Their eyes are wide, mouths agape. And Hermione suddenly realizes what it looks like. The lavatory in shambles. Both their wands are drawn. The two girls are shortly overshadowed by a Professor. And she sees their wands before they can stow them. A shaky breath exits her lungs. She swallows thickly, glancing around one more time at the destruction. And then she follows. Heads are poking out from Dungeon classroom doors, watching them as they walk. They heard the noise, most likely.
Doesn't want to look at his face. But Daphne and Mandy have been following behind, trying to collect all the juicy details. There are only a few personal touches here and there that suggest the Headmaster has changed. A vase of deathless flowers on a pedestal by the door. The purple cushions on the chairs. A floral teacup on a saucer rimmed with gold. Small things. As they enter behind Havershim, McGonagall appears from around the corner, dressed in fine velvet robes.
She wears her hair in a long braid over her shoulder, and her glasses are perched on the end of her nose. Hermione is surprised she notices. The place was blown to bits. Sort of an incredulous, little squeak. He just sets his jaw and stares straight ahead. She glances back at Malfoy, and he looks confused, if anything. Hermione sighs and looks back to McGonagall. I destroyed the lavatory.
And — and Malfoy just happened upon me. That there is no rulebook for coping. That her head is a mess and her actions are a byproduct.
McGonagall pauses. Shuts and purses her lips. She looks between Hermione and Malfoy for another long moment and then sits back. Everyone in the office knows that.
As she and Malfoy are dismissed, she hears Havershim start to argue with her in hushed tones. But Malfoy has the greater half of her attention. Or why. She has to call out twice more to get him to stop, and when he does, his back is rigid. Overexposed and clumsy. McGonagall thought. V September 17th, Diary, Saint Potter has it out for me. Take notes. Squarefaced, round-spectacled ponce. Soaking in the glory.
Give me a little credit. List them. She can feel it coming on, even as she wakes. The looming sense of dread. Like a heavy black curtain falling from above. And so she takes counteractive measures. She sits up. Slips her wand off the nightstand and casts a spell to tame her curls, feeling them right themselves around her head.
She moves quietly through the dormitory, maneuvering around the sleeping girls as she shrugs into a thick, chenille sweater — tucks her feet into a pair of boots. The days have been warm, but September mornings are anything but.
And she wants to be outside. Needs to be, on a day like this. Hogwarts is more peaceful in the morning. It has a less foreboding edge than late at night, but is equally empty. Equally calm. Even the ghosts rest, and the silence is a relief. Even quieter, and what few sounds break through are welcome ones — birds; water lapping; wind against blades of grass.
About bias. They were both right, though. Mind you, it changed very little about his reputation. His family is disgraced. Just like the Goyles and the Parkinsons. He chose this life. She itches at her scar, then remembers what Madam Pomfrey said and gives it two sharp smacks instead. Itching inflames. Sharp pressure, though — it distracts from the pain a little better. The grass grows soggy underfoot as she stops at the edge of the Lake, day breaking over the distant mountains like a bright eye peering through the crack of a door.
She casts a drying spell. Pulls the wool blanket from her bag and lays it out, sitting cross-legged and drawing in a deep breath of crisp air.
In the distance, the Giant Squid flicks up one of its arms, breaking the surface and sending small waves lapping toward her. This is what she needed. She practices charms for a while. Conjures a ring of flowers and pastel-colored mushrooms around her blanket. She creates a small whirlpool in the lake in front of her. Sends flower petals swirling through it. Conjures a weeping cherry tree, off to the side. Little by little, birds begin to discover her small oasis. They hover over the flowers.
Perch themselves in the tree and sing to her. Something tangible, from home. From her parents. With a flick of her wand, the thermos fills with coffee, sweet-smelling and steaming in the cold air. Warming the tip of her nose. Which is precisely why she slipped a nip of Baileys Irish Cream into her bag as well. Dosing her coffee with whiskey at half past six in the morning. She hears him before she sees him — the crunch of his shoes.
Who else would it be? At this hour, and with her rotten luck? Who else? His voice is thick with sleep. She sips. Waits for him to leave. Leans forward instead and thumbs one of the purple mushrooms. Taps and flicks at it until it snaps in half.
She sighs. Yanks the blanket out from under him, and he slips, sliding down the hill a bit until his feet splash into the water. And then he laughs. Sticks his feet in further until the legs of his trousers are wet. And she glares unhappily at her ring of flowers. They start to wilt as her mood sours. The mushrooms grow deformed. How many more moments is he planning to ruin? She decimated that bathroom. She did. Fucking bastard. And then he dips both legs into the water. The temperature must be well below freezing.
His posture relaxes — spine slackens. Long quiet. Enough that one of the flowers comes back to life. Still, she keeps it. Uses it whenever she can. Staring at the slow sunrise, she sips and thinks. Thinks and sips. Wonders a lot. He was barefoot to begin with, but now she can see the blue of hypothermia bleeding into his knees. His lips are purple. Doesn't anything bother him at all? Whiskey with cream.
How good can it be? Her next sip is angry. A point-making sip. Seems to consider her for a moment, and then he pulls something from his trouser pocket. Shows her a flask. The smokiness. Conjures a French press in midair, which presses itself and then pours into a conjured mug. He takes it. Toasts the sky.
And then he spikes it with a shot or two of Firewhiskey. Really, it is. His face screws up at the first sip — goes a splotchy red. And then he chokes and gasps, and hot coffee leaks from his mouth, spilling into his lap. A hand flies up to his face to cover his nose as he chokes and splutters some more. He lets the mug drop and it dissolves into smoke before it hits the grass. The one who stopped the Dark Lord. But, oh, she does. If only they knew how much she does. By the time Malfoy can gather his wits, his eyes are watering — bloodshot.
And he does everything he can not to look at her. Becomes sort of corrosive, really. His ego is ever so sensitive. Why he challenged Buckbeak. Because he failed to kill Dumbledore, and it was an embarrassment to him. To his family. Holding out the thermos to him. He jerks to the side at first, when he sees it. Shoots her a look of shock, and then of suspicion. And then, of course, he sneers.
Lets some poison out. Flares her nostrils. With those sullen eyes wide and those pale lips slightly parted. Stranger yet is his response. He shuts his mouth. And then he clears his throat and takes the thermos out of her hand.
Cheers, Granger. Prompt: What is your favorite happy memory? I hate this shit. Why do you care? None of this is helping me. Thanks to your side. Because my favorite memory is my mum making lemon tarts for me when I was eight and Father was out and it was raining. On decorum. And — and we went for a walk. In the rain. Got wet.
Got covered in mud. Mum was happy. I was happy. Hope it gives you a good laugh. Draco September 26th, Small mercies. They still exist, in depleted numbers. And today, they come in the form of Madam Pomfrey. Miss Granger, I was informed by Professor Slughorn that it was you who assisted with the brewing of antidotes for my stores last week, and I must say I was most impressed by their strength.
Should you have any interest, I would like to offer you a temporary position in the Hospital Wing. You would be working closely at my side, every other day of the week after lessons, assisting with antidotes, healing spells and experimental projects. Headmaster McGonagall supports the idea, and should the situation arise, she says she will be happy to excuse you from lessons during periods of high volume in the Hospital Wing.
A position like this could put you well on your way to a prestigious career at St. I hope you will consider. She reads it twice. Three times. Sets it down for a moment and reads it a fourth.
Madam Pomfrey is known to be very particular about her work. Hermione has never seen a student assisting her in the Hospital Wing before. An escape. A chance to be at Hogwarts without trying to relive the past. She finds herself practically flying to the Owlery to send it, waking up portraits left and right from their early morning sleep.
A chance to feel normal again. She scampers up the feather-laden steps, actually able to enjoy — for once — the crisp morning air against her face. Because as she rounds the corner through the doorway, she collides with him. They hit the stone hard, landing in feathers and owl droppings, and Malfoy is back up on his feet in the very next instant. Her eyes follow the journal, though, dangling from his fingers at his side.
Knock a screw loose, did you? Wiped his mouth. Without another word. It practically radiates off of him. His breath steams in the air, more than hers, and his lips are blue and his nose is just the faintest shade of pink. For a moment, she does nothing, watching as he breaks the seal and unfolds it.
But then, as his eyes shift back and forth, she comes to her senses. Interning with Madam Pomfrey, are you? She feels almost as if she needs to cover up. Every time they speak, it feels like a battle. These are their war tactics.
Turns up her nose. The heat. Idiotic, unhelpful, severely detrimental curiosity. Her ears ring. Her head swims. And she can barely hear her own scream. She feels her knees wobble. Thinks they might give out. But then Malfoy lets go. She stumbles backward, away from him, cradling her arm. The scars have opened up, and she can feel hot blood seeping through her sleeve. With watery eyes, she looks up from it. Stunned to speechlessness, it seems.
Her voice is full of acid and venom. But she knows. Even as she turns on her heel and takes off down the stairs leading out of the Owlery. Even as she bursts into her dormitory, hot tears streaming down her face, startling a stillsleeping Parvati. She provoked a frightened animal.
And it bit her. Still, it had felt good to scream at him. She turns off the faucet. Stares down at the freshly scabbing letters on the inside of her forearm and begins to gently trace them with the tip of her finger. M… It must be either very important or very private, whatever he keeps in that journal. U… But the Owlery is a very unusual place to write, she thinks. It smells foul, and the owls are noisy and restless.
No clean space to think. Why would he go there? D… Unless, of course, his intent is to get away from everyone — which, in that case, he picked a very good spot.
Except, she found him. If that'd even been something she was trying to do. Their twin needs for silence and solitude. For grieving and for their own, separate coping mechanisms.
O… It had even been nice to have the company for a moment. But then the moment ended — and he went back up to the castle. Back to hatred. Not anymore. Stubborn and crass. She lets her arm go and collapses into a sloppy seat on the tile floor of the lavatory. Parvati pokes her head around the corner, hair tousled with sleep, falling from its braid.
Are you alright? Starting another month here feels like torture. Like being condemned. Technically speaking, it is a prison. If you really think about it, a magical contract is a lot like prison. Only, this way, more people stare. With my mum? About furthering my education. Come up with some dastardly plan to break my Father out and escape to the further reaches of this bloody Earth?
Well, more power to you. And if I get one more dirty look from those fucking Patil sisters or hear one more fucking word from that Irish prat, my patience will be spent.
Which just complicated everything. Because Madam Pomfrey responded the next day. Sent her a work schedule, beginning the following week.
Which meant that he sent it for her. To enjoy it. She knows she's only capable because she starts with Madam Pomfrey tomorrow. To ignore the fact that this is just pretending. That the war still happened. People — friends, family — are still dead. She takes another swig of Butterbeer to chase away those thoughts.
Ron smiles at her from across the circle. She gives him a half-smile back — a drunken, lopsided, not-quite smile. Because they play Truth or Dare with Veritaserum and — well, she hates the game to begin with. So, under the cover of the mass of rearranging bodies and the chaos of alcohol-fueled whoops and hollers, she takes her leave. The uncrowded air of the hall is nice — she gulps it down, pleasantly surprised to find the jug of Butterbeer still clutched in her fist.
She giggles down at it. Lifts it up to see it in the light, watching the warm-colored liquid swirl against the glass. It makes her lean back too far — sends her stumbling and tripping a little. She skips to a halt. Regains her balance and begins to walk across the carpet as though on a balance beam, laughing to herself all the while. One foot across the other. Hands up at her sides.
Tipping this way. Tipping that way. But, somehow, she continues her balancing act all the way to the first floor corridor. Continues skipping and tiptoeing until she sees unusual light in the entryway to the Library. And so she tiptoes in — careens to one side halfway across the threshold and spills a little Butterbeer on her jeans. What little remains of her rational brain reminds her that the Library is closed — or should be.
A section devoted to the Dark Arts. She loves that section. Following the pattern of the floor like a game of hopscotch, she makes her way over, nursing the Butterbeer.
Books re-sorting themselves fly past her and over her head. One nearly knocks her over. But she dodges, skips again, trips and then sort of tumbles into the corner where the light is, a loud giggle bubbling up out of her throat. She straightens. Staggers her feet for balance and thrusts her curls out of her face. Malfoy is, of course, the source of the light. The ever-mysterious journal is here. And so is he. White shirt. Were it daytime, everything would look rather normal.
It sounds alright coming out to her ears, but she has to recognize that the world is sort of sideways at the moment. Her speech probably is, too. Again, like a statement of fact. Why does he say it like that? Decides to lean back against the table a little. And she takes another swig of Butterbeer before setting the jug down. But then she hiccups — and then she laughs again.
This side of her. They twitch a bit with the force of his confusion. Splutters for a moment, hand falling out of his pocket. Interesting, she thinks.
Have some. A loud snort. A very un-Hermione snort. He leans back against the windowsill behind him, diamond-shaped panes making a kaleidoscope of his reflection as he moves. To get drunk off Butterbeer. Sets down the jug and braces both hands on the table to heave herself up. And then she sits cross-legged, leaning on her palms. She lets her head hang back for a moment, enjoying the way it makes the world spin.
Not one bit. And she thrusts her head back up too fast — feels the blood rush out and for a moment things tint black. She laughs a little as the whole room flips before her eyes, thrusting both hands out in front of her to regain balance. The Butterbeer teeters but she saves it.
Saves it faster than she saved herself. She shrugs. Face even more so, when she manages to look at it. The slightest hint of humor. Then she smiles. A deep, mischievous smile. She holds up the jug, which has about a centimeter left in it, and swings it in front of him, victorious. When she looks back up at him, his expression is tight once more, this time drawn in around his eyes.
That damned tone her friends like to use on her. Even some of her Professors. With someone fragile and easily provoked. She hates that tone. Gasps at herself. The fate of the furious english dvdrip avc download torrent. If its theatrical run lasts until mid july that means it w. Fast furious 9 download movie free full type. Fast and furious 7 full movie download in p p p mkv. Fast and the furious 1: Press Download Toreent.
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