Somnium Perditum - A Dream Lost

Chapter 3: Memoriae Surgentes

TW: Domestic Violence, Sexual Assault

October: One week later (5th week of school)

Hermione

"Hi, Granger," Cormac McLaggen drawled as he slid into the seat across from her at the Gryffindor table. His self-satisfied smirk was as unwelcome as the sound of his voice.

Hermione's fingers tightened slightly around the handle of her goblet, but she didn't look up. The mention of her last name sent a jolt of irritation through her, but she would sooner drink a vial of Bubotuber pus than hear him call her by her first name.

"How have you been?" he pressed, leaning forward as if they were old friends catching up.

Hermione's stomach churned. His presence alone was enough to unsettle her, dredging up memories she'd tried hard to bury. Sixth year. His breath reeking of Firewhisky. His hand curling around her wrist. The alcove she'd been too polite—or too intimidated—to avoid. The way he'd pressed himself against her, lips uninvited, hands unrelenting. The way she'd frozen for just a moment too long before her instincts kicked in.

She had thrown him off with an Impedimenta and obliviated him on the spot, a decision she still questioned. But while he didn't seem to remember the incident, she did. She remembered all of it.

Pushing the memory away, she fixed her gaze on the Prophet in front of her, pretending to skim its pages while sipping her orange juice. Ignoring him was the best course of action.

Cormac, of course, didn't take the hint.

"So," he said, his tone turning mockingly casual, "Weasley and Potter didn't come back for their eighth year, huh? You came without your lackeys? Or did the Ministry didn't have room in the Auror program for the great Hermione Granger? Want me to talk to uncle Tiberius?"

Hermione's jaw tightened, her teeth gritting against the sharp edge of his words. She hated the way he said her name, drawing it out as though mocking its weight, its meaning. He flaunted his sense of entitlement with every smirk, every comment, as if the world owed him its undivided attention. He almost made Malfoy seem like an angel.

At least Malfoy had the decency to stay in his lane, only biting when provoked. He didn't hover or try to insert himself into her space unless absolutely necessary. When he sneered, it was quick and cutting, not drawn out like McLaggen's oily persistence. And, unlike McLaggen, Malfoy didn't try to sweeten his insults with false charm. She almost respected him for that. Almost.

"I chose not to, McLaggen," she said curtly, her voice low and cold. "There's a difference."

He smirked, undeterred, clearly enjoying her irritation. His confidence was maddening, his arrogance oozing out of every word and movement.

"Well," he said, drawing the word out lazily, "since Weasley isn't here, I thought you might care to join me at Madam Puddifoot's this Hogsmeade weekend. Unless, of course, you're holding out for Potter."

Hermione's hand froze midway to her goblet. Her head snapped up, her eyes narrowing as they locked onto his. The audacity of him.

"I would rather spend the weekend with a Blast-Ended Skrewt," she snapped, her voice sharp enough to cut through the chatter of the hall.

Cormac didn't flinch. If anything, her rejection seemed to amuse him further. He leaned back, draping an arm over the bench as though her words had been a flirtation instead of a dismissal.