As she studied the castle that had been her home for so long, Hermione noted the absence of familiar faces and structures, and took an interest in the new and refurbished. The war had taken its toll on the grounds, but it was healing, and so was she. Hermione had returned for her final year in the magical place, though she did so without her two best friends. Harry and Ronald were Aurors in training now, but she had always dreamed of a more academically inclined career path.
Returning had been disorientating. Half the castle had been rebuilt, the curriculum totally re-calculated, and as many new students as missing ones. Professor Mcgonagall was their new headmistress, and Hermione found the changes dizzying.
One of the new adjustments to classes involved a self defence class: the magical world was moving on, trying not to rely on their wands for everything. The school board was forced to acknowledge that magic was not the answer to everything, and that bodily health should be taken more seriously.
Hermione signed up for the class almost immediately; she'd already filled in her main subjects, and her time in the war threw up some much needed reflection on her physical fitness. Unfortunately, she soon realised that her lack of practice might well bring her down a grade point average.
It was two months into the term, and Hermione was trying her best to avoid that happening. In the middle of a session, an epiphany came over her, and she was shocked to realise that she'd spent more time in the gym than she had the library. It made her pause in her assault of the punching bag, and reflect for a moment.
Draco Malfoy chose that moment to come down the stairs into the cellar that had been renovated into a boxing room. Class started soon, she realised, and she'd already been there all morning. Malfoy didn't walk with the cocky swagger he used to employ. Since the war, he had become much more serious, though no less antagonising. He strode into the room, glancing around, his eyes briefly resting on her before quickly diverting them ahead, showing only a flicker of interest before shoving his bag into a locker. He wasn't in her class, why was he here? Potions kicked the curriculum up a notch around week nine, she mused, he probably had to adjust his schedule. She hadn't seen much of him since their return. This was going to be interesting, she thought wearily.
He felt like he must be shaking. Was he shaking? He tried his best to just walk straight in, without looking like a first year at the sorting stall. He knew she was there, as soon as he entered the room he felt her presence. He couldn't help it, he had to steal a glance, she probably wouldn't be looking at him anyway. His eyes scanned over and saw her. Damn, she was looking. He glanced away, but he could still see her in his mind. She sported a black tank top and dark running shorts, the material clinging to her perfectly sculptured legs and running up over her- No. Stop. He couldn't focus on her bright eyes, or the artful pony tail she'd thrown her hair into, or the fact that he wished the sheen of sweat she wore was his doing, in a much more intimate context.
When he found out what class she was in, he couldn't help himself, he'd made the switch. He didn't know why he did it, it was ridiculous, the girl hated him. For good reason. Yet he found himself inexplicitly drawn to her, like a moth to a flame, despite the fact he might very well catch fire.
It had started around the time she'd punched him in the face.
It was ridiculous, but she had been the first person to stand her ground him. Empty threats and bitter words, sure, but nobody had ever dared touch him before.
But the fact was that his father had always hammered it into him that people of muggle heritage were inferior, and he must admit, it had rubbed off. Not completely, though. Despite the common prejudice, there were people of mixed birth in Slytherin, and he had become friendly with several. Li was kind, and always helped him with his work in herbology. Zandi was in quidditch with him, and they enjoyed discussions and debates about novels and philosophy on regular occasions.
But Hermione Granger was different, not only were both her parents muggles, but she was best friends with Harry Potter. A boy who made it perfectly clear what he thought about his offer of friendship the first time they met. She also happened to be the smartest person in his year, if not the entire school.
In his private primary before Hogwarts, Draco had risen to the top, yet as soon as they set foot on the Scottish grounds, Hermione had surpassed him at every turn. It made it oh so easy to hate her.
His hostility had started to fade when he got a little older, as saw his father as he truly was, cruel, selfish, and somewhat mentally imbalanced. He saw what he did to his mother, emotionally, and occasionally physically. He recognised how backwards some of his opinions were. As he matured, he stopped idolising his father. He saw him as foolish and narrow minded.
Although it undermined his fathers beliefs, this realisation could not undo the years of conditioning of Draco's mind. Half bloods were mudbloods. They had dirt in their veins. It was what he had always thought, deep down, and probably always would.
He couldn't do anything about his natural reactions, though. Despite his beliefs, his deep set bias, he couldn't help but watch Hermione more and more. It started as admiration for her courage. Gryffindor courage, he supposed, though she was the first to show him any evidence of that label. But this also coupled with her intelligence. The brightest witch of their age. Those words came to him in a dream one night, and they never left. He was sure those words belonged to her. As they grew, he noticed a physical change in her, too. She could no longer hide behind untamed hair and baggy robes. Her natural beauty expressed itself without warning. He still remembered her at the Yule Ball during the Triwizard Tournament. His mind couldn't even conjure up a satisfactory expression to do her justice. He could only feel a deep envy for the arms of Victor Krum.
Yet none of this had mattered. Although he acknowledged his father as stupid and backwards, he was still very dangerous. There was no telling what he would do if he brought home a girl any other than one of a select few pureblood society sweethearts. Besides, the damage had been done, Hermione had learned to hate him as much as Potter had. He had done it himself, mostly.
Today it was a different story. His father was in Askaban, as he should be, his mother was a secret hero of the resistance, and Hermione no longer hated him. She simply held an overwhelming disdain. Great.
"Alright, guys! Huddle up!" Without noticing, the class had filled up, and the coach had walked into their midst. Hermione had made her way toward them, and when she glanced in his direction, he automatically scowled, just as she did. Urgh. Why was this so hard. Just. Smile. But she was already looking away, toward the teacher, as always.
Hermione had caught his eye again. She wasn't sure if he gave her a glower first, or if it was in response to hers, but it filled her with exasperation. Why did he have to come back for a last year? Did he have no shame after the war? And why did he have to return looking so miserable? It was a lot easier to hate him when he was a snarky kid. Now he was a war worn man, and he seemed so much more sombre than he used to, especially without his idiotic side-kicks hanging around. He'd stopped gelling his hair back in that pretentious way, now it flopped over his eyes in a kind of stylish mess. She had to stop herself from staring at the filled out torso beneath his shirt. What are you thinking? She berated herself.
"Has anybody tried out move sixteen yet?" The coach asked, her steely grey eyes resting on the class. Hermione's hand automatically shot up. She had, of course, tried twenty four of the moves already, and perfected twenty. Just because the class wasn't strictly academic didn't mean she couldn't get ahead. She was at the gym twice for every time her training class came around.
She heard a soft laugh, and she swivelled around to search for the source. Draco Malfoy was there, and his expression turned to mirror her irritation in kind. "What?" She spat.
He looked at her for a moment in silence, and for a second she didn't think he'd reply, then he seemed to gather himself up, "Well," He drawled, "this isn't a class you can just nerd out on. You might "know" the move, but look at you, you're not exactly a formidable opponent."
Hermione felt herself going red, but not with embarrassment. She was furious. She was a fighter, despite her small stature.
She looked to the coach for support, but she only looked on with bemusement.
"Aren't you going to do anything?" Hermione questioned, annoyed that once again, her teachers seemed to let Malfoy away with saying whatever he wished.
"There's a clear solution, that I can see." She barked out a laugh.
Malfoy looked at her for a moment, confused, before a look of dawning apprehension appeared on his face. Hermione still didn't get it, but she was about to.
"Saddle up, into the ring, you two." She stated, leaning back on a pillar, arms crossed, eyes on the boxing ring in the middle of the room.
She was wrapping her wrists, focusing on the automatic procedure instead of looking up at him. On the other side of the ring, he leaned against the ropes casually, but there was an air of uncertainty about him.
"All right," Their coach yelled, "I want a clean fight. No broken bones, preferably." Their teachers seemed a lot less concerned about scrapes and bruises on their students now, especially the older ones. They were hardly children any more, after felling foe after foe in a battle that would taint their history books forever.
Hermione's eyes levelled to meet his, and they met hers with an unreadable stare. They approached each other cautiously. "Remember that throwing books isn't a valid move, Granger." He smirked.
She narrowed her gaze, "Remember that getting your house elf to do it for you isn't either, Malfoy."
His face went red at the slight, "You wouldn't know the first thing about help. I doubt your dental parents could afford any."
Hermione was momentarily thrown off, he remembered what her parents did for a living? A muggle profession, at that. She recovered quickly, however absorbing the insult. "Some people don't need help. Still getting tutored off Li? Pretty sure I still beat you in every test." By this time, they were toe to toe, their faces inches from another, though she had to look up to meet his. She could feel his warm breath on her skin, his steel grey eyes narrowing. She felt her jaw clench, breathing deeply through her nose, her chest heaving with anxiety and anger.
"That's about to change." He murmured.
It was at that moment that the coach sighed impatiently, ringing the bell with a sharp trill.