The Ice Bowl | dramione

Portraits

Malfoy's hand had fingernail marks on it.

Malfoy's hand had fingernail marks on it.

Red, half-moon blemishes, spaced perfectly apart, they were right there on his pale skin, contrasting like red blood on white snow. And Hermione knew she had put them there. She had seen those same marks on her hands and absent-mindedly traced over them a thousand times. When she was sleeping, she must have grabbed his hand. It was the only explanation, and one she really didn't like. Thankfully, she hadn't done it so tightly that his hand had started to bleed, since the metal handrail of the staircase they were on was completely dry, as she had done that to herself on very many occasions. Mostly, that was unintentional. Occasionally, though, the sight of slight, self-inflicted gore satisfied her in a sickening way.

When Hermione heard the words, 'dark secret,' she typically thought of Harry's extremely bottled-up childhood trauma, although he always referred to it as his 'villain origin story,' or maybe how Ginny still secretly liked Neville, despite the growing obviousness of Ron's attraction to him. The point being, she did not think she would ever have a secret anywhere near that type of thing. But she had clearly grasped his hand while she slept, probably because of one of the constant nightmares.

"Alright, everyone. Please take your seats." said the announcer.

Hermione blinked as her thoughts faded back into reality. How long had she been in this state of derealization? She had no memory of even walking to her seat, but everyone else around her was chatting brightly and comfortably, as though they had been here for ages. She watched as Harry held an awkward conversation with the Magical Law Enforcement Barty Crouch's house-elf, Winky. Winky's eyes were sullen and tired, yet had a panicky, almost overwhelmed look in them. In a very odd, strange way, the small elf reminded Hermione of herself, too stressed to think about her own needs, too focused on other people to even think about taking some time to herself. Putting aside the anger that had been burning inside her for quite some time now (why were wizards using elves as what were essentially slaves?), she realised that the expression on her face was much too reminiscent of her actual thoughts. She put on a fake, plastic smile, and finally took her seat.

At least the game was fantastic.

"Oh my God, it's Krum!" said Ron, as Viktor Krum, the Bulgarian Seeker who was admittedly quite dashing (perhaps Ron's taste in guys wasn't so bad after all) flew into the arena on his fine Firebolt. Red colours swirled around his frame, and with his striking features and gleaming Bulgarian Quidditch team uniform, he looked like a piece of art, a portrait.

"The game hasn't even started yet and you're already going insane over a slightly attractive guy." Hermione joked, laughing as though her consciousness wasn't literally breaking down inside of her.

"What can I say? I don't have a lot of options around here." Hermione smiled at Ron's response, despite knowing that he still had way more romantic prospects than she ever would get.

"You seem very attracted to him too, you know." Ron continued.

"Well, yes, but in a 'celebrity crush' way, you know? I don't know anything about him besides the fact that he's kind of hot, and besides, he's, what, eighteen, nineteen? Way too old for me to ever pursue."

"I guess you're right."

"I always am."

"Guys, I'm going to insert myself into your conversation now because Malfoy keeps giving me these looks from up there and it's creeping me out." Harry suddenly interjected.

Ron smirked. "Maybe he has a crush on you."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Or he's just, you know, a weirdo." she said, her voice coming out uncharacteristically petulant. Harry gave her a strange look. "Maybe Hermione's the one who has a crush." he teased.

"I do not."

Meanwhile, the Bulgarian team quickly got in the lead, but Hermione knew they would lose. Despite knowing nothing about Quidditch, she had watched her friends play for years, analysing their every movement. Also, she had reread Quidditch Through the Ages about a hundred times, and she knew every theoretical thing about the game. Sometimes she wished she could play, but as she watched the carefully coordinated movements of the Irish seeker, she knew two things. One, she was way too scared to ever even step onto a broomstick, and two, the Irish team was definitely winning.

"Ireland's going to win." she whispered to Harry and Ron.

"Come on, Bulgaria's got Viktor Krum on their side!" said Harry. "It's practically impossible for them to not win."

"Just wait and see." Hermione smiled.

"With all due respect, Hermione, how would you know? Quidditch Through the Ages can't teach you everything." said Ron.

"You guys only know about Quidditch from your own experience. You have to be objective here."

"Agree to disagree, I guess." said Harry, and both Ron and Hermione nodded.

Flashes of green and red swooped all across the stadium in a Christmas-coloured blur. Hermione, Harry and the Weasleys all watched as the Bulgarian Chaser scrambled to not fall off his broom and the Irish Keeper seamlessly evaded the Bludger that had been sloppily sent his way. Hermione smirked as her friends watched in shock.

"I told you they were going to win."

"I guess we owe you an apology." said Harry, and just as he did, the Irish Seeker caught the Golden Snitch.

"Apology accepted." said Hermione, laughing at Ron's half-open mouth.

Clouds of Irish green smoke spread across the stands, and for the first time in a long time, Hermione felt happy.