Wanderer

Running Blood

           

Chapter Twelve- Running Blood

It was three weeks before Hermione heard anything back from Professor McGonagall.

Snow had fallen silently one night and carpeted the grounds ever since, wrapping the shivering trees in their seasonal coats, and forcing the students to wear their thickest cloaks at all times. The winter chill would creep its way into the castle, through the nooks and crannies in the walls, nibbling at exposed flesh, striking goosebumps. Hermione made sure she kept her earmuffs and gloves with her everywhere she went, just in case her fingers started to go numb. Sometimes, they would hurt so much, she couldn't even write her notes in class. Winter had arrived, and it had come with a vengeance.

Throughout it all, however, there was something quiet and serene about it. The Black Lake glistened with a thin sheen of dark ice. Snowmen would pop up between lessons only to be ceremoniously destroyed the day after. Fires crackled in every hearth and there was a buzz in the corridors in the lead-up to Christmas. Hermione wasn't sure she really shared in their excitement. She had nowhere to go. Harry and Ron still hadn't made their minds up about their plans. There were only four weeks left! It irked her to no end that they were slipshod enough to leave all their preparations till the last minute.

Most likely, Hermione thought, she would stay at Hogwarts. The quiet in the library might do her some good and she was acutely aware that this would be her last Christmas at the castle.

She wasn't sure what Malfoy would do. She wasn't sure if he had a home to go back to, or if the Ministry had seized it and warded it off to raid for their investigation in building a case against the Malfoy's. She wasn't sure what had happened to his mother for he hadn't mentioned her once since their conversation about nightmares and spoon tricks in the kitchen. His father was locked up in Azkaban. There was no point pondering on that charge.

Still, Malfoy didn't say and Hermione didn't ask. They met every week, tried to meet most nights but their workload was increasing and they needed the library more and more. Hermione had half the mind to suggest they just study together, but she knew it would make him draw deeper into himself and the thought of being seen in public with him, and the rumours that would follow, had made her grimace and shut the thought down immediately. Every time she saw his sterile, blond hair through a bookshelf, she would divert her eyes and pretend to be interested in the book above her head.

It wasn't that she was ashamed of him. Hermione was always quick to tell that to herself. It would simply complicate- whatever it was they had.

And sometimes, it was nice to have a secret. Something to keep to herself. Something untouchable.

It was a Wednesday morning. Hermione had been trying to eat breakfast in the Great Hall more often, not least because Ginny kept making pointed comments about putting a tracking spell on her at all times to make sure she was looking after herself. Hermione rolled her eyes but neglected to point out that she only turned up because she had to make sure a certain stubborn Slytherin was looking after himself.

He wasn't at Breakfast. Hermione had noticed as soon as she'd entered the Great Hall. There was a spot next to Blaise Zabini, on the very end of the table, suspiciously empty. She caught Zabini's eye, and he glanced at the space beside him and back at her, raising an eyebrow. She shrugged, turning away, but her heart raced.

"Morning, sleepy head," said Neville, grinning up at her as she slid onto the bench beside him. "How're you feeling?"

"Fine," she replied, filling her plate. "How are you? How's your Herbology project coming along?"