Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter etc.
I swore I'd never write a Dramione. Then this happened. Oops?
The war is over, will not be very relevant.
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Draco Malfoy eyed Weasley from across the Great Hall, idly wondering if the freckled moron could be more blatant in his drooling over Granger. She didn't appear to notice, however. He watched as the Weaslette elbowed her brother, who turned an alarming shade of puce, and hung his head. He really was disgracefully uncouth - and irritatingly slow on the uptake. The whole school had watched Granger stare longingly after him for years and wondered if he would ever notice. Now he clearly had, revolting though it was to witness, and he still hadn't done anything about it.
In fact, he seemed to be renewing his even more revolting flirtation with the Brown girl; a shameless tart if he'd ever seen one.
And he was hardly the only one whose gaze lingered on Granger, although the Head Girl seemed to be unaware of the not-infrequent longing glances sent her way, and the cluster of fifth year boys who traipsed into the library every evening and sat near her table, and Ernie MacMillan who nearly fainted whenever she spoke to him. MacMillan was Head Boy, for some baffling reason, and shared a common room with her - probably even had access to her bedroom (there was a reason so many Head Boys and Girls got married). His efforts were therefore even more pathetic than Weasley's, if that were even possible.
What was it about her? Draco examined the wild hair that hung down her back, loose today - usually it was tamed into a French plait or tied up. Not that he noticed these things.
She turned her head to talk to Finnegan, allowing him to examine her profile. She did have good bone structure, he'd allow her that. If she weren't such a stuck-up little know-it-all, if she weren't so bossy, if she weren't Potter's best friend, if she were a Pureblood… well, things might have been different.
She was filthy, but she was, well, exquisite.
Draco felt a glare burning into him and shifted his gaze slightly to meet blue eyes blazing with outrage. He smirked at Weasley and stood up, an idea forming rapidly in his mind.
He'd just thought of something that could be really rather fun. Making the Mudblood Princess fall for him, the Head Girl who occupied the dirty fantasies of half the boys in the school. Even, upon occasion, his. It wasn't possible to be male and not dream about shoving her up against a bookcase in the Library or bending her over a school desk, her skirt rucked up around her waist. His trousers tightened slightly and he strolled out of the Hall as nonchalantly as he could.
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Hermione sat patiently in the Library with a fourth year Hufflepuff, who seemed to be unable to make eye-contact with her. She was reasonably certain he was looking at her breasts and not listening to her comments on his essay on the Theory of Summoning Spells, but she wasn't entirely sure. She rolled her eyes in frustration and, feeling self-conscious, avoided looking at the table of fifth years that always seemed to be in the Library and never seemed to be reading.
Contrary to the opinions of most of the male wizards, Hermione was not oblivious to admiring glances. However, they were - for the most part - unwelcome. And it she was also pretty sure it was to do with her part in the war or because she was Head Girl.
She caught a flash of red and black hair at a table, almost hidden behind a huge pile of what she knew to be Transfiguration books as Harry and Ron rushed through their essays last minute. At least they were getting them done on time, she supposed. A last ditch attempt was better than not turning anything in at all.
Would Ron ever get on with it? She had waited for him for so long, years, and he still seemed incapable of making his intentions clear. Oh, she knew he stared at her, wanted her, but was he too shy to ask her properly? To stop kissing Lavender, stop trying to make her jealous, and just man up and declare himself?
What was it about Ron Weasley? He was hardly the ideal match for her, but she'd never been able to hide her illogical attraction to her best friend. If only he'd learn to use his brain… perhaps talk about something other than Quidditch…
She looked away from the mop of red hair and scowled slightly as Malfoy walked in, the arrogance rolling off in waves. It didn't help that every girl seemed instantly aware - a subtle straightening of their shoulders, a hair toss, a quick, coy glance- of his entrance. Didn't they know he'd been a Death Eater?
To her dissatisfaction he was walking over to her.
"Granger," he greeted, surprisingly civil.
"I'm busy, Malfoy - can this wait?"
"Certainly. I'll just sit here and read, shall I?" His voice was a flat drawl dripping with haughty nonchalance, matching his smug smile.
"Suit yourself," she snapped and turned back to Edgar, the small Hufflepuff who seemed to be speechless at the sight of the Seventh Year god.
Malfoy, while certainly never nice to anyone, seemed to be either worshipped or feared by most of their peers. He did have charisma, admittedly, and his miserable Sixth Year aside he'd always known how to make their classmates laugh - usually at Harry.
"Edgar, you need to go and re-read this bit in your textbook and change it."
To her surprise he went pink, muttered something and scurried away with his books clutched to his chest.
"Did you do something?" she asked Malfoy, ice lacing her words.
He gave her an innocent look, his silver eyes swirling with amusement. She sighed and sent the books she'd been using flying back to their shelves.
"Nice trick, that," Malfoy commented.
"Why are you here again?"
"I have a proposition for you. Can we go somewhere else? It's too hard to talk in here."
"I have to go to the Common Room to give something to Ernie anyway. You can walk me there, I suppose."
"You've been living with him for nearly two months - has he actually tried to shag you yet?"
She was appalled to find herself wanting to laugh. Poor Ernie; he was so very pompous and entirely obvious. Her mouth seemed to have taken over, projecting a thought she'd usually have filtered.
"I always thought you were more his type than mine until this year," she admitted.
His eyes lit up with surprised amusement. Whatever reply he had been about to give was interrupted by an irate Ron (and a rather confused Harry) storming over to the table.
"What's going on here?" Ron snapped at her.
Frustration pooled in the pit of her stomach, he acted as though he controlled her and sometimes it made her want to lash out. But she mastered the expression on her face, hiding her anger.
"Oh, Malfoy and I were just having a chat. We've got to go to my room now - Prefects' business - but I'll see you in the morning."
She knew exactly how misleading her statement was, how falsely the prefects' business rang and hoped it hurt him.
He had hurt her, more deeply than he'd realise, oblivious as he was, by choosing to sit next to bloody Lavender in Charms earlier that day. And as anything to do with Malfoy was guaranteed to rub Ron entirely the wrong way, Hermione was more than happy to use that to her advantage for a moment. She was mature but not that mature; and he brought out her most vindictive side sometimes.
She'd waited for years; it was time he put himself out on a limb for her. There was no pressure from the war - that was over now. He didn't have a girlfriend, just a kissing partner, and she was (had kept herself) single. Why did he still not want her enough?
"Come on, Draco," she said, gathering her books. "I need to give the new timetable to Ernie before we sort that, um, thing out."
To her surprise, Malfoy appeared incredibly amused, and more than happy to play along with her charade.
"Will he be in there all evening, Hermione?" he asked, moving gracefully to stand - far too close - next to her.
"No… he's got rounds remember?"
"Oh yes," he dropped his voice to a husky whisper. "How could I forget?"
She giggled. Not something she made a habit of, but Ron's face was really too amusing and if he thought the giggle was for Malfoy then so much the better, she reflected bitterly.
"Look at the time! You have to be back in your Common Room in an hour," she exclaimed.
"You wouldn't send me back, would you?" he asked caressingly. Ron choked, his ears and face deepening in colour to the most remarkable shade.
He looked hideous when he was angry, she realised suddenly, and in the same moment thought how pleasant it was to not be arguing viciously with Malfoy. He had kept up with her throughout the conversation, never missing a beat and having that beautiful (she could hardly refute that - she wasn't blind after all) face lit up with laughter was a more than pleasant change from his irritating smirk.
But, he was still Malfoy and doubtless he has his own agenda to be being so amiable to her. They left the spluttering pair after a short exchange of threats and angry comments.
Hermione took great enjoyment from surprising people. She had deliberately kept her date to the Yule Ball a secret where almost any other girl would have shouted all over the school that she had been picked by Viktor Krum! Entering on his arm, all glammed up, had been nerve wracking but worth it to see the stupefied look on, amongst others, Ron's face. You're a girl indeed.
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As she walked to the Heads' rooms, Hermione thought about her partner. She just couldn't help but find him annoying. He was perfectly nice, reasonably intelligent and well behaved. And yet at the same time he was extremely irritating; he almost always agreed with her for one thing. As Head Boy he should be assertive and confident, whilst not being overbearing or too bossy.
She liked fighting with people. Particularly over an intellectual issue, if someone was a worthy sparring partner. However, there were very few people in her year that could provide a halfway decent argument or keep a debate going. Malfoy and Zabini were both very intelligent and argued with her in class if they disagreed and were paying enough attention to notice. Padma did, and Terry Boot, but he was quite shy and though he tended to write brilliantly he struggled to properly articulate what he meant out loud. And the gorgeous Anthony Goldstein, when he came out of the fairyland he appeared to live in, could construct a devastating argument and clarify points exceptionally well, but other than that their year seemed to be a desert of idiocy.
Ernie, on the other hand, tended to waffle on for hours at meetings or in conversation, which was more than annoying. She'd quickly worked out that the best way to keep the Prefects happy was to keep meetings short and to the point, to treat them all fairly, regardless of their house or year, and not to load them up with unnecessary duties.
And as for Ron, he avoided anything that might stimulate his brain as if it might permanently damage him. She wondered if he'd ever read a novel, or even one of their textbooks, and then felt disloyal at the thought.
"Hello Hermione," Ernie said in his obnoxious voice.
"Hi Ernie. Here's the revised timetable for rounds and I've told the prefects to come here tomorrow evening for a meeting."
"Great, great. There's a pile of notes in your box outside, did you get them? And McGonagall wants to see us in the morning before breakfast, something about a suitable celebration of the end of the war? Did you get that essay done for Slughorn? I've got all the books here if you need anything. And Padma was here earlier, she was looking for you - can I give her a message? We're on rounds together, you know. She said it wasn't important though. Oh and," he blushed slightly, "I asked the House Elves to bring some food up. I thought you might be hungry. What's he doing here anyway?" His tone changed as he noticed Malfoy standing behind Hermione.
"That all sounds great, thanks Ernie. Say - isn't it time for your rounds now?"
He glanced at his watch, looked horrified, and leapt up, stammering, before grabbing his cloak and running from the room. She looked up at Malfoy to see him shaking with silent laughter. As before, it seemed to have a mind of its own and bubbled out of her.
"How on earth do you cope?" he asked, throwing himself onto a sofa.
"Oh, he's alright… well, he's not really. He's a complete prat, but he means well."
"He's obsessed with you. And you didn't listen to a word of his blabber, did you?"
She blushed and picked up the red box that contained all the messages from students which were placed in an identical one in the Entrance Hall. She wondered what the charm was; they were placed in one and appeared immediately in the box on her desk. It was very clever and useful; she must put it on her list to look up in Howarts; A History. She sat on the floor by the fireplace and sighed as she opened it. It was always much fuller than Ernie's for some reason.
"Always so many silly little notes," she commented.
It felt surreal to be sitting there with him, as if they were friends. The firelight warmed his cold features and pale skin, and reflected off his platinum hair casting him in a soft, glowing light. He looked very at home in the beautiful, cosy room. The room was decorated in rich, warm colours - lush, pale gold carpeting that seemed to be magically resistant to stains or dirt, mahogany furniture, thick hangings on the stone walls. The Heads each had a large desk, and there were four sofas, and an eclectic mixture of armchairs for visitors which seemed to appear and disappear as needed. Ernie had left a tray of food, mainly éclairs, on his desk with, oh how ridiculous, a flower lying beside a plate of tartlets.
"Let's have a look. I'm intrigued to know what desperate pleas you get from all the poor lovesick firsties."
"No, you'll use them for blackmail against - oh Merlin," she started laughing. "Some poor girl has a huge crush on Professor Flitwick and wants my advice. Are they not aware that I'm not here to sort out their love lives? I can't even sort out my own," she commented, rolling her eyes.
"Despite having half the school fantasising about you… inevitable part of being a not too ugly Head Girl I suppose. Every schoolboy's dream is to shag his Head Girl, did you know that?"
"Don't be ridiculous, Malfoy."
He smiled lazily at her, the picture of relaxation and elegance as he sprawled on the sofa. She couldn't remember ever seeing him smile quite like that before.
"At least MacMillan makes an effort I suppose… he's a moron but perhaps he's not as utterly rubbish as the Weasel. Nice flower. If I eat one of these what are the odds I'll suddenly realise how much I love MacMillan."
He took a large bite out of an eclair somehow not sending cream spurting everywhere.
"Don't insult my friends - and unlike you Ron is a war hero."
He rolled his eyes.
"How can you, of all people, be friends with someone as useless as that?"
She was intrigued, and flattered, despite herself.
"What do you mean 'of all people'?"
He laughed again, eyes turned to molten gold by the firelight, the candelabras on the wall burning low.
"Oh Granger, you know what I mean. What on earth do you and the Redheaded Horror find to talk about? You may be a Muggleborn but even I can't deny you're frighteningly intelligent. And have you seen him eating?" he gave a theatrical shudder. "Anyone would think he'd grown up in a pig sty..."
"We talk about lots of things- Quidditch for example," she snapped, defensive. "And table manners are less important than being a good person."
"And I bet that's really stimulating for you. Does he know you shagged Krum?"
"What? How could you possibly - ?"
"I didn't, I was just speculating. Pansy said you'd been to visit him."
"Do you Slytherins actually have nothing more entertaining to do than discuss my personal life?"
"Oh, trust me Granger. I can think of much, much more entertaining things to do." His eyes swept over her slowly, shamelessly.
"You should read the notes people write about you," she replied, seemingly unruffled. "I get more complaints about you than any other prefect."
"I do my job very well, thanks."
"Bollocks. You're ridiculously lenient towards your own house -"
"- Someone has to be," he interrupted sharply.
"Yes, I know. That's why I let you get away with it," she replied calmly.
For the first time since entering the common room, Draco was thrown.
"What?" he asked, confused.
"Oh come on. Even I'm aware of how unfairly Slytherin are treated in comparison with the other houses. From the moment they Sorting Hat announces the house you're booed, particularly by Gryffindor I admit, and from then on you don't have a huge choice about keeping yourselves separate. If you try and befriend people outside of your own house, the older Slytherins bully you and everyone pretty much assumes you're going to grow up evil anyway. Why everyone with a bit of cunning and ambition is considered evil is beyond me, but then again prejudice works both ways. I'd love to lessen the house rivalries… but I just can't see how." Her voice was tinged with frustration, and she sighed crossly, before shaking off the annoyance and turning back to her box.
Speechless for a moment, Malfoy watched her as she calmly opened another few notes before smiling suddenly.
"Oh listen to this - Draco Malfoy is a mean bully. Why is he so beautiful?" She started laughing again. Malfoy looked delighted.
"Who's that from?"
"Not telling. That's cruel."
"At least tell me what house she's in?"
"Who says it's a she? I'm sure your girlish features make lots of boys think you are very pretty. And your hair must convince loads of people that you're not entirely straight."
"Girlish? Granger," he said softly, moving towards her, "let me show you how ungirlish I am."
"Malfoy as pretty as your display in the Library was, don't be a ridiculous twat. This is all very nice but I'm not stupid, I know you're playing some sort of game. Out with it."
He sat back down and thought for a moment. Pissing off the Weasel and the Boy-Who-Lived-to-Annoy-the-Shit-Out-of-Him would be even easier with her blessing...
"Ah, wanted to annoy the Weasel. The way he slobbers over that Brown girl… Makes me want to lose my lunch. And he can't even make a proper attempt at making you jealous because it's so obvious."
"I thought as much."
Hermione, too, paused thoughtfully. He was being more civil to her than she'd ever seen him be to anyone outside of his own house and she decided to take advantage of that.
"Malfoy, I know this niceness probably won't last, but I'm going to take advantage of it and ask a favour. You're still powerful in Slytherin. Even in some of the other houses - and especially over the younger years. You've got a lot of influence because people, for some bizarre reason, look up to you. Will you help me?"
She was looking at him with those stupidly big brown eyes, lit up and glowing in the firelight. He frowned.
"What's in it for me and what would I have to do?"
"If you do this, everyone will think you've changed. You can tell the Slytherins whatever lies you need to - even the truth - but to the majority of the school and the staff and therefore the parents you'll be an advocate for house unity and, by proxy, Muggleborn equality. I think your family could probably do with that, don't you?"
"Merlin Granger, if your blood was purer you could have been a Slytherin. You're still a goody-goody little Mudblood though." He sneered to cover his surprise. She hadn't given him any of the equality bollocks but a genuine reason to help her. And the beauty of it was that most of the other Slytherins would agree; it would benefit them.
The war was over: it was a new world. They needed to at least appear to be adapting if they wanted to retain their elevated position.
"I'll take that as half a compliment."
He nodded, lost in thought.
"Why don't you care if we're faking it?"
"Because our year might be and the sixth years and the fifth years and even the younger ones, but gradually that prejudice will filter out. If we can set some example for the younger years then they might learn to genuinely befriend each other. I don't want to get rid of the competition or anything, that's healthy and as it should be, but the prejudices- going both ways, particularly between Slytherin and Gryffindor - they need to go."
"Fair enough. What's your plan before I agree to anything?"
"You don't have to do much. Just... sit in the Library with people from other houses occasionally, try and be civil. I don't mean to Harry and Ron - I'm not naïve, but perhaps become acquainted with a few people you wouldn't normally associate with. Muggleborns especially but not, you know, blindingly obviously. That wouldn't convince a sausage. People follow your example so that should be a great start. Will you do it?"
She looked exceptionally appealing in the orange-gold firelight and he thought about taking her to bed. Would it be worth it? Sullying himself with a Mudblood, with Granger… but that wasn't quite fair. Having sex with Muggleborns was not unusual. It wasn't as though he would ever genuinely like the bossy little swot anyway.
"They would have made you Head Boy this year if you'd done it earlier. Why don't you make them regret putting Ernie in instead of you?" she added softly. He shook his head in defeat. She was good, he had to admit.
"Fine Granger - you win. I'll do it."
...
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So their diabolical plot is hatched. I cannot believe I'm writing a Dramione after advocating rarer Hermione pairings for so long but there we are, I seem to be doing it.
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