The Anti-Heroine || A Harry Potter Fanfiction

Chapter XLIV

CHAPTER XLIV:

Hermione's POV:

Hermione was unsurprised by the party currently going on in the Slytherin common room as she and Harry spoke the password to open the entrance.

Harry was a miserable presence at her side, had been since leaving the Great Hall– hell, since his name had been chosen– and Hermione wasn't much better, except her reaction was leaning towards anger; a burning, simmering fury low in her stomach, just waiting for the wrong words, the wrong action or movement to turn it bright and sharp.

The blast of noise that met her ears when common room opened, loud enough it felt like it almost knocked her backward, was enough to do just that. Her fingers twitched dangerously, and she landed a murderous glare on the cretin who tried to drape a Slytherin banner over Harry's shoulders like a cloak as everyone cheered and eagerly approached them.

"How'd you do it?" a pale, dark-haired, underfed-looking Slytherin boy in sixth year demanded. Hermione was pretty sure his name was Quentin something. Runcorn, maybe, or Rowle.

"Come on, Potter, tell us!" one of the Quidditch players cheered, approaching with a plate of food he all but shoved in their direction.

She wasn't surprised when Harry pretty much exploded beside her, just that he'd done it before she had. "I didn't!" he exclaimed, angered and frustrated. "I didn't enter my bloody name in the bloody Tournament! For Merlin's sake, I don't fancy going around and tempting fate– why would I go to all the effort of making trouble when I can just wait for trouble to find me?"

"Come on you two," Blaise hastily shepherded them to a quieter area of the common room in one of the further corners of the large room, close to one of the many fireplaces burning like red jewels in the bland grey. Hermione sat stiffly on one of the common room's leather armchairs, pulling her wand from her pocket to cast several silencing charms that thankfully subdued the ear-splittingly loud music around them, at least to a degree.

Harry sat down next to her, packed tight in the small place so that they were touching, a comforting presence at her side, their bodies pressed together, shoulders to hips, thighs to ankles. Around them, Blaise, Theo, Draco and Daphne had settled. From all four faces, Hermione was pleased to see the appropriate levels of concern the others around them lacked. 

"Moody thinks someone's trying to kill me." Harry said bluntly, and Hermione felt something inside her twist violently at the words. "Reckon he's just being his usual paranoid arsehole self?" her green-eyed best friend asked the others hopefully.

"Well can you think of anyone who wants you dead?" Daphne suggested sensibly, her pretty face creased with worry.

"Surprisingly, no," Harry admitted, with a frown. "Well, any Death Eaters who, you know, don't know about the whole Truce deal might want me dead, but not enough to break into Hogwarts to enchant the Goblet so my name was guaranteed to come out. Hermione?" he turned to her, and she could see the strain on his face. "Can you think of anyone?" he asked earnestly.

She tilted her head thoughtfully. "Select members of the Weasley family may hate you enough to actually want you dead, but I don't think any of them have the guts to actually do something about it. Nor are they capable of enchanting the Goblet– we all saw the twins fail to enter themselves. Other then that, I can't think of anyone you've pissed off enough to want you dead. Which gives more credence to my theory."

"Yeah, that Dumbledore's involved." Harry grumbled.

"Well he's certainly an interfering old bastard who can't leave anything alone," Blaise agreed. "But I don't think he actually wants you dead, Harry."