Broken
2003
by Stellar
Indeed, he had could not imagine how time could stand so still. He watched it. It came creeping out of the darkest corner of his room, slithering across the floor, up his bed postings, and along the black folds of the fine Indian silk sheets until it choked his throat and forced itself in like bad medicine. Draco Malfoy lay on his bed, slowly becoming painfully conscious that it was yet another day.
The goddamned sun, he sneered in disgust.
Sighing, he flung the luxuriously expensive sheets and comforter off of himself roughly, sending it reeling across the bed and falling on the opposite side. He didn't care. He was never the one to clean it up. Draco ran his immaculate hand through his soft, wispy platinum blonde hair, which was not at all tousled. He was rather sluggish this morning, taking extra care to tread excruciatingly slowly and quietly on the hard, almost unbearably cold stone floor. He walked by the mirror, not even taking the time to glance at it, and into his luxurious bathroom that was contingent to his bed chambers.
The bathroom held a very wealthy debonair, almost to an ostentatious point, of which he had absolutely no objection to. The rich, black marble had been imported from Italy, the high ceiling was punctuated with an ancient antique chandelier that had been a Malfoy family heirloom for over four centuries, the walls were painted a deep, rich green hue in honour of his placement in Slytherin, the entire room accented with pure silver, from the frame of the full-length mirror to the sink to the faucets on the overlarge circular bathtub, all encrusted with emeralds.
He knew he was ridiculously wealthy, not that he minded.
He quietly strode over to the sink, almost gliding, and reached his strong hand out, turning the silver faucet to emit freezing cold water and splashing it over his face. It woke him up abruptly, but his angular face showed now change in expression. Suddenly, he almost regretted that water on his face; it woke him up, it meant he was awake, it meant he would have to go back to Hogwarts today.
God, I hate school.
After Draco got dressed and descended the stairs to meet his mother and father in the dining room, he knew there was no point arguing about how much he did not wish to go back to school, for his parents would not settle for such "nonsense." However, this did not stop him as they sat down to quietly eat their breakfast before heading off to Kings Cross Station.
Pushing bits of egg around his plate in a rather bored manner, Draco casually commented, "Is it absolutely necessary for me to go back?"
Lucius Malfoy threw his fork squarely at his son's forehead, making a slight thud and then a booming clatter as it toppled to the marble floor. A nearby house elf scattered to receive it, merely to quickly brandish a new one and replace it next to Lucius, before receiving a vicious kick from the father and scampering back, unnoticed, into the shadowy corner of the room. Apparently, it was common for one Lucius Malfoy to heave forks at family members in the morning, for the house elf was already busying himself getting another ready in anticipation.
"Certainly," Lucius hissed, radiating with such rage that Draco assumed that his father must not have gotten a good sleep during the night. Suddenly, Draco screwed up his face. No, how ridiculous of me, he thought. My father is always like this.
"Why? I hate Hogwarts, and it's crack-pot professors, and all the stupid people there," he said stubbornly. He knew he should be acting more mature, really, as he was entering his seventh and final year at Hogwarts, but he felt that if his wishes could not be satisfied, then he would at least piss off the people who refused to fulfill it. He was spoiled, and he knew it; what was more, he liked it that way.
Lucius was just absolutely beside himself in anger. "Because I said so, Draco! Do not push me today!"
"You mean, don't push you any day," Draco mumbled into his plate.
Now he had done it.
The fork was thrown once more. As well as a couple of hexes.
"Draco, you little bitch, what on earth has gotten into you today?" his mother barked promptly from where she sat, her back rigidly straight against her chair, her silvery-white blonde hair perfectly in place, legs crossed gracefully like a princess. Looking upon Narcissa Malfoy, one would never guess that she was capable of such biting words and expressions.
Ah, yes, my dear mother. Father is the physical and mental abuser, and she the verbal, he mused to himself. It had always been that way. I didn't really bother him anymore. As for the hexes, Draco just ignored them. His mother would fix them after breakfast while she scolded him, as usual. If there was one thing he learned in the Malfoy household, it was to never object the punishment subjected at home.
Draco was silent, then: "Well, perhaps it was the food." He paused. "Then again, I am seated here with the two of you twits, badgering on, yelling at me, throwing various objects at me, and..." Draco didn't get a chance to finish.
"You ungrateful-!!" Lucius sputtered before he hurled another object at his "prized" son. This time it was a plate. Draco immediately reacted, swiftly snatching the askew plate and gently placing it next to him with ease, ready for one of the nearby house elves to retrieve it.
There was a steady, blistering silence, then, "As it is, I don't understand why you hate school so much. Hogwarts is the best wizard school, have you," his mother nervously rattled; it was clear she was trying to avoid a fierce battle that was sure to come on if things kept up. She slightly shifted in her chair, showing her unease.
Draco rolled his grey eyes. "If it wasn't for that stupid, lucky, ungrateful bastard Potter and his oafish sidekick Weasely, I might actually enjoy school. Not to mention that bookish mudblood, Granger," he scowled. "And on top of it all, I've got that simpering ninny Pansy Parkinson to deal with, and those idiotic so-called "friends" of mine, Crabbe and Goyle. It's like I am surrounded by half-wits... That Parkinson bitch, she plans on fucking marrying me!"
His mother looked at him indigently. "What's wrong with her? She's a pureblood, from a very respectable family!"
Draco couldn't help but snort. Her, Pansy Parkinson, respectable? Surely then, he knew his mother did not know of her hiking up her unbearably short skirt and shagging everything that had a pleasurable object between his legs.
Lucius, who looked as if he had calmed down enough, stated, "I would have no objections to your marriage of that girl. She is pureblood, respectable enough, family is loyal to Our Lord, and as I hear it, a reliable source to Our Lord for information inside Hogwarts."
Draco sighed. "Yes, father, but have you seen her face?" he sneered incredulously. "It's like someone promptly smashed it in, smudging her nose, making her face all round, flat, and fat!"
Lucius had an look on his face that clearly expressed he thought the same.
However, Narcissa, who happened to be extremely good friends with the girls mother, suddenly exclaimed, "Goddamn it, you little mother fucker, if you haven't anything nice to say then don't say anything at all!" She glowered at him.
"Fine, if that's the way you want it," he hissed. Draco got up, leaving his practically untouched plate for the house elves to collect and clean. He marched down the main entrance hall of the Malfoy Manor, down the eerie lawns, and to the nearest road. He stuck out his thumb, and the Knight Bus promptly appeared. He was not worried about his things arriving to school; this had happened more than he would like to admit.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Incessant screams and fits of rage filled the air, their gruesome sounds floating upstairs and into Hermione Granger's ears. She held her headphones tightly to her ears as not to hear her parents fight again, letting the music drown them out as she wrote poems in a book. The book was ordinary looking, with a thick black leather covering and a silver clasp. It had been a present from her father on her eleventh birthday, meant to be a diary for her to keep through her years at Hogwarts. It had come to be something like that, she supposed, because she expressed her feelings and thoughts in black and white on the slightly yellowed paper, save it was in poetry form. Around the poems she had drawn little sketches depicting the themes, not that they were any good, and even pasted wizard pictures that young Colin Creevy had been so happy to take for her.
Hermione's brown eyes stared down at a blank page. The music she had been listening to had stopped, and her parents angry voices had begun to float back and settle in her ears. It wasn't as if her parents always fought, she thought to herself, trying to brush it off. After all, they were both very nice to her, and they never fought in front of her. In fact, they hardly fought at all when she was around; she just knew on the rare occasions that they did fight, it was completely and utterly horrid. This was one of those times.
She sighed and looked down at her little book. The page she had been staring at was still black, waiting patiently in its faded glory. Hearing the terrible sounds downstairs, she could think of nothing to fill it with. She closed the book quickly and laid back on her blue-carpeted floor, staring up at her popcorn ceiling, wishing she was anywhere but the place she was supposed to call home.
"Well if you hadn't gone out all night and come back to our home and your wife with fucking lipstick on your goddamn dick, I wouldn't want to divorce you, you fucking asshole!" Mrs. Granger shrieked from downstairs, throwing something that promptly smashed into the dining room wall and shattered.
Tears started to well up in Hermione's eyes, and she closed them tightly and bit her lip, not wanting to omit her frustrated tears. She couldn't take this anymore. She grabbed her book that had been laying, neglected, beside her. Decisively, she got up, and bravely left her room. She went down the small beige-painted hallway, treading carefully on the white carpet as if she was afraid it would break. Slowly, she descended the stairs, the tears she had been holding back now silently streaming down her face, to the living room. There, by the front door, were her school things packed neatly atop of one another. She paused, looking at them oddly, blinking through her tears. She found it peculiar that her things were packed so neatly and tidy, while she herself was not; ironic, she thought. She did not dwell on it, but instead moved on into the dining room, where she was faced with her parents screaming at one another and several various and broken objects that had been thrown scattered in pieces on the floor. She simply stood in the doorway, saying nothing, barely breathing, seeing if they would notice that she was there.
It took them a while. Four minutes passed before the arguing couple noticed their seventeen-year-old daughter standing in the doorway with tears streaming down her face.
"Oh, Hermione..." her mother tried to begin, but Hermione just held up her hand.
"Can we go now? I don't want to be late," she said steadily, her voice smooth and never faltering, calm.
Her father stood there, looking extremely guilty and slowly, cautiously walked towards her. He put his arm around her shoulders, slowly turning her around to walk towards the living room to collect her things. "Sure, honey," he said, his voice deep and desperate, "I'll take you now." He didn't give a second glance at his wife, who sat rigidly on their blood red sofa, legs crossed, thick black mascara flowing down her face, her neat brown hair in a pretty plait. Hermione looked over her shoulder as she was led out by her father. Mrs. Granger managed to give her beloved daughter a teary smile before she was ushered out of the front door with her father and school things in tow.
The car ride to King's Cross Station was stiffened in silence. Mr. Granger sat rigidly straight in the driver's seat, and to the left of him sat his daughter, Hermione Granger, a broken girl of seventeen. Behind them were her school things and her bottlebrush tailed ginger cat, Crookshanks. Crookshanks, fat and happy, sat in the back atop Hermione's trunk full of books, oblivious to what was happening in the front seat.
Which wasn't much.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Draco Malfoy stepped onto the Knight Bus. The driver was young, wore ridiculously thick glasses, and was covered in pimples. Draco recognized him, of course, but could not place his name. He shrugged. It was unimportant to him, another passing in time.
"Where to?" piped the driver.
"Kings Cross," he muttered, dragging his feet up the steep steps of the wizard bus.
The driver nodded and the door snapped shut. Draco, without wasting time, found a bed in one of the magical compartments, laid down on the bottom bunk, crossed his arms, and stared up at the bottom of the top bed, thinking about his life.
Which wasn't much.
Sure, he was rich. Sure, he was smart. Sure, he was good-looking. Sure, he was a pure-blood. Sure, he was the seeker for the Slytherin Quidditch team. All of that he knew, all of that was fact. However, he also knew that he was rich only because it was inherited money from his long linage of family. He knew he was only on the quidditch team as seeker because his father had given the team Nimbus 2001s as a gift for doing so. Also, he was really only smart because his father pushed him to be better than that blasted Granger girl, which still ultimately failed and he received quite a few good bruises and cuts for. As for his looks, he had clearly gotten the good traits from both his mother and father and their parents practically inter-breeding them in order to get results such as himself: the rich, smart, talented, good-looking, well-mannered, slightly snobbish, subservient, and particularly mean pure-blood Draco Malfoy, all in order to keep up the family name.
Which was a heavy burden to bear. It sucked, really, how much he had to put up with, being the only heir to the Malfoy name and your parents thinking you not to be the slightest bit worthy of it. Put up with school, put up with Potter being glory-boy, put up with Granger always getting the top marks, put up with Pansy Parkinson's screeching and disgustingly flirtatious attempts to get him to actually like her, put up with losing at Quidditch to the Gryffindors, put up with the incessant rambling of his mother, put up with his father hitting him, lecturing him, pushing him, forcing him, hurting him emotionally and physically, put up with having all the wrong girls fall all over him, put up with having to be quiet about what he thought and felt, put up with not being able to confide in someone in order to keep all possible signs of home life and dark activity at bay, show no emotion, show no emotion, show no emotion.... He thought of how he had to "learn his manners," as his father so aptly put it, and follow behind the footsteps and darkened shadow of Lord Voldemort, no glory, no personal gain, no true benefit. It really, truly, absolutely, and completely sucked.
Yes, it really does, he thought, sighing. He closed his silver gray eyes, wishing to sleep and calm his mind, but there would be no such occurrence. The Knight Bus promptly stopped and let Draco off about a block from Kings Cross Station in an old alley way as to not create suspicion. In a flash, the bus was gone, and Draco Malfoy was left in the dark alley.
Wasting no time, he walked out of the alley and headed towards Kings Cross. His footsteps were light and soundless, as they were trained to be over years of practice, as he walked along the dark cobblestone alleyway. He stood tall, perfect posture to keep him looking superior, moving with graceful ease and rigid alertness. His robes billowed slightly behind him at the slight breeze coming off the streets and into the alley, ruffling his white-blond hair ever so slightly. He was the perfect model of acquired grace, skill, and balance in his movements, streaked with such a flawlessness that none could compare to; what was more, he knew it.
He rounded a corner of the alley, having finally reached the streets where muggles drove quickly by, honking their horns angrily at one another, changing lanes, completely oblivious to their surroundings and completely immersed in their own personal affairs and problems, not at all sympathetic. And at this thought, in an odd way, he knew he could commiserate with them to some degree, as he too was absorbed in his own problems, not really caring about anyone or their problems if they weren't connected to his own. He hated knowing, then, that he actually had something in common with muggles. Shrugging it off, he decided it was not particularly important.
Soon, his legs had carried him to the station in a fairly short amount of time, only five minutes or so, and practically glided through the barrier between nine and ten, passing from the world of muggles to the realm of magic. The platform was nearly barren at this time, having gotten there at nine o'clock in the morning, two hours prior to departure, which was absolutely unnecessary, all save he left more quickly than planned due to some rather disturbing problems earlier in the morning. He walked straight towards the scarlet steam engine with his arrogant confidence and stepped easily onto the train, not having to fuss with the usual crowd of people that came later and stuffed themselves around the train. He smirked to himself, knowing he now had the advantage of getting the best compartment. He began to hurry along the train corridor, trying to find the biggest, most luxurious one, but was met with disappointment in that they were all exactly the same.
Then it hit him. He was supposed to sit in a different compartment this year. How could he have forgotten, even for that instant? He reached inside his pocket and pulled out a small, shiny silver badge. He pinned it quickly to his robes, a symbol of his unrelenting dedication to...what? His father or his school and studies? Regrettably, he knew the answer: his father...He sneered down at the badge, hating it then, and head towards the end of the train to the compartment he was supposed to be in this year. To his pleasure, he found it to be considerably larger than the rest, with softer cushions and pillows, and a nice, plush carpet, and thick red drapery to block out the pestering sun. He sighed, contented. This was much more his style.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
In the Granger's car, there was a still, humming silence. No one had spoken since they left the house. No one dared break that still, humming silence for over twenty minutes now; only the passing cars got their say as they buzzed by, and occasionally Hermione stifled a yawn.
"Hermione," Mr. Granger began stiffly, "your mother and I-"
"Want a divorce," she finished for him, staring blankly ahead at the bleak, gray road.
He gripped the steering wheel uncertainly, dumbfounded at the bluntness of his daughter. "Well, yes," he said strangely. "Are you okay with that?"
"Okay as I ever will be about it," she said flatly.
"Right then."
Silence.
"Hermione, your mother and I want the best for you, we really do."
"So this is what's best for me?"
"Hermione, sometimes we have to think about ourselves. Your mother and I have, well, we have, you know, we've..."
"Fallen out of love?" she suggested, staring blankly into the horizon ahead of her.
He blinked, apprehension dawning on his face, as if the thought was new and hard to grasp. It was. "Yeah, I guess we have."
"I know," she said flatly.
Silence.
Fifteen minutes later they arrived at Kings Cross Station. Hermione promptly got out of the car, collected her things, and hurried off to Platform 9 and 3/4 before her father gave her an awkward farewell. She pushed her trolley along the station, her possessions piled up so tall she could barely see over it all owing to her short height. Once she reached the platform, she plunged through the barrier between nine and ten, emitting her to the awaiting Hogwarts Express, where wizards and witches were hauling their trunks amongst various other objects onto the gleaming red train. Plumes of thick, gray smoke issued from the steam engine, looming over the families that were waving goodbye to their sons and daughters in a sea of people. Hermione continued struggling through the crowd, pushing people as kindly as possible out of her way with her trolley until she saw someone she knew.
The Weasely twins. Both nearly six feet tall, slightly burly, and completely identical. They were hauling students' trunks onto the train, helping those who where struggling under the weight of their belongings. As usual, what caught her attention was their flaming red hair, which matched all of the rest of their five other siblings; that, and they weren't really supposed to be there. Hermione clearly remembered that they had graduated the previous year, having shown quite a spectacular show of Filibuster's wet-start fireworks during their graduation ceremony. Curious, she approached them as they heaved another trunk onto the train for a rather scrawny first year student. They spotted her immediately.
"Oy! Hermione! Back for another year, eh?" yelled one of the twins over the heads of a few wizards lined up around them.
Hermione recognized him as George, and finally pushed her way completely through the crowd and to the twins.
Both George and Fred looked down at her now. "Heard you made Head Girl this year. Congratulations!" Fred smiled.
"Got any clue who the Head Boy is yet?" George asked.
Hermione smiled and shook her head. "Haven't the slightest. I reckon he's worthy of the position, though."
Fred nodded. "Well, we know you certainly are, after years of keeping that nose of yours stuck in books," he teased.
Hermione just smiled at them. "So, what are you two doing here? You graduated last year."
"We know," they said in unison, laughing. George began to explain, "Well, we're seeing off Ron and Ginny. Mum and Dad are still in Romania visiting Charlie."
"How's the joke shop business going?" she asked.
George gave a weary smile. "Well, it's going. Taking a bit more time to pick up momentum than we thought, though. Making new prank toys and inventing is easy and fun, but the business and marketing side... Well, that's another thing."
Fred nodded. "But it's coming along. We've got a new campaign coming up is fall, and we've just opened shop in Hogsmeade. Maybe you can come and see us during your Hogsmeade visits? Lord knows we could use the company."
Hermione nodded fervently. "You know I'll visit you two. People need some good laughs these days." Especially me, she thought, but didn't let it show. "I'll even help promote you around the school if you want," she added, smiling up at them.
George's eyes got wide. "Really? Hermione, that would be wonderful. It would really help loads."
"No problem," she nodded, glad that she could help with something.
Fred noticed all of Hermione's belongings piled up on her trolley. "Hey, speaking of help, do you need help with that?" he asked.
Hermione realized the pile comprised of her trunk, books, wardrobe, and even her cat. She doubted she could get all of it on the Hogwarts Express by herself. "If it's not too much, thanks."
They began to board Hermione's things onto the train. It was nearly eleven o'clock, which meant they had a few minutes left. They finished getting everything on board, which was then magically moved to a storage compartment with the rest of the students belongings. The twins each took their turn hugging the girl before waving goodbye. Hermione began to wonder through the compartments of the train, trying to find her two best friends, Harry Potter and Ron Weasely.
Two minutes into her search, she heard a loud banging noise and muffled curses issuing from a compartment. Upholding her duties as prefect from last year and now as Head Girl, Hermione picked up her stride in search of the troublesome compartment. She soon found a rather peculiar compartment, of which the brilliant red door to was shaking, banging with a thud every second or so. Their were muffled groans and muttering issuing from within, and Hermione held her breath, reaching for the doorhandle and expecting to see one of the worst fights she would yet bear witness to.
But there was no fight at all. As soon as Hermione turned the brass knob of the compartment door, she was propelled backward and into the opposing wall by one Pansy Parkinson, who was struggling to pull her hot pink skirt back down from its previous hiked position. Hermione looked Pansy Parkinson over, from her hiked up hot pink skirt, tall high heals, ruffled hair, unbuttoned blouse, and smeared lipstick, it was obvious what she had been doing. She scowled, and then looked up, searching for the other culprit. There, in the doorway, now standing well above six feet tall, was none other than Ron Weasely, zipping up his pants with a very extremely embarrassed look on his face. If she was not in such a state of shock, Hermione would have been amused to notice that her best friend's face was so red and hot she might possibly be able to fry an egg on it.
Hermione sputtered indigently as Pansy rolled off her, standing up and adjusting her skirt again. "Ronald Weasely! Never, ever could I have imagined- so terrible- on the train! Slytherin! With a Slytherin! Never...sink so low!" she managed to get out through her absolute fury.
Ron just stood there. He didn't know what to do. Pansy began to wail.
"Miss Parkinson, do refrain!" Hermione barked at the skinny blonde. She immediately quit crying. Hermione pulled herself off of the floor and dusted her robes off. "Ron, Parkinson, come with me. We will report this to Professors McGonagall and Snape this instant. You two will then explain yourselves," she exclaimed.
"But Hermione! I'm your best friend!" Ron said pleadingly.
Hermione held up her hand. "Best friend or not, you clearly committed a crime on this train! You broke the school rules."
"Hermione," Ron begged, "Please, don't do it. I'll get expelled. I've got a lot of not-so-good looking things on my record... They'd have my wand for this. McGonagall won't tolerate it!"
"Neither will I!" Hermione snapped. Her Head Girl badge was now more apparent and gleaming than ever, a symbol of her unrelenting authority.
"Hermione...." Ron gasped, crestfallen at the unfaithfulness of one of his two best friends.
Hermione looked up at Ron, realizing what this could do to him. Pansy Parkinson stood uncertainly next to him, shifting from one perfectly manicured foot to the other. She sighed. "Okay, Ron, Parkinson, I'll make a deal with you. If you promise to keep whatever romantic interludes between yourselves absolutely secret to the point that I nor no one else has any suspicions about the two of you at any time, I will only turn you in for kissing in public this time. You will each get detentions for your actions, but it is better than expulsion. Do you understand?" she asked calmly.
Ron and Pansy both looked as though they wanted to hug her, but Ron was the only one who actually did. Hermione hugged him back awkwardly, patting his shoulder with a strange expression on her face. "Thanks, 'Mione. You know this means a lot to me. Anything I can do, anything at all.... Well, just ask for it." He let go of her, and she gratefully exhaled.
"All I ask, Ron, is that you keep your love life away from my eyes," she laughed. "Now, Miss Parkinson, Ron, follow me. We're going to the head compartment. You still need to receive your punishments from McGonagall and Snape."
Ron sighed and began to follow Hermione, Pansy and her hot pink skirt in tow.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Draco Malfoy adjusted the collar of his robes before he headed out of his compartment. He was going towards the Head compartment to meet with the professors, who had called a meeting between the Head Boy and Girl. He was fairly reluctant to go to the meeting, as he was quite positive he knew for certain who the Head Girl was, but nevertheless he did not want to make a bad impression. Hell, if he showed up early, he might even make her look bad. He began to take long strides, his black school robes billowing out behind him as he pushed other students out of his way. He was on a mission, as it was.
In a short time he reached the Head compartment and turned the brass knob only to find a somewhat confusing situation. There was Hermione Granger, and, just as he had suspected, she wore her Head Girl badge proudly just below her collarbone. But she was here nearly fifteen minutes early! He scowled. Of course she's here early, she wants to upstage me, the damned mudblood. He almost growled. Draco's eyes began to scan the rest of the room. McGonagall was there, as expected, and Snape as well, both looking rather disappointed and furious. At what? he wondered. Then he noticed the Weasel, his hair red as ever, almost as red as his face....and....Pansy Parkinson? Oh no, surely they haven't....He looked at the two of them, who quickly exchanged nervous glances at one another. He almost laughed. They have. They most diffidently have. Amusing, really.
"Did I miss something?" he prompted. He looked at his watch. "Unless I am mistaken, the meeting isn't to start for precisely another thirteen minutes, but it is apparent that I have missed quite a bit, no?"
Everyone in the compartment turned to look at him.
"Hello, Draco," Snape said smoothly, his oily voice gliding through the air. McGonagall acknowledged him with a curt nod. Pansy turned and looked at him with the utmost adulation, while Ron simply opted for a rather obvious scowl. Hermione had gone rigid, and slowly turned around, surprised at the young Malfoy's appearance in the Head Compartment. He saw her eyes flicker quickly over his shiny, silver Head Boy badge, and she looked up at him with some expression of a twisted terror. He smirked.
Then, to his utmost surprise, none other than Harry Potter stood up from a secluded, dark corner of the compartment that Draco had skipped over. It caught him off gaurd, but Draco Malfoy did not falter. He titled his head curtly and gave a quick nod. "Potter."
"Malfoy," Harry said, gravely, and without movement.
McGonagall, sensing the tension between the two young nemesis, started speaking: "Mister Weasely, Miss Parkinson, I trust I do not have to tell you how disappointed I am in your inappropriate behaviour. You both know that a public display of affection at this magnitude is simply unacceptable. I had thought you two to know better, being in seventh year now, but clearly not. Mister Weasely, your punishment is to clean the entire trophy case again with muggle cleaning supplies." Ron took the moment to take a long gulp, reflecting back on his second year when he had received the same detention, save he had been belching slugs all over the trophies for quite some time before actually getting to clean them. "Also, you will dust and organize the books in my office alphabetically while you receive a lecture from myself on the seriousness of this matter." Ron swallowed hard. Professor McGonagall then looked at Pansy Parkinson severely. "And you, Miss Parkinson, your punishment rests in the hands of Professor Snape."
As if on queue, Snape stepped forward. "Miss Parkinson, I sentence you to cleaning my Potions room with your personal toothbrush and re-bottling fifty different potions. You too will receive a lecture for your actions," he said greasily, as if he had just laid a death sentence out for the poor girl.
"You will report to me immediately after the feast to receive the dates and times for your detentions. You are dismissed," said McGonagall. The two teenagers nodded and left the compartment silently.
"Now," barked Professor McGonagall, "to the more pressing issues. Mister Malfoy, Miss Granger, if you please," she gestured for them to sit at the nearest chairs, which were, to the dislike of both students, next to each other. They sat, albeit reluctantly. McGonagall looked down at Hermione, positively beaming with pride, and then at Draco, somewhat surprised that he had made it this far. "Congratulations to the both of you. As you probably are already aware, you two are the finest students at this school, each selected specifically to be the perfect role modules for the other students at Hogwarts. You are here for your commitment to our facility, its students, and faculty. You are here for you commitment to your studies, and your overall well-roundedness of character, while still maintaining a respectable position with your peers and professors. However, with this great reward you also gain great responsibility. As models of this school, you are to keep up in your studies, coordinate prefect meetings, keep in close relations with all professors to relay information from the professors to the prefects and other students, coordinate according passwords for each house, to be changed every two weeks, monitor the prefects and their usage of their newfound power over other pupils, participate in faculty meetings, stay over Christmas holidays to watch over the remaining students, and stay a week after school lets out for preplanning for the upcoming year. Is that understood?"
They nodded slowly, taking in the sudden influx of information.
"Now, I don't expect you two to remember all of your responsibilities off-hand, so I have taken the liberty of posting a list in your joint dormitories," explained Professor McGonagall.
"Hang on...Joint dormitories?" Hermione asked incredulously.
She nodded, her intricate wide-brimmed pointed hat adorned with moons and stars wobbling slightly on top of her head. "Precisely, Miss Granger. Joint dormitories. Yourself and Mister Malfoy are two share dormitories this year, as to stay close in connection in order to coordinate the aforementioned activities. You will be in separate sleeping quarters, of course, for obvious reasons," she said as Hermione took the moment to blush and Draco took the moment to smirk, "however, you will have an adjoining bathroom, common room, and library. Understood?"
Hermione shakily nodded. This is going to be a long year, she thought.
"Which brings me to another point," McGonagall began sternly. Hermione and Draco both snapped to attention once again. "In enlightenment of the joint dormitory, Mister Potter has come forward with concern." Harry stood at attention and nodded slightly, while his eyes stayed focused evilly on Malfoy. "As he has now made me aware, the two of you seem to have bad blood between one another-"
"There's no bad blood in me, professor," cried Draco incredulously. "It's Granger that's got it!" he said, pointing a long, pale finger at Hermione, who scowled indigently.
"If anyone has bad blood in here, Malfoy, it's you!" retorted Hermione, crossing her arms and glaring at the Slytherin.
"Me?!" he cried, his grey eyes now glowing with hatred. "You're the mudblood, Granger!"
"At least I've got real friends, Malfoy!"she snapped.
"Oh really? I bet you don't even have a social life, burring your nose in a book to block out all the bad things in your life! I bet your parents fight a lot, don't they Hermione? I bet they're too busy wrapped up in yelling at one another that they don't even notice you, do they, Granger? That's why you put your nose in books so much, to block out the sound!"
Malfoy had struck a chord with Hermione, who broke into hysterical crying. She slapped him hard across his smooth, pale face. McGonagall gasped at Hermione's display of violence. "At least I have parents that love me, unlike yours, Malfoy!" she shrieked. She stood up quickly, knocking her chair backwards behind her, and ran out of the compartment.
Draco was fuming with fury. He stood up and marched after her, but not before kick a chair in his wake and slamming the door behind him.
"Oh my," said McGonagall, dazed from the violent occurrence. "I see what you mean, Potter," she said staring at the brilliant red door that had just been slammed shut. Harry nodded, his wild black hair up on all ends.
"Well," said Snape's greasy voice, floating up from the corner where he was standing, "this is going to be an interesting year."
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Disclaimer: J.K. Rowling is God. I do not own copyright on Harry Potter. I merely own the plot development of what I hope is this good fanfiction story that I have begun.
Author's Note: Hello, all. I am back. It's me, Hype, one of authors that has been at FanFiction for years now. However, for those of you who don't know me, I've decided to get a fresh start after a particularly hard-to-break writer's block. So, please, if you know me or remember my work, don't hesitate to contact me via e-mail, which is in my profile, as pathetic as it is.
Anywho, how did you like this new beginning? Good? Bad? Ugly? Do tell. I'm sure you will find that I am rather open to all criticism and/or praise. If you do wish to, ahem, "flame" me, be my guest. My hope for you is that you will someday realize that by flaming me, you accomplish nothing. I will continue to write simply because I love it, and a little bad review isn't going to stop me; in fact, it adds fuel to my fire because it makes me want to write more in order to get better, thereby making the "flame" review have the opposite of the desired effect. Sorry if that disappoints you. Also, I do not hesitate to publicly humiliate the intellect of these so-called "flamers" if they leave an incoherent "flame" review. Understood? Good. So, for the rest of you who intend to leave good reviews and/or constructive criticism, I salute you, your graciousness, and intellectual aspects.
Oh, and just so you know and aren't surprised, for those who do leave reviews (good, bad, and even "flame"), I do leave notes for in the next chapter, as I like to interact with the readers of my work as much as possible, for it is there that I can gain a good account of what my writing is worth, what needs to be improved, what needs to stay the same, etc.
With that being said, I bid you adieu until the next chapter, which shall be posted in approximately a week's time.
On one last note, and this I hold true, the more reviews I get, the more willing I am to post a new chapter sooner. Just a bit of incentive, you know.
