Hidden Details
When the sixty-fifth edition of Hogwarts: A History was released, now with more pictures of the Founders and excerpts from their personal diaries, Hermione decided she wanted it. Not because she was a complete nerd, but because it was a good excuse to go into the Wizarding world over the summer. Without her parents. Without Ron and Harry.
She felt slightly disloyal, but not entirely so. Sometimes a girl just needed to get away from it all, to refresh herself. And while her parents thoroughly embraced the Wizarding world (or tried to), they would never quite be able to understand it. And, of course, Muggles in Diagon AlleyŠ while not entirely an oddity, they were still looked at in askance.
Besides, Hermione was sixteen years of age and going into her sixth year at Hogwarts and could travel about without a chaperone, thank you very much. Her parents were nervous when she left, which she could understand, being that they were parents and it was their job to be overprotective and worried for their only daughter and concerned for her well-being. Just as they didn't quite understand the Wizarding world (and, to be fair, Hermione didn't either), they didn't quite understand the threat of Voldemort. They only knew enough to be wary, and since they were dentists who didn't have much in the way of imagination -- and, again, to be fair, Hermione knew she didn't either -- they pictured Voldemort as some sort of insurgent from the Americas or some such, brandishing an AK-47 and wearing combat boots.
That worked in her favor, she figured, because if they truly understood the threat Voldemort posed, they'd lock her down, and that would serve no one's interests.
Sometimes -- and only sometimes, but often enough that she was conscious of it -- she thought about how her parents truly typified the word Muggle. Maybe not so much as the Dursleys, but enough. Just enough that sometimes -- and only sometimes, but often enough that she was conscious of it -- she called them Muggles in her head.
But she didn't mean it the way people like Malfoy meant it; she just meant it as a categorization tool. And of course people shouldn't be categorized, but they were anyway, all the time. The human brain, she had determined, had to categorize everything. At least, her human brain did. Her Witch brain. Wizarding brain. Whichever.
Hermione Flooed into the Wizarding Public Floo At Diagon Alley and walked briskly down to Flourish and Blotts. First her book, then a butterbeer before going home. Everything looked different, brighter without her parents. Without friends. She was an adult Witch out running errands and the world was her Fizzing Whizbee. She had Knuts, and Galleons, and Sickles, and was wearing casual robes in black linen, with a hood she could pull over her head if she saw someone she didn't want to talk to, and she wore them in traditional Wizarding style, with nothing underneath except knickers (and a Muggle brassiere), so she hardly noticed the summer heat. She was on her way.
She decided she would also purchase Wizarding Crafts Through The Ages by Fabra Smith-Wesley, and Why Wizards Only Use Latin And How That Affects YOU by Latinus Evidentae. She sniggered at that, she couldn't help it, and brought her purchases up to the counter.
The Witch ringing her up was new, not the same older man who'd always been there, and she squinted at Hermione's choices.
"Hm," she said. Her robe had giant bell sleeves trimmed in spangles, and she reached into one and pulled out a flier. "Have you seen this?"
Hermione took the flier:
HOGWARTS UNCENSORED! THE TRUE STORY! THE HIDDEN DETAILS!
"Where's Argiletum?" she asked.
"Rome," said the Witch, and winked. "It's in Knockturn -- right across the way, there, through that alley."
"Oh, I -- "
"Three Galleons exactly," said the Witch, and took back her flier with the money, and reduced the books for Hermione, so she could tuck them into her pocket.
"Thank you," said Hermione, and took herself outside. She had planned to have a butterbeer and read a bit of Hogwarts: A History -- maybe even skip around to see what had been changed for this new edition, which she almost never did.
But she found herself eyeing the alley into Knockturn. She'd never been into Knockturn. Harry had been into Knockturn -- albeit years ago and by accident. What was so special about it anyway? Full of Dark Wizards? Who cared? So was Slytherin and she could go into the Slytherin dungeons whenever she wanted. If she wanted. And she supposed she could go into Knockturn Alley whenever she wanted, too, because who was going to stop her?
She pulled the hood of her robe up over her head, and spelled her hair down, and tucked her hands into her pockets, and headed for Knockturn.
It looked just like Diagon. It was a little darker and a bit dimmer and most of the Wizards and Witches walking around also had their hoods pulled up, but otherwise it was the same. It was exactly the same. Just a little different. The air smelled the same. The sun shined the same. The buildings were in good repair, and the shops were well-labeled. There appeared to be a few shops not labeled at all, and Hermione felt a little nervous about that, but there was nothing she could do about it.
She headed for Argiletum, which was right where the Witch said it would be, and tried to walk through the heavy double doors like someone who belonged there. She held her breath. When no one approached her and demanded that she take her muddy blood elsewhere, she let out a sigh and stood up a little straighter and vowed to herself that she would stop letting prejudiced and small minded Wizards living in the past dictate how she walked around.
Argiletum was more similar to a Muggle bookstore than to Flourish and Blotts. There were a lot of shelves and tables, and chairs and desks, and long scrolls hanging in mid-air. She looked at one -- it was a list of books. She picked up the quill next to it and wrote THE REAL STORY: HOGWARTS and it went blank, then gave her a glowing map and instructions on where to find the book.
How amazing.
Sometimes it seemed like the Wizarding world was worth it, despite its obsession with pumpkins and the fact that no bread toasted over a fire ever quite came out right, despite all of the charms made for that specific purpose.
Hermione decided to forgo buying a copy of The Real Story: Hogwarts, because it looked like a cheap Muggle tabloid, but she did purchase Dangerous Objects, Curses, and Hexes Every Wizard (And Witch) Should Know And Use by Ordis Black, and Fifty Ways To Cheat At Quidditch for Ron, and All Of The Horrible Ways Resurrection Spells Can And Will Go Wrong So Don't Do It for Harry. Not that Hermione thought Harry would try to resurrect Sirius, butŠ one never did know, and Harry had been acting weird lately.
The Wizard who rang up her purchases looked suspiciously like Severus Snape, if Snape ever washed his hair and had a smaller nose.
"Are you a Snape?" she asked.
"One Galleon, four Sickles," he said, and sneered at her.
"You must be," she said, and dropped two Galleons into his outstretched palm. He sneered again while counting out change, and she rolled her eyes and reduced the books herself.
After all, the Ministry didn't trace underaged magic users through their wands -- only through the instances of magic in places where there was a large non-magical population. Luna told her so, and anyway, a Witch couldn't be out in the magical world without her wand at the ready.
She exited into the heavy summer air and crossed the road to The Thirsty Wizard. It looked like a safe enough pub, and all she wanted was a butterbeer. She'd been two months in the Muggle world, and there was no butterbeer to be had. It was a kind of comforting drink, she thought; it reminded her of better times, when they were worried about Voldemort in a sort of vague, unformed way. Well, when she worried about Voldemort in an unformed way. Now the threat was real and tangible and people were dying faster and more and there were actual Wizards and Witches who wanted to kill Hermione because her parents weren't magical.
Totally bollocks, as Ron would say. Nutters. Absolutely mad.
In fact, like as not the bartender wanted to kill her and so did most of the other patrons. If anyone ever came up with a potion or charm that would display a Witch's blood history, Hermione was in trouble. Until then she looked like everyone else in the pub.
She took her butterbeer from the bar (two bloody Sickles? When did the prices go up? Or was everything more expensive in Knockturn Alley?) and decided on a booth in the back, in the corner. It was a bit darker but there was no reason she shouldn't still be able to see well enough to read, and in the back she'd be mostly hidden from the other patrons.
Hermione settled into the booth and enlarged All Of The Horrible Ways Resurrection Spells Can And Will Go Wrong So Don't Do It, and began to page through it. Resurrection spells really were awful, although not once, so far, were they referred to as evil, or dark. Well, she knew she wasn't alone in wondering what exactly made a charm or spell dark, when so many horrible things were used by the side of the Light in the name of All That Was Good And True. She wasn't an idiot, for all that she was Muggle-born.
A sharp laugh caught her ear, and her head jerked up, almost before she realized what was happening. A woman with sharp features and white-blonde hair was sailing into the pub, her robes pristine. Behind her, a boy with matching hair and features, and behind him, a House Elf, carrying a teetering pile of tiny packages. Of course that didn't make any sense at all -- the House Elf could have easily Apparated the packages back to the Malfoy Manor. But Narcissa and Draco. Always had to put on a show.
It must be in their blood, Hermione thought, and winced. Too much in the Wizard world was blamed on blood.
She sank further into the shadows. Draco and Narcissa both were in full formal wear, their robes long and swishing about their legs as they walked. Hermione wondered if perhaps older Wizarding families had spells and charms that other people didn't -- like a spell to keep the air around themselves cool enough that they could wear formal robes with cloaks in the middle of the summer.
Narcissa's laughing had an edge of hysteria, but Draco'sŠ Why had Hermione never noticed before that unless Draco was sniggering at a Gryffindor or Hufflepuff, he didn't laugh? He wasn't laughing now, either. His smile was tight.
He held out a chair for his mother, who sank into it gracefully, and then sat himself down. She faced the door; Draco's back was to it. Hermione closed her eyes against the image of someone -- anyone -- entering and aiming the killing curse at Draco. Not even Draco Malfoy deserved to be struck down in the back unexpectedly.
She could, however, hear his sneer in the back of her head: That's the kind of stupid non-logic that makes you a Mudblood Gryffindor. He sounded a bit like Snape in her head, but less intelligent, and more full of hubris. Or just plain old ego.
Hermione opened her eyes to her butterbeer losing its fizz, but couldn't resist one more look at Draco's pathetic attempt at a sincere smile. Whatever Narcissa was saying to him couldn't have been making him too happy, since he was leaning forward and not smirking or grinning or talking. Hermione looked down again and took a long draught of her butterbeer, and when she looked back up, she caught, out of the corner of her eye, a glimpse of something she did not want to see again. But she looked anyway, from under the hood she'd never pulled off.
Narcissa's hip was moving. Hermione craned her neck a little, and yes, Narcissa's hip was moving because her leg was moving, because her foot was between Draco's legs and pressing against his -- his -- oh. God, Jesus, Merlin, Allah, Satan, whoever was listening and watching, for the love of Godric Gryffindor --
Parents were not supposed to do that to their children, not even in the Wizarding world. Some things were just universal.
Draco's expression suddenly made a lot more sense.
Hermione turned her face away, lifted her book up, and ducked her head. Every time Narcissa laughed, Hermione winced. It was like Narcissa was deliberately trying to cause everyone in the establishment pain with her voice. Every time Narcissa laughed, Hermione looked up, and saw Narcissa moving sinuously in her chair, saw Draco sweating, swallowing hard.
He didn't seem to mind that his mother was. Doing. Things. To him.
Not even the explanation that one shouldn't resurrect one's pets because said pets could possibly become zombies and eat the Wizard/Witch and his/her family and his/her entire neighborhood (pronouns the author's) could distract Hermione from what was happening just a few tables over. Every time Narcissa's hand touched Draco's, every time Draco blew his mother a kiss, every single glance they exchanged and laugh they shared -- it was sick. It was wrong.
Draco's eyes were glazing over, and his mouth was dropping open, and his teeth sank into his lip, and Hermione's stomach did a strange flippy thing, and Draco's eyes fluttered shut and he gasped, sucked in a deep breath, fell back against his chair.
Hermione imagined that Narcissa's eyes glittered coldly with triumph. Draco took a long sip of his drink, and smiled at his mother. Smiled. As though it was all right and everything was fine, and he put his hand over Narcissa's.
Hermione went back to her book and firmly put the Malfoy family's horrible predilections aside. One should never resurrect one's uncle or aunt, because said uncle or aunt could possibly become a zombie and eat the family pets. One should never resurrect one's godfather who hasn't actually died but only gone through a mysterious arch and may or may not be truly dead, because it will only end tragically. Hermione lifted her eyebrows, ripped off a piece of napkin, and marked that page.
"Well, well," said Narcissa. Her voice carried, the same as Draco's always did when he was about to say something nasty in the Great Hall. "It looks like they're letting just anyone in here these days."
Hermione's head shot up, but Narcissa and Draco weren't looking at her. They were looking at the newest person to walk through the door, Draco's body twisted and draped over the top of his chair. Narcissa was leaning forward.
Percy Weasley was framed by sunlight, standing in the doorway. The door shut loudly behind him and Hermione blinked against the sudden darkness. He frowned at Narcissa, who laughed loudly, and Draco joined her, sniggering, and then his eyes flicked around the room. They landed on Hermione, and his face became more pinched and sour, but he walked to the other side of the room and slid into a side booth.
Narcissa and Draco were still laughing cruelly. Hermione tugged the hood further over her face and reduced the book, tucked it into her pocket, and left, staying in the shadows, avoiding Draco and Narcissa.
This, this was why no one on the side of the Light went into Dark establishments unless they were spying. Not because they were intimidated or afraid. Hermione hadn't understood before why the side of the Light stayed away, gave the Dark its shadowy corners and spooky alleyways, but now -- who wanted to see the Malfoys act inappropriately? Not that they were ever appropriate, but. But that was the height of it. Truly the height.
And it just hurt too much to see who they were really up against. Yes, Voldemort, but also cousins and best friends and brothers. The Malfoys were a joke compared to Percy -- they were dangerous, but Percy was the one who could hurt them.
Hermione made her way to the public Floo and tried not to think about how she'd feel if Ron followed Percy to the other side. She wasn't very successful. She tried not to think about Draco's face as his head tilted back and his eyes closed, but she wasn't successful at that either. That night in the shower, she tucked her hand between her legs, and cried when she came.