"What was that about?" he asked in an uncertain voice, regarding her expectantly.
"It's a Muggle tradition," Hermione clarified automatically, knowing it wasn't something the wizarding community was familiar with. "It means…
That I want to spend the year with you…
It means that you are important to me…
It means that I want to keep you…
"It means nothing," she lied as a second thought. "It's just…it's just something Muggles do on New Year's Eve."
She could see he was reluctant to accept her explanation, but he simply rolled his eyes disapprovingly and shrugged his shoulders. "Muggles really are bizarre," he remarked, gesturing for her to settle back between his thighs. "Come on, Granger. I'm actually quite curious to find out what happens to the 'star-crossed lovers.'"
Hermione barely managed to suppress her cringe. "You know what happens," she murmured. "They die."
.
.
She glided her fingers across the army of books in the restricted section of the library, scrutinising the titles that had any indication that they might contain any reference to Horcruxes. She finally selected an ancient-looking text that was withering in her hand before she turned and headed back to her dorm. She'd woken up alone this morning, and had decided she had a good few hours to continue her research before Draco emerged from his room later on.
New Year's Day assured that Hogwarts' corridors were barren and silent, and the afternoon was slowly pushing into the evening, which meant the remaining residents were probably all in their respective rooms, so Hermione was a little surprised when she spotted a figure urgently rushing towards her.
"Miss Granger, there you are," McGonagall breathed with apparent relief. "I need to talk with you."
Dread bubbled in her stomach as she absorbed the older witch's flustered behaviour. "Is something wrong?"
"I'm afraid there is," the Headmistress admitted in a grave tone. "Let's go to my office, I can explain it to you there."
Hermione barely had a moment to protest before McGonagall turned on her heel and began stalking back the way she'd come. "What is it, professor?" she questioned nervously, met only by silence as she tried to keep up. "Professor-
"I need to show you," she called over her shoulder.
Hermione's heart was rattling around her ribs by the time they reached the Head's office, and she followed McGonagall inside with trembling legs and a thousand questions. "Take a seat-
"I'd rather stand," Hermione declined, eyeing her teacher impatiently. "What's going on? You're frightening me."
McGonagall offered her an apologetic glance before she reached for the newspaper on her desk and handed it to the younger witch. Hermione's eyes scanned the Daily Prophet's front page, willing her mind to stop racing so she could properly make sense of the black, white and greys mingling together to create ominous words and shifting photographs. She skimmed over the article; the content barely registering in her head before she felt her heart shrink and snap.
She raised her watering eyes to McGonagall and tried to find her broken voice. "All…all of them? Dead?"
"Yes," the Headmistress nodded sullenly. "I'm sorry, Hermione, but I think it may be time."
.
.
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