Chapter 48
No matter what the truth is, Hermione told herself, I can't let them down. Her fists were clenched so tightly her knuckles had gone white.
She forced herself to walk calmly to Malfoy's seat and sat down as casually as she could.
"Hm?" Malfoy glanced sideways, sensing movement. His gaze lingered on her longer than she liked.
Hermione's stomach twisted. Did he notice something? Is there a flaw somewhere? Every muscle in her body locked with tension.
"Huh. Impressive—Professor Snape really is amazing," Malfoy said, looking her robes over. "You can't even tell there was ink on this. Oh—where's Potter? Didn't he come back with you?"
"He's still being… lectured. By Professor S—Snape," Hermione answered, almost stumbling on the name. She managed to shorten it just in time.
Malfoy snorted. "Our dear Head of House does love giving Potter attention," he said with a mocking smirk. A faint shiver ran through him—memories of the wild imaginings from fangirls in his previous life making his skin crawl.
And speaking of those fans—he'd been one of their victims too.
"So? You don't look like you're in the mood to eat anymore. Want to go back to the common room?" Malfoy asked lightly.
"Alright." Hermione tried to keep her voice as short and neutral as possible. Fewer words meant fewer chances to slip up—and with fewer people around, she might finally get answers.
Malfoy rubbed his temples. His head had been pounding all day; sparring with Pansy seemed like a perfect distraction. He'd been teaching her recently. Time to test her progress.
Their departure drew no attention—everyone else was still busy gorging themselves on pudding and roasts.
They wound through several narrow corridors until they reached a damp stone wall.
"Pureblood," Malfoy said.
A hidden stone door slid open. Malfoy stepped inside first; Hermione followed quickly.
It was her first time in the Slytherin common room—and she suspected it might be her last. It was a long, low dungeon, lit by greenish lamps dangling from chains. Cold stone curved overhead. A beautifully carved mantelpiece stood before them, firelight flickering across the room. At this hour, nearly everyone was still at the feast; the space was empty except for the two of them.
The flames cast their shadows across the walls.
"Same rules as always," Malfoy said, stepping toward her.
Hermione froze. What is he doing? Her face flushed hot. Only then did she remember—Malfoy and Pansy were supposedly close. An unexpected, irrational twinge of jealousy flickered in her chest.
Malfoy frowned. "Your face is red. Are you sick?" He reached toward her forehead. "No fever." His eyes narrowed. "Nice try. Pretending to be sick won't get you out of this. You know better than to slack off."
Slack off? Hermione blinked. Oh… he wants to practice dueling.
Her embarrassment deepened.
"Fine," Malfoy muttered, suddenly remembering, "you didn't bring your wand." He glanced around, spotted one left behind—likely Crabbe's or Goyle's—picked it up, and tossed it to her. "Make do with that."
Hermione caught it, dazed.
"What are you waiting for?" Malfoy snapped.
A red streak of light shot from his wand—straight at her.
"Protego!" she cried instinctively, panic exploding through her. For a second she thought she'd been discovered.
Her shield charm reflected the spell, sending it harmlessly into the fireplace.
"Not bad," Malfoy said, eyebrows lifting. "You've improved."
Hermione released a breath she'd been holding. Now she understood. And now she was mortified by her earlier imagination.
"But maybe I can use this…" she thought. Then, trying to sound annoyed, she muttered, "But it's useless against the Basilisk."
Her heart hammered. If Malfoy responded with I can control it, then—
Malfoy gave her a baffled look. "Since when do you care about the Basilisk? You always go on about how Dumbledore and I will protect you. Aren't you usually too busy swooning to worry?"
Hermione nearly choked. Swooning? Of all the things for Pansy to be known for…
But Malfoy wasn't finished. He sighed.
"Honestly? If we meet the Basilisk, spells won't do much. Dragonhide-like scales. They reflect magic. Only its eyes and mouth are real weak points. Annoying, really. I hate to admit it, but wizards might have to rely on physical attacks. Weak spells will probably bounce."
Hermione was stunned by how knowledgeable he suddenly sounded.
"But you don't need to worry," he added. "The Basilisk only targets non–pure-bloods. You're safe."
Hermione felt a confusing mix of relief and disappointment. Relieved he wasn't the controller… disappointed she still hadn't found the truth.
"But then… why was someone from the Weasley family petrified?" she asked carefully.
Malfoy squinted. "You're acting odd today. Usually you don't care about any of this." He shrugged anyway. "He must have had other reasons."
His vague tone made Hermione's mind spin.
How would he know there were other reasons? Unless…
But she pushed the thought away. She'd already made him suspicious; asking more might ruin everything.
Their back-and-forth continued quietly, but Hermione's doubts only grew. His answers confused her more. She began to wonder if he was hiding something not even Pansy would know.
Suddenly footsteps echoed in the corridor—students returning.
And Hermione felt the Polyjuice ticking toward its end. She needed a way out—now.
Before she could invent an excuse, something unexpected happened.
"What did you just say?" Malfoy called to a girl entering the room.
"I said, I heard Professor Lockhart is near the girls' loo. He says he's found clues about the Basilisk!"
The girl looked starstruck—Lockhart had practically made himself a martyr, giving up his Christmas to "protect" students.
Malfoy's eyes lit up.
Finally, he thought. Riddle's making a move.
He seized Hermione's shoulder. "I have to go. Stay here. Don't move."
But Hermione's racing imagination twisted his urgency into something else entirely—panic, guilt, desperation to hide the truth. Her heart lurched painfully.
Still, she nodded. "Okay."
Malfoy sprinted out the door.
Hermione watched him go, fear spiking.
No. I have to stop him. Lockhart is there too.
The moment she was sure he was far enough ahead, Hermione bolted from the Slytherin common room—still wearing Pansy's clothes, potion almost gone, but she couldn't waste a second. If she was too late, someone else might be hurt.
She didn't even consider alerting another professor; Lockhart was there. She trusted him.
Maybe she was being selfish—maybe part of her still hoped Malfoy could be redeemed quietly, without expulsion or scandal.
Hermione rushed through the dim corridors. The words the creature had left on the walls flashed eerily in the torchlight. Her heartbeat drowned out everything else. She reached Moaning Myrtle's bathroom—only to pause when she heard a string of strange syllables.
Malfoy's voice.
Her breath hitched. I've heard those sounds before… Harry said them…
But Harry was supposed to be with Snape. This made no sense.
Before she could untangle her thoughts, the voices stopped.
She burst inside.
Myrtle sat perched on her toilet tank, trembling. Hermione had never imagined a ghost could shake with fear.
"The third one…" Myrtle whimpered weakly. "You're the third to come today…"
"Where are they?" Hermione demanded. She didn't have time for pleasantries.
Myrtle pointed at the sink.
Hermione examined it frantically—inside, outside, pipes, everything.
"That tap never works," Myrtle said suddenly, a note of odd cheer in her voice.
"What about the other two?" Hermione pressed.
Myrtle's face contorted in fear. "They… they said something to the tap. Something I didn't understand. And then—"
With a shriek, she spun upward and dove headfirst into the toilet bowl with a splash, vanishing.
Hermione grimaced. No more help there.
Taking a breath, she closed her eyes and carefully reproduced the hissing syllables she'd heard outside the door.
The sound was strange, serpentine.
The tap glowed white. It spun. The sink slid downward, revealing a giant pipe wide enough for a person to crawl into.
Was Hermione Granger afraid? Absolutely—only fools weren't.
But would a Gryffindor turn back?
Never.
Without another second's hesitation, Hermione climbed into the pipe.
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