A/N: This is for the Teacher's Lounge Favourite Things Challenge. I have lots of favourite things about the world of Harry Potter, the top ones being flying, broomsticks, Quidditch, Hippogriffs, Thestrals and of course dragons. One of my favourite scenes is the first Triwizard task, hence the setting. The hardest pairing to write, for me, from the list, is Draco/Hermione, which of course I chose. So apologies for the awfulness!
It was raining outside. It was the kind of rain that falls so hard it stings as the raindrops hit skin, and when combined with the gusting wind that howled its way around the castle, that rain seemed more than slightly malicious.
She had noticed that it was raining outside. She also knew that neither rain nor wind were a particularly unusual thing in Scotland in late November, and wondered whether said weather could still be considered pathetic fallacy in the light of that knowledge. It certainly felt like it should. Hermione Granger, however, was not the type of girl to be content with a feeling as a rationalisation; really, she should go and look it up. But not until she'd found what she was currently looking for.
Dragons. The first task was dragons.
How on earth was fourteen year old Harry, who, despite his incredible bravery and strong magic, was hardly the brightest bulb in the box at times, supposed to defeat a creature that was 'extremely difficult to slay' with a hide that 'none but the most powerful spells can penetrate'? And that could spit fire, on top of that?
She closed her book with a sigh, and pushed it away from her across the desktop. Dragons. The creatures embodied uncontrollable magic and emotionless violence, in her eyes: the very opposite of where she felt comfortable. She liked order, and organisation, and time to research things properly. Unlike Harry, she preferred a prepared plan of action to rushing in blindly. She liked the quiet and the air of sleeping knowledge of the library a hundred times more than the mad clash of colours and shouting and instinct of the Quidditch pitch. And, whatever the popular opinion might be of the beasts on the Quidditch pitch, dragons simply did not fit into the Dewey decimal system. To be completely honest, dragons and enough books to require a catalogue seemed likely to be a recipe for conflagration.
Powerless. Out of control. Helpless. Out of time. All the things that this task and these dragons made her feel. And Hermione hated feeling out of her depth more than anything else - except maybe the prospect of seeing her best friend charred to a husk.
Hermione noticed a susurrus behind her. She looked up, turning her head to see the gaggle of girls that represented Krum's giggling shadow. It only took a moment to spot him, too, standing by the opposite shelf to her and leafing through a text on the efficacy of various charms and potions in improving or deteriorating eyesight.
She rather wished he would leave. His herd of tittering teen girls was distracting, and the strange looks he cast at Hermione made her feel rather uncomfortable.
On overhearing yet another girl chortle with glee over the way Krum's biceps moved as he turned another page, she decided she'd had enough. Hermione rose to her feet, stuffing as many of the unread dragon textbooks as possible into her bag and filling her arms with a few more, and abandoned her desk for a quieter region of the library.
The Arithmancy section was surely a safe bet. Much as she loved it, it was only a small class, and many of the other students who took the class only did so to fill their timetables. There was only one other student at the large work table in the Arithmancy section, so, without taking a second look, Hermione dived on one of the spare seats and deposited her cargo of reference onto the table.
Hermione, however, was not the only student that had noted the quiet sanctuary that the Arithmancy section of the Hogwarts library had to offer.
A significant selection of the Support Cedric Diggory/Potter Stinks badges were proving faulty, with a tendency to stick in their green Potter Stinks phase at inopportune moments. Crabbe had received a series of detentions after the charm wore off his badge midway through Transfiguration. Whilst Draco was more than happy to wear a pure green badge, the surreptitious nature of the badges were the base of their popularity, and that needed maintaining.
The Arithmancy section had proved a quiet, and more importantly, private place to refer to a few Charms texts. Draco very much preferred to keep anything that could be perceived as a weakness private: and that certainly included a lack of knowledge or practiced skill. The Slytherin common room was not the place to attempt new spells with uncertain results. Not for the heir to the Malfoy family, at any rate.
And the badges had to be working properly by the first task. A cold smile drifted across Draco's refined features at the thought: Potter facing whatever terrible danger the Triwizard Tournament could throw at him, amidst the sea of green that he would know to be the scorn of his peers. The slow death of hope, the terrible loneliness, and the realisation of his utter lack of any qualities that merited his popularity and fame amongst not only the students of Hogwarts but the wider wizarding world. In his darker moments, Malfoy allowed himself to picture the harm that might come to him: curses, dismemberment, poison. But his favourite was one particular spell that Professor Moody had demonstrated for them, and the image of Potter writhing on the ground in utter torment, his features melted by pain like candle wax, excited Draco more than any other imagined torture.
It was one of these pleasant reveries that was disturbed by a whirlwind of bushy hair and flying textbooks. On recognising the intruder to his quiet corner of the library, a sneer curled his lip. Icy blue eyes met brown ones, and there was a moment of silence.
Just a moment.
"Well, well. Look what the Kneazle dragged in. And here I thought Pince was doing an adequate job of vermin control in here," he drawled, lazily rolling his quill in his hand.
She really did have quite horrendously frizzy hair. None of the Slytherin girls would show her face looking as unkempt as Granger did. And worse: those teeth! Between those teeth and her inane chatter during class she did rather uncannily resemble a chipmunk.
Hermione recovered her composure quickly. Malfoy. She would actually rather take Krum's sycophants than that miserable, bullying git with his superior attitude.
"Well I'll admit I'm a bit surprised you've learned to read, Malfoy, so I suppose that's two of us," she replied smoothly, lifting her chin. Her eyes drifted to the book in his hands, noting the title with interest.
"Fun With Charms, is it? I really am surprised. Did you need to look up the word 'fun' in a dictionary to get you started?"
"I couldn't possibly: not after your filthy hands have touched it. How many wizard words have you looked up in there, long hours after they've been said, determined not to show how little you belong in this world?" he spat, eye flashing with malice. She was dirty, both by her Muggle blood and by her association with Potter and Weasley. How dare she treat him like an equal?
"I see," she replied, slowly, nodding with understanding, "I was wrong. You are still an ignorant pig."
It was strange, Draco considered: despite those features, and that irritating perpetual need to be right all the time, the filth of her origins, and her tainting friendship with Potter, there was something compelling about her. Maybe it was the insatiable urge he had to wipe that confident, challenging little smile from her face, and replace it with a shadow of fear.
Meanwhile, Hermione had spotted the flashing green badge that lay, forgotten, on the table beside Malfoy. A frown marred her brow for a moment as she considered it, and then realisation came like sunlight from behind the clouds.
"Trying to improve your badges? You do know you'd need a decorative charm textbook for that, right? Or maybe something from Feste's Secrets and Subtleties: A Guide To Concealment Charms at a push."
It had popped out before she realised she'd said it. It was the know-it-all in her: she couldn't help but correct him. He had entirely the wrong line of research, after all. But correcting her best friend's nemesis whilst he tried to humiliate said best friend when said best friend was in mortal danger was probably a step too far, even for her compulsion to correct.
Draco said nothing. Instead, he looked angry. Incandescently angry. Corrected by Muggleborn scum like Granger? He could hear his father's voice in his head.
"An education stolen from real wizards is no grounds for anyone to attempt to correct a member of the ancient house of Malfoy. Draco, need I remind you that family pride is all? Do I need to remind you why we do not stand for this?"
He wanted to hurt her. He wanted to grip her until she bruised. He wanted to watch her frizzy hair burn to a crisp. He wanted to bite her until her dirty blood welled up and ran, leaving red rivulets across her skin. Maybe then she would learn not to look at him with that challenge in her eyes, challenge that implied some level of equality between wizard and beast.
Hermione noticed the sudden quiet, the the sudden stillness, like the drawdown before a tsunami. There was a strange light in Malfoy's eyes, and she was all at once very aware of being in danger. There was a tension in the lines of Malfoy's body, like a creature ready to pounce.
Dragons, she thought. Uncontrollable magic. Emotionless violence. A far cry from the order she revelled in.
Slowly and carefully, she moved her hand under the table, her fingertips brushing gently against her wand. She refused to be powerless, out of control, helpless, out of time. She refused to be the one to walk away. Maybe it was her Gryffindor bravery shining through the Ravenclaw-esque obsessions with knowledge for a brief, shining moment. She sat back in her seat, feigning complete confidence, her eyes once again meeting Malfoy's in silent challenge.
Draco's fingers mirrored her movements, shifting to hold his wand in a light grip in the pocket of his robes. A Silencing Charm, a Full Body Bind, that would be enough to start with… He bit back his longing to hear her beg for his forgiveness.
He shouldn't care. He shouldn't care. He should think less of her than he did a dog. But she constantly outshone everyone in class, and flaunted it the same way Potter did with his lucky circumstance of birth, his fame for no reason other than the fact he lived. And it drove him to distraction.
He rose, sharply, from his chair, swept the book and the badge into his bag, and left, doing his best not to appear like he was fleeing.
Harry held his golden egg aloft, victorious. Hermione was filled with relief and triumph in equal measures. From her place in the stands, she watched the entire school supporting her friend, the flashes of green suddenly decimated in number, and felt an out-of-place twinge of unease.
There, across the arena, was a small collection of flashing green badges. She spotted a pale blonde head, and whilst he was too far away to judge the expression in those ice blue eyes, she felt like she already knew. They would be burning.
Draco felt the knot of anger in his chest calcify, growing harder and more brittle. Potter wins, once again, he thought. But it couldn't last. Potter only had so much luck, and things were changing. Old promises would be fulfilled, and old vendettas settled at last. One day, in the not too distant future, there would be a time when Potter's luck ran out. And then he would regret having earned the enmity of Draco Malfoy and the Malfoy family.
Him, and that bushy-haired creature he called a friend. More than anything, Draco wanted to break her. To prove she was inferior. To burn away everything that was dissonant and proud and confident and wrong, until there was nothing left.
Later that night, while the Gryffindors celebrated, Hermione noticed that it had started, once again, to rain.