir, I live in the flat above the shop.” She rolled the words around on her tongue to see how they tasted.

“Oh yes! Minerva did mention something about that! Well! Do allow me to escort you!” Before she could reply, he took her arm and fell into step beside her. She turned her head, trying to get another glimpse of Malfoy as Slughorn steered her down the street. She longed briefly for Harry’s invisibility cloak, maybe she could have followed him. Found out what he was up to. Because if he was out in public, mingling with the populace, it couldn’t be anything good.

She dropped her head and smiled sadly. The Harry of their sixth year would have been immensely proud of her paranoia.

She realised with a start that Slughorn was still speaking to her, completely unaware of her preoccupation

“Yes, I couldn’t resist saying a quick hello! As I was saying the other day to Barnabus Cuffe, you know, editor of the Daily Prophet; I am monstrously glad to hear of your returning to Hogwarts! I told him, and told him quite rightly I think, that I was certainly one of your favourite professors and of course how incredibly talented you are. But everyone knows that! How surprised he was to know you were muggle born too! He is not prejudiced of course, but you know, old habits die hard and all that.” he said breathlessly.

Her head snapped around to look at Slughorn.

“I would have thought that considering recent events, the people of influence in our society would rethink their opinions.” said Hermione coldly.

Professor Slughorn spluttered indignantly but she continued before he could respond.

“After all professor,” she said, “There is not so much difference between these ridiculous assumptions about pureblood supremacy and the ideals of a death eater.”

“Well, uh, the Dark Lord is-” Professor Slughorn began, but Hermione cut him off.

“Dead. Yes, I know. But do you really believe he will be the last? If these ideals are not stamped out of the wizarding world entirely, there will always be another Dark Lord and another battle to eradicate him.” she said fervently.

Professor Slughorn was silent. He stared down at Hermione with a mixture of awe and fear.

“You truly have a brilliant mind my dear. But I do hope it is not entirely consumed by thoughts of this dark a nature.” he said with forced joviality.

She smiled and shook her head. “I’m sorry Professor. After everything that has happened, it’s a sensitive topic. And would be for any muggle born I think. But you’re right, sir. I will try not be so morbid in Potions. You’ll still be teaching I hope?”

“Of course!” he exclaimed, rubbing his hand jovially over his vast stomach, “Never would I give up the opportunity to help in the moulding of young minds such as yours! And naturally, I will throw the occasional soiree in my quarters as usual. Just a few select students. I hope to include you on my guest list?”

“Yes, of course sir.”

The older man smiled down at her fondly and she did her best to return the gesture. She didn’t like to admit it but she found his company less abhorrent now than she once did, despite his rather right wing opinions. Her ego needed a boost and for the first time in quite a while, she felt she had something to look forward to. She rather liked the idea of spending some evenings occupying her time with him and his “select few students”. At least she would not be entirely outcast and alone. Perhaps she wouldn’t have to bribe a first year to study with her after all.

They rounded a corner and came to the entrance of Flourish and Blotts where Professor Slughorn released her arm, bided her farewell and bounced off down the road.

She felt momentarily bad for snapping at him as it wasn’t like her to be so impertinent with a teacher but then it occurred to her that maybe she was arrogant and just hadn’t fully embraced it yet. Surprisingly, the thought bolstered her spirits.

Hermione stared into the dark, familiar shop in front of her, then cast her eyes upwards. There was a small balcony jutting out over the street which she supposed belonged to her flat.

She entered the shop, the aura of the place wrapping itself around her like a hug, and found herself immediately confronted with Mr Flourish as he seemed to materialise suddenly behind the counter.

“Hogwarts, eh? Year?” he barked through his handlebar moustache.

“Seventh, but-” she began.

“Right. Well I’ve got a copy of The Standard Book of Spells: Grade 7 right here, but I’ll have to get the others from the back.” He made to retreat through a door in the back of the shop.

“Mr Flourish! I’m Hermione. Hermione Granger. Professor McGonagall said-”

“Oh yes! Yes!” He hurried around the counter and grasped her hand in both of his. “Such a pleasure! My, I didn’t even recognise you! Such a pleasure to have you here!”

Hermione laughed nervously. “Thank you Mr Flourish, really, I couldn’t be more grateful, I-”

He waved her off and began to hobble towards the back door. “Don’t give it another thought. Now follow me, follow me. It’s just through here.”

He led her through the door and into a vast room full of books and boxes. She inhaled the familiar scent of fresh parchment and couldn’t help but smile. This was certainly her place. In the back corner was a small spiral staircase that led to the floor above, which Mr Flourish began to climb with Hermione in tow. The shiny red paint that covered it, flaked off in her hands.

“I remember the first time you came in here, I do. Always took great pleasure in books. Tells you a lot about a person, I think. Young people are too careless about books these days. Sad, very sad. But not you! I think you’ll be plenty happy here. Of course, I’m happy to have you, after all you’ve done. Wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for you and your friends.” he rambled over his shoulder.

Hermione felt her stomach clench but tried to ignore the sensation. She was supposed to be arrogant, remember? And arrogant people don’t get bashful about praise.

They came out on a dark little landing, lit by a single candle in a votive on the wall, with nothing on it but a door. Mr Flourish produced a great set of keys from the folds of his robes and opened the door with a heave.

Hermione followed him into the flat and felt her heart warm to it immediately. She couldn’t help but grin like a child in a sweet shop. A set of old wooden double doors led from her lounge room onto the balcony she had seen from the street. The room was small but with a deliciously high ceiling and faded wooden floor boards. A large, old couch sat by the wall like a cat reclining after a large meal, with a weather beaten wooden coffee table in front of it. The floor was swathed in an impossibly huge, threadbare Persian rug covered in patterns that seemed to dance when she was looking at it out of the corner of her eye. The opposite wall was hidden by a vast bookshelf which made Hermione shiver in excitement as she went over to run her hands over the dark, stained wood. Mr Flourish couldn’t help but notice her enthusiasm.

“I’ll warrant it won’t take you long to fill that up eh?” he said and she grinned in response, resisting the urge to jump up and down in excitement. “This here’s the living area, the front door’s a bit dodgy, you’ve gotta give it a bit of a heave to get it open. The kitchen’s just here.”

She followed him into the cooking area and grinned. “It’s perfect.” she said quietly. “It’s all perfect.”

The tiles were a brilliant azul blue, some cracked and loose and a window with a chipped frame that looked out over London sat on the opposite wall. Hermione wandered over to it, staring out into the bustling street. She felt as if she was on the cusp between the wizarding world and the muggle one, with her balcony looking out over Diagon alley and her kitchen looking out to London.

“Where you belong.” A rogue thought drifted through her head. She frowned.

“Well I’m glad you like it,” said Mr Flourish, snapping her out of her contemplation, “It’s been mighty hard to find tenants for this place.”

Hermione couldn’t imagine anyone who would not love such a beautiful little flat.

“Oh really? Why?”

“It’s right on the dividing line, see? You can hear it, makes a bit of a buzzing noise. It’s from the enchantments that keep Diagon Alley hidden from the muggles.”

Hermione nodded. She had noticed the buzzing, but she felt soothed by it rather than annoyed.

“Does the buzzing bother people?” she asked.

“Oh no. It’s not the buzzing. Most folk are suspicious you see? They think it’s bad luck to sleep on a dividing line. Like having one foot in and one foot out. Not that an educated person believes in that sort of nonsense.”

Hermione laughed. She wasn’t generally suspicious and the wizarding world had many eccentricities that she found silly so she wasn’t entirely bothered by this information. She would, of course, read up on it though.

Mr Flourish gestured for her to follow him again. “The bedroom is through here.”

He led her out of the kitchen and through a tiny hallway leading off the living area to the only other room in the flat. The ceiling in here was also high, but slanted with exposed beams. A large picture window sat on the opposite wall, again looking at to Diagon Alley. A door next to her nightstand led to a quaint little bathroom, with the same blue tiles that she loved so much throughout. There was an ornate wooden wardrobe in the corner and a huge, luxurious looking four poster bed to match. On top of the bed sat a round ball of orange fur and Hermione shrieked in delight.

“Crookshanks!” she ran over to the bed and scooped him up in her arms, scratching him behind the ears as he looked up and purred at her. She held him to her chest, staring around at her new home.

“So, home sweet home!” the old man said. “You won’t want for much, but you might have to buy your own cooking things. Other than that,” He pulled off two keys from his huge set and dropped them into her hand, “There you go, this one opens your door and the big one opens the front door of the shop.” The great set of keys disappeared back into his robes and he clapped his hands together, smiling. “That’s about it, I think! I’ll leave you to get settled. And if you need anything, anything at all, just give me a holler.” He made to walk out the front door as Hermione deposited Crookshanks bank on the bed and followed him. “Oh and you needn’t bother thinking about starting work until a few weeks into term. Get yourself comfortable first, then we’ll talk about it.”

“That’s very kind of you Mr Flourish, thank you!” said Hermione breathlessly. The old man hobbled out the door with a wave of his hand and Hermione heaved it closed behind him.

The living room was bathed the in afternoon sunlight that was peeking through the rain clouds and she collapsed on to the couch, which she found to be soft and comfortable. Crookshanks sauntered out of the bedroom and rubbed himself against her legs. She took her old and tattered beaded bag out of her coat pocket and laid it, with a loud clunk, on the coffee table in front of her.

“You like it here?” she said to Crookshanks as he leapt up onto her lap. He purred in response. She curled up on her side, her head resting on the arm of the couch, and closed her eyes. Comforted by her cats warmth and the dull thrumming rhythm of his purr, she drifted into a deep and, for the first time in many months, untroubled sleep.

A/N Ok, I've given up all pretense of trying to wait. Have the chapter, enjoy it!

Atlantean_Diva - Thanks so much for your reviews and support!! On both ff.net and here. But I will reply to you in full on ff.net :)

Tori - Beautiful review, thank you so much! The con crit is much appreciated and note taken about the chapter lengths. I was umming and ahing about it for a while and realised they are actually quite short. So, consider the problem rectified!

Feel free to keep reviewing! No need to be shy, you're actually quite good at it!

The quote at the beginning of this chapter is from Ani Difranco's song Joyful Girl. Her music has served as a huge inspiration for this piece. I own nothing. Thanks Ani!
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Victim of the Fall