BONE DEEP

Every day, a little bit

There were a great many things that captivated Hermione Granger in her first year at Hogwarts, but Draco Malfoy was not one of them.

She knew from the second they met that they would not be friends. So she'd focused her attention on the things that mattered more, catching up to her non-muggle-born peers- exceeding them, even- and cultivating friendships with Harry Potter and Ronald Weasley, despite the trouble they always seemed to find themselves in. By the time her vision tunnelled to land on Nicolas Flamel and the Philosopher's Stone, she could hardly remember the voice of the pompous boy who had made a fool of himself in the Forbidden Forest. When she returned home that summer, still reeling from the shock of surviving the gauntlet and the ache of knowing she'd have to put a lid on her magic until school began again, she'd all but forgotten about the boy entirely.

In her second year, though, she got to know him very quickly- very quickly indeed.

She'd arrived that year with a burning desire to progress her magical education and an overwhelming relief to be reunited with her friends, who knew her in a way her friends at home, or even her parents, never could. Whereas Draco Malfoy arrived with only hatred in abundance; he was angrier than he had been the year before, his lip curled higher, his eyes narrowed further, and his voice carried with false confidence through the ancient stone hallways of the school grounds.

When he first called her Mudblood he hadn't even blinked, and her reply came to her silently, but clearly- I know you, I see through you, I see the hate that lives within you. Every time he tried to work his way under her skin that year she heard those words ringing true in her ears, and it squashed any attempts at intimidation; it was difficult to be scared of someone she pitied. Especially when there was a real threat in the walls, a real reason to check the corners. Draco might have carried that hate within him, but the Basilisk was the physical manifestation of it, and she didn't have enough time to worry about them both.

Time, however, was something she had no shortage of come her third year.

She'd never felt so exhausted, never had her plate so full, never felt quite as much pressure as she had that year- and yet, she loved it. That year tested her in every way; her friendships, her dedication to education, her moral fibre, her supposed Gryffindor bravery. The magical world had not lost its shine, but she'd been in it long enough at that point for her eyes to have adjusted; she saw the cracks, and it was becoming very difficult to ignore them. Unfamiliar feelings boiled within her; rage, as she'd never felt before, manifesting in ways she'd never expected.

Like when she'd smacked Draco Malfoy across his spiteful face after he'd insulted Hagrid. She'd felt the sting in her palm for hours after, and it felt good. Malfoy didn't know her, he had no idea how hard she had to work, how alone she often felt, how strong she had become despite it. But she knew him, down to his bones. And so, the memory of his muffled whimper as he ran from her palm served only to remind her of her capabilities, even in her darkest moments of doubt.

Fourth year was different, for everyone.

The tournament took precedence over the whole year, and there was no way to rest once it was over, for she knew that it was only a matter of time before she and her friends would have to pick up their wands and fight. Everything that had come before then suddenly seemed so small, so light, almost jovial, in the face of everything that lay waiting for them in the years to come.

Draco Malfoy, bitter and repugnant as he always was, had managed to surprise her that year. He'd warned her about the Death Eater riot at the World Cup, urging Harry and Ronald to shelter her in his own skewed way. And when she'd wrangled herself into that periwinkle dress and marched into the Yule Ball on the arm of Viktor Krum, he'd looked. Not just once, either. He'd looked all night; watching over the shoulder of Pansy Parkinson when they were dancing, he'd looked through his glass of wassail, he'd looked with a curled lip and a furrowed brow and a sheen in his eyes that she could only describe as distinctly other. When she'd curled up at the bottom of the stone steps at the end of the evening, visceral hurt in her veins after her fight with Ronald, he'd looked then too. He'd stopped as he made to walk by, he'd stared like he wanted to say something- mockery on his tongue, no doubt- but in the end, he'd let her be, just that once.