Death Eater, Slytherin... Poet?

The Ninth Poem

I stirred, a headache making me dizzy. Hangover. I tried to sit up, but my head hurt too much to move.

So instead, I propped myself on the bed. I was sitting on a plain white hotel one, wearing the same clothes from the night before. I wiped away a few stray strands of hair as I tried to clear my mind.

What on earth happened?

I slowly pieced together what had happened last night. A drink at the bar — no, more than one drink. Several. A handsome stranger who talked to me. A note..

You're better than this, Granger.

Who would write such a note? Not Harry, or Ginny, or anyone that I knew. In fact, I was pretty sure that they'd talk to me in person, or at the very least, address me as Hermione.

But then again, who would know my last name? I had been in the muggle world — and still was, from the looks of this hotel room — and barely knew any muggles.

I turned to the side, seeing a nightstand and pieces of parchment on it.

Wait.

Pieces of parchment?

A shudder went through me. I couldn't believe it. My.. poems..?

I sat up quickly, and then groaned. It felt as if dozens of hammers were knocking against my head. This was why I rarely drank so much.

Hesitantly, I stretched a hand towards the poems, as if afraid that they would suddenly vanish. When my hand closed around them, and they didn't disappear, my grip tightened. "My poems," I breathed, feeling as if a large weight had been lifted from my chest.

Joy spread through me as I brought them closer, reading the hastily scrawled words. They're back.

I sat there on the large bed, uncaring that I still had no idea how I had ended up in this room. "They're back," I said out loud, as if confirming it.

As I flipped through the old, crumpled parchment, I paused. A newer piece of parchment, with dark green ink, was in between two of my poems.

Your poems are beautiful, Granger.

I blinked, slowly. Instinct told me that I could be dealing with a creepy stalker, or a muggle that had been watching me in the bar. But the words were written in the same slanted handwriting that I'd seen in the note from the bar.

I read the poem beneath the compliment, my headache lessening as I did so.

When I finished, I lay back against the pillows and shook my head in amazement. Who was this person?

I turned the paper over and saw more words written. The Leaky Cauldron. Eleven o'clock today.

I looked around the room, assessing the situation. I definitely was the only person here.. but someone must have carried me here. For some reason, an image of someone that resembled Ron appeared in my mind, and I blushed.

It wouldn't be him, Hermione, I snapped to myself. Get a grip. Ron wouldn't watch you in a muggle bar, carry you to a hotel, and write a poem. He wouldn't even have my poems.

Which led to an unsettling question..

Who did?

Who took my poems and returned them like this?

I tried to stand and get off the bed, but the pain in my head worsened and I let out a drawn out sigh. I need a shower, or a cup of coffee. But most of all.. I need time.