Tainted - {d.m. & h.g.}

eleven - tattered books | golden doors

(the party scene will be in the next chapter because i originally didn't have one planned for this one, and you guys requested it...don't hate me)

song: and the snakes start to sing - bring me the horizon

The rubber soles of her shoes brush through the leaves as she makes her way toward the quaint bookstore.

The Calming Draught has now successfully dissolved from her bloodstream, leaving her on edge; each step she takes shakier than the previous.

She catches a passing glimpse Ron, Seamus, and Dean tossing a Quaffle in an alleyway between two buildings, and she's hit with the realization that if she didn't have Ginny, she'd be completely outcasted.

And although Ginny would never admit it— Hermione can tell she's already getting tired of her.

Ginny's extroverted; in fact, she thrives from being social.

It's how she's chosen to wrap her demons— by wrapping them in new friends, social gatherings, and dark pubs with too loud music; and simply ignoring them.

Hermione tried that method, but her wrapping paper turned out to be much too brittle.

She'd rather be alone.

She can see the way Ginny's mates make a point to avoid speaking to her when she's with Hermione— an awkward wave given instead of a greeting hug.

Because who in their right mind would want to be associated with the golden girl— or the now rumored alcoholic thanks to Skeeter and her antics.

She rolls her eyes at the thought of the big-mouthed woman and is suddenly thankful she hasn't had a run-in with the Queen of the Quills or any of her walking minions since returning to school.

She steps up brick threshold and pushes the windowed door of the little bookstore ajar with the palm of her hand; the smell of incense and old parchment immediately fills her senses.

The bookstore is dimly lit; the only lighting emitting from the front windows and candles lit sporadically throughout the shop.

It's quiet, aside from the creaky door slowly closing itself.

The shop is vacant aside from an elderly couple that are idly chatting over an open book in the far corner; cozy in a two-seated wooden table.

She's thankful for the emptiness— needs time alone to clear her head.

She finds a small table in the back corner, sets her satchel on its surface to claim the space; and unbuttons her blazer, shrugs it off, and drapes it across the back of the chair.

She strides directly toward the non-fiction shelves, immersing herself into the dark rows of books.

She's mentally going over the titles and authors of texts she'd seen in previous that discuss occlumency; she runs her fingers across the spines as she searches, letting the various textures of cloth and leather bindings run against the pads of her fingertips in rhythm.

Her hand is moving at such an even pace across the books, she's startled when her fingers get caught in a cubby where a book appears to be shoved on its side, leaving a space of emptiness in its wake.

She rolls her eyes, as it's obvious the book had been carelessly slammed into the space— probably a result of a student leaving the shop in a hurry.

She lifts it from its side with her index finger, up righting it to align with the rest of the books. She sighs heavily in satisfaction to see the book back in its rightful position.