Diem Mortis | Dramione

Eight.

Hermione was washing blood from her hands in the sink.

She drained the basin and watched the water sink away into the hole in the middle. It left the white resin of the sink stained with the blood of the heart she had dissected just minutes ago in her class, with her own thumping so violently in her chest it felt it was going to jump from her skin.

Though her hands were clean, stark white and wrinkled from the sheer amount of water she had let run over them, they still felt stained, dirty – riddled with the afterlife.

Even if it had been from just an animal. Even if it was all for an exam. It had still felt raw, painful, disgusting, another reminder of death in a new way, one of pointless killing, for no reason other than to let a student study it for a test.

A test Hermione was sure she had not even passed. She had burnt the brew the first time, realising her flame had been too hot for the density of the potion. Then she had added too many arteries, too focused on the disgusting feeling of the heart matter to focus properly on what she was meant to be doing.

Not to mention that she had added two nettles rather than one when she had let her eyes stray over to Draco who was working vigorously on the table opposite her. He had been more focused than anyone, eyes not daring to go anywhere but his cauldron, hands not going anywhere but the blade and ladle on his table.

She hated herself for hoping that he would glance up at her, even for the smallest of seconds.

"Your hands will fall off if you keep scrubbing them like that." There was a voice beside her, she looked to see Ginny smirking at her against the edge of the neighbouring sink.

"Would that be so bad?" Hermione quirked back, finally turning off the tap.

"It's just blood, I don't know why you're so bothered," Ginny rolled her eyes and trailed after Hermione on her descent to the common room. "Plus, it's not like you haven't had to dissect animal parts for a potion before."

Hermione fell into a chair by the fire and sighed at the relief of the warm, golden flames against her cold, restless skin.

"I just hadn't been expecting it to be that potion."

Ginny shrugged and pulled her feet up onto the sofa she had fallen into on the other side of the fireplace. She began to massage her feet, clawing out the bumps in her muscles from her practice on the Quidditch pitch.

"Harry said he misses you," Ginny said after a moment of silence. "He said it was a shame you couldn't make it."

Hermione's stomach dropped like a stone in water, and she gulped down bile in her throat.

"Is that so?" She pulled a book onto her lap to have somewhere to train her eyes, anywhere other than the speculating look on Ginny's speckled face. "How is he?"

What she meant was: How will he die? Will it be painful? Will it be quick? But she foolishly remembered that Ginny would not know. Ginny was unbounded by the foul, putrid words above her own head.

"He had a huge gash on the side of his cheek. I nearly screamed when I first stepped through the floo." Ginny waved a hand, pale fingers dancing in the firelight, each freckle on her knuckles sparkling like stars. "Turns out he did it to himself while training, slipped and fell onto the tip of his wand. Such a prat, honestly."

"Will it scar?" Hermione asked, trying to keep the conversation far away from her 'visit' with him she had lied about. "It would be best for him not to ruin his lovely little face."

"Another scar to add to the collection wouldn't be so bad, would be rather badass," Ginny pointed to her forehead and made a zigzagging type of motion. His lightning bolt scar. It suddenly made Hermione miss Harry tremendously and the guilt of refusing a visit with him began to creep up on her. "But no, it wasn't too deeply cut. He should be scar-free."