Pairing(s): Hermione Granger & Draco Malfoy
Series: 1 Million For Black!Hermione
Rating(s): Explicit Violence
I don’t advocate for violence, but sometimes, there’s a place for it. There may also be a small Eminem reference. Bonus points if you can spot it!
“Do you ever wash your face or are you just perpetually dirty?”
Hermione let out a deep breath. She bathed regularly and in much better quality products than Pansy she was sure. The English weren’t exactly known for rich soaps and lotions, wizarding or not.
Pansy was as pale as a sheet of muggle printing paper where Hermione looked as though she’d been crafted from the richest soil in the world and dusted with gold. She’d done just a little extra today while bathing that morning. A little pop for her downturned mood by using a special scrub she’d picked up on her post-war travels. She was back at Hogwarts, sailing through her classes like she knew she would and enjoying the regularity of classes again, the calm of having a routine that didn’t include warding their sleeping area and fearing for her life.
“What are those bargain bin robes?”
Of course, they were. Why would she pay full price for something she was going to grow out of in about three months and would have no more need for after this year? Her parents raised a woman, not a fool. With the way she was regaining weight, she’d be needing a new set or needing to enlarge these to last until the end of the year. The prospect was warming. Maybe she’d recognize herself in the mirror again.
“What’s with your shoes? Are they muggle too?”
They were very muggle, very cheap, and enhanced with all sorts of comfort charms. They were good shoes. More importantly, they had been her mother’s. She knew about what percentage of her wardrobe was now made of her mother’s clothes and how much of her father’s clothing she’d been forced to give away. Hermione let out a calming breath around the stab of guilt and pain that had shot through her.
She didn’t deserve to wear them. It was her fault that Monica Granger could never wear them again. All the protections she had planned had come too late. Death Eaters had found them, tortured them and most of the neighborhood, and rigged the house to alert them whenever someone came.
It had been good thinking and careful curse-breaking that had saved her life and allowed her to put them to rest.
“And that hair, don’t you ever comb it? For the brains of the Golden Trio, you would think you had enough sense to at least comb your hair.”
She combed this mass of curls every day. Once, she’d had faith that one day they’d stop conflating hair texture with hygiene; until then, it seemed that even with the war nothing changed. Wizards and witches who grew up in the wizarding world still looked down on people like her and Harry who grew up without magic. Seemed that the term mudblood, while not used as often, was very much a real marker of how worthy she was of respect.
To think, she’d bled for these people.
“You hear me talking to you?”
Fought for these people, lost nearly everything for people like Pansy who didn’t know when to stop and couldn’t see beyond their insecurities. Who had the nerve to still be a bully after wanting to hand Harry over to that monster who would have killed everyone like her to save her skin?
Her parents had died for this wench.
Pansy shrieked and collapsed, “My nose, you bitch!”
Hermione kneeled over her, shoving her flat. She tangled one hand in her flat bob as Pansy grabbed her hand.
Pansy kicked and struggled and something wet splattered across her face.
A voice that sounded like her mother was telling her to stop, but she couldn’t heed it. There was a satisfying, immeasurably carnal and savage delight to the feeling of Pansy’s bones caving beneath her fist.
Monica had been a good woman. William had been a good man. Their only crime had been having her. Their only crime was the very muscle and bone she was using to beat Pansy’s face in, and it would never be absolved.
It would never be okay.
She could never be forgiven because they were dead.
Dead for a daughter who should have been able to protect them.
Dead for people who didn’t give a damn about them. Her neighbors and countless police officers, and it was all Hermione’s fault.
Pansy cried out and twisted, reaching for her wand. Hermione shifted and dropped her knee onto Pansy’s hand. Pansy shrieked as her wand rolled away. Hermione continued to punch her as the corridor filled with noises and gasps. Someone went to get a professor, she was sure, but she didn’t care. She’d had enough.
The wizarding world, while grateful, had never apologized, never made moves to change their ways, never saw the pain and suffering that could have been avoided if they had simply learned to be human first.
She’d gone the route of reporting the persistent bullying. She’d tried to follow the rules and nothing happened even before the war because no one fucking cared enough. She thought that with the end of the war, people would have been inclined to change, but no. No. No.
She waved her hand to send a Slytherin girl into a wall as she tried to hex Hermione.
The rules had never really helped anyone. They hadn’t helped her, her parents, her neighbors, Harry, Ron, Ginny– they had never helped anyone who truly needed them. The rules served those who enforced them, but wizarding rules said nothing about a good, old-fashioned, passionate, Muggle ass-kicking, and in the act of forgetting that witches had fists, as well as wands, muscles as well as minds, perhaps the rules, would manage to serve her just this once by letting her beat this silly little girl into the stone floors of Hogwarts castle.
She’d been through enough. The war, losing her parents, losing damn near everything. She just wanted to graduate in peace and try to move on with her sad life, and Pansy fucking Parkinson hadn’t grown even an iota since the first year. She had it coming as far as Hermione was concerned and that would be exactly what she told the professor who would ask.
Another person moved towards her, one of Pansy’s friends she was sure, and Hermione caught her in the face with an elbow as she stood and dragged Pansy along the floor by her hair, kicking and screaming. Someone else grabbed her shoulders, and she swung, hard and angry until the girl fell and she stood alone in a group of three Slytherin girls, crying about their broken noses and injuries. She didn’t say anything more after delivering one more kick to Pansy’s face and leaving her there with her stooges.
She grabbed her bag, sent a meaningful look to the spectators, and headed to her next class. She took a seat in her chair in Herbology and held her head high.
She looked at Draco with narrowed eyes, waiting for him to say something out of turn and be her very next victim.
He grinned a grin that reached his eyes unlike the years of sneers and posturing smirks between them, “Good job.”
She frowned, and he took the seat beside her, “I wondered when you were going to sock someone else in the face. I was beginning to feel special.”
Hermione regarded him, waiting for the trick, but apparently, the war had changed some people since he merely turned back towards the front as class began.
It was then that she realized that they were the only two prominent names in the war in the class; two of the most prominent names that had returned to school. Hermione had been on one side; Draco had been on the other, but that didn’t change that they were both out of place with scars that may never heal.
She looked down to his arm where the Dark Mark still sat beneath scars she knew were self-inflicted. The Malfoy family had gone through a lot because of Lucius’s prejudice.
She nodded and looked at Draco, “Thank you.”
He nodded and they turned back to listening to Madame Sprout’s lecture on the intricacies of Viking Blue Bonnets.