September 10th, 1991
Hermione Granger was not one to cry easily. In fact, Hermione usually only cried out of frustration or anger. She wasn’t prone to letting people get to her. Not for their lack of trying, but because Hermione had to choose: give in to bullies who mock her for learning and learning well to spend her days feigning her personality or she could learn to take a hit —both literal and figurative. Hermione was not going to give up her books, not when her family was ever so brilliant.
That was why it had been a hard start of term. Not the bullies. In fact, prior to today —when she found herself covered in a film of top soil— the worst of it had been snide comments from Slytherins. But that she had found herself chatting with the genuine Hufflepuffs and studying with Ravenclaws that seemed just as brilliant as her family. They were kind and Hermione had gaps in her magic, she knew it. It had been just shy of a year since she had received her letter, after all. And though Deputy Headmistress McGonagall had given the Grangers the basics, it was not truly enough to make the wizarding world feel like home. Or, at least not Hermione’s home. She missed her mothers bread pudding on the first day of term, and watching football with her father. And Hermione loved to learn charms and transfiguration and herbology, but it was all so new. So different.
Now, Hermione found herself with her fist balled up and trying to hold back tears of frustration as she headed back to Gryffindor Tower to wash and clean her clothes. She still had some time before Charms.
Draco and Medea Malfoy had not left a very warm impression on Hermione, of that she was sure. But if Hermione was truthful, she didn’t really care much about Draco Malfoy at all. He’d said something snide to that boy Neville when he’d seen him fall, and liked to be mean, but Hermione could always remember Medea’s harsh gaze and ice blonde hair. It was as if instead of the white blonde of her brother, her hair had taken her chilly personality into consideration and could only be described as just that -ice blonde.
On the train, Malfoy had seemed harsh but not malicious. ‘You aren’t in the muggle world anymore, act like it. Muggleborns need to accept that.’ It had made Hermione doubt her abilities then, as if being muggleborns would make her worse off. It was the precise reason she had spent the past year studying every wizard book she could convince her parents to buy from Diagon Alley. But after the sorting and the following feast, Hermione had thought about those words. What they meant.
It sounded like good advice. Especially when Hermione was in the common room and one of the fireplaces had been neglected and needed to be lit. She had looked around for fire starter for ages until she head Medea’s voice say ‘this isn’t the muggle world. What would a witch do?’ And found a second year to cast incendio. She had yet to see it demonstrated and she wasn’t actually allowed to cast any charms the past year. Only read.
She had thought perhaps her and Medea could be friends. Perhaps the coldness of her was simply a wall to overcome. Only, Hermione had seen her with the other Slytherins, not nearly as cold. She saw how Medea’s eyes never even so much as landed on her.
After today, though, Hermione had decided she had no interest in someone who could be vile for no reason. But it was a surprise that Medea knew her name.
-
Draco watched as his sister stared down at her dinner plate —chicken, rice, and some kind of vegetable he couldn’t see from his own seat. He could almost see the hesitation in her before she began eating and chatting. It wasn’t until he overheard Parkinson ask a peculiar question that he really focused in, ignoring Theo, Vince, and Greg.
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“What did Snape want?”
Draco, despite his anger and hurt, felt his stomach drop.
He knew Medea had skipped meals in the great hall on Saturday. And a few dinners the previous week. It was, of course, a red flag for the Malfoys. For Severus. But the look on Dea’s face all but confirmed it. Whatever she said was about to be a lie.
To most, Dea’s small expressions are impossible to fully decode. To Draco, he knew. He knew when it was a mask. Or when her mask wouldn’t come back up. He knew when she wanted to be genuine. When it was all she could do to be numb. And now, he knew Snape had noticed her absence. It was not that Draco did not know that Medea had gone running. It was that he did not allow himself to think she went running for long.
She was supposed to be smarter than that.
Draco felt the rock in him sink lower. The same panic that came years ago that caused him to go accidental for the first time. The same panic that reaches through him whenever Lucius tells him to do better —to be better. The same panic that wrapped around him when he realized Medea had replaced him with Parkinson and Greengrass the first chance she got.
Medea had always told him they were inseparable. Inevitable. Immortal. They were bound by something stronger than magic —bound by Destiny and Fate as one. But Draco had always known Medea was saying it to soothe him. He never spoke about the panic that would grow within him, not to anyone. Medea had simply known. When Lucius gave Draco his wand at the young age of seven to practice wand movements and Draco had destroyed a twelve hundred year old tapestry leading to Lucius venomously telling Draco a Malfoy is in control —Medea found him not a breath later to tell him how bright he was, how fast he learned to ride a broom, how they completed each other.
Draco had always thought that if it had been anyone else, if perhaps Vince was born as Draco instead, Medea would do the same. That it wasn’t Draco that she cared for. It was simply that they were the only two in the Manor. No younger sibling, no older. Cousins long locked up in Azkaban or disinherited.
But if that was the case, horror dawned on Draco, why had she gone to run. And for Severus to call on Medea, despite the fact that Medea actively avoided him at the Manor, it must have been more than half a day. Medea ran when she was in distress. At first, Draco had simply thought she was energetic and it was just another pastime. But as they got older, he noticed she ran more when Dobby was punished worse than the other elves —when Lucius got his cane just a tad too close —when Severus came by for tea with Narcissa —when Draco sounded a bit too close to their father.
She would run so much her legs would give out, and she would only eat enough to stop her arms from losing strength. But afterwords she would smile more than a Malfoy smile. She would laugh more freely. She and Lucius would fight, yes, but in a way that was impossible for Draco to have done. In a way that seemed to enchant Lucius. She would be willing to play the piano for the Manor. She would recite poetry, or read old tales aloud, or simply chat at meals —even if she only ate the bare minimum. Her runs grew ever more frequent, but for the hours after Draco could see his sister become something brilliant.
Until last fall, it had been a wonder. Severus, their Godfather, spent more time with Draco than Medea. He would teach Draco simple brews safe for children —an enchanted sugar syrup that fizzled and turned the tongue red, a Draught of Daydreams, the occasional Arcus potion. It was only once he spent several hours with Medea. Draco had spent the afternoon leaning against a grate that connected to the room they were in. It was when Medea was no longer allowed to run for more than three hours.
It was a side to Medea he had never heard before —the venom in her voice. But when she came out from the sitting room, she had on a mask and Draco was shut out from knowing her side. She never said the truth, and Draco never told her he knew.
-
As Medea’s dinner with Daphne and Pansy was interrupted by one Adrian Pucey, no one noticed a pair of green eyes that had found themselves looking at the Slytherin first years.
Even Harry himself took a moment to realize he was staring before looking away.