Draco Malfoy was irritated.

Not with himself, mind you – partly with his father, partly with Pansy Parkinson, but primarily with his whole sodding life. Most of all, he was tired of being told what he could and could not do.

What was the point of being better than everyone else, after all, if it didn't entitle him to do as he pleased?

The restrictions first really began to chafe at the Quidditch World Cup. His father took advantage of a quiet moment to reprimand him for bragging about their place in the Minister's box to the Weasleys. "You must not look for approval from people who should be beneath your notice," Lucius chided. "Superiority cannot be claimed; it must be embodied."

Draco nodded his head, because he knew very well what would happen when they returned home if he did not. But inside, he was rebellious. What did it matter what he said to that pathetic tribe of red-headed idiots?

His father's words stuck with him, though, on his return to Hogwarts. He had to show Harry Potter and the Weasleys and all the others that there were no heights to which he could not aspire. Nothing was too good for him to reach out his hand and take it. He would show them, but it had to be the right gesture: something that would prove that he could be, and have, anything he wanted.

Several months into term, Draco still had not come up with the proper embodiment of his natural superiority. He had, in point of fact, been subjected to a variety of humiliations: squeezing Bubotuber pus, throwing frog innards to a seething pile of Blast-Ended Skrewts, and the final indignity, his brief transformation into a rodent. Once that crippled git Moody finally left him with Snape, his Head of House excused him from detention and sent him back to the Slytherin dormitory. He settled into a soft leather chair, flanked by Crabbe and Goyle, and began speculating aloud as to what revenge he should take on the Professor. His aching, bruised spine and hands did not improve his temper.

"I'll have him removed from his position," Draco said. "I'll call Father and he'll be gone by next week."

But that was somehow not good enough. It couldn't be his father who brought Moody down. If Draco was going to prove his own worth, he would have to take matters into his own hands.

"Or I could put a magnetizing hex on that metal foot of his. And a curse on his fake eye that rolls it straight back into his bloody head."

And that was when Pansy dropped the other shoe.

"You can't do that, Draco. He was an Auror, and you're only a fourth-year. You'd have a better chance of getting a date with Hermione Granger than catching him unawares."

Bloody Pansy – even she didn't believe in him. Still worse, he had a terrible feeling that she was right. Right about Moody, and damn it all, right about that Mudblood, too. Not that he wanted a date with Granger, Merlin forbid. But if he did... if he did, he was quite sure she would laugh him out of the room. It was absolutely intolerable.

Pansy's offhand comment continued to rankle. What right did that frizzy-haired upstart have to reject him? (Draco could imagine the rejection clearly enough that he didn't actually have to experience it to be sure it would take place.) He had saved her little Muggle-born skin at the Quidditch World Cup when he told her to hide from the oncoming Death Eaters. (This was another thing he had failed to mention to his father.)

And what were her thanks for that good turn? Showing him up in Care of Magical Creatures, even though he knew very well that she thought he was right about the bloody Skrewts. Laughing about the ferret incident, which despite a month of concentrated effort he had still failed to wipe from his memory. After the first nightmare involving a fluffy white tail and a twitching, bewhiskered snout, Draco had seriously considered Obliviating himself. But that was dangerous, and asking someone else to do it would just call attention to the whole thing. Literal nightmares being preferable to the social kind, Draco abandoned his sleeping self to its fate (and to its fleas).

He couldn't quite abandon his resentment of Granger, however. It became something of a habit, watching her out of the corner of his eye. He'd cast baleful glances at the Gryffindor table, talking with those insufferable friends of hers, and wonder how she could tolerate them. She was clearly intelligent despite her inferior blood, unlike the other two. She was also eating abnormally quickly again. He'd noticed recently that she'd been leaving supper as fast as she could, which was annoying because then she was no longer there to be glanced at surreptitiously. Draco knew the signs. She'd be out of her seat in another two or three minutes. But where was she going, leaving her friends every night? It wasn't like her. It didn't occur to Draco that it was odd how well he already knew her character, but this gap in his understanding itched at him. Curiosity overtook him, and he seized his chance. It wouldn't do to leave after her – someone might catch on, so he had to go first. He made a disgusted face and pushed his plate away.

"I didn't think it was possible for the standards at Hogwarts to slip any further, but I continue to be surprised," he said, sneering at the perfectly acceptable meal. "I can't stomach another night of this. Perhaps I'll nip up to the owlery and write Mother; she'll get one of the elves to bring me something proper from home."

Draco stood, keeping the disgusted look on his face, and stalked out of the Great Hall. Actually, he was quite pleased with himself. This hastily-made plan ensured that Crabbe and Goyle would not be following him, since that would mean giving up their suppers. It was, quite frankly, genius. Once clear of the Hall, he found an alcove with a view of the door and put up his hood to keep his hair from attracting any attention. She'd be out any minute.

Hermione couldn't finish her supper fast enough. The history of house-elves was long, and complicated, and utterly vexing. But before she could get the organization off the ground, she had to have her facts in order. It was pleasant, in a way, to have a project outside of school work, something to occupy her when the boys were fixated on Quidditch or paying the price for their inevitable procrastination on lessons. She'd learned the hard way that if she were in the room, they'd be bothering her for help. Better to let them flounder on their own, and learn the results of putting things off.

Hermione was aware that she would be going up against centuries of wizarding tradition with this project. But it was so desperately, horribly, transparently unfair that the magical world was carried on the backs of innocent slaves. With all the resources at their command, wizards still hadn't found a replacement for slavery? Intolerable. Muggles had done it, hadn't they? Hermione considered it her responsibility as a Muggle-born witch to be a bridge between the two cultures, and what better way than bringing to light an area in which Muggles were actually further advanced? Hitching her book bag on her shoulder, she hurried to the library, eager to continue her research, absorbed in her thoughts, and totally unaware of Draco Malfoy following discreetly behind her.

Of course the silly swot was heading for the library. How could he have thought anything different? She was embarrassingly predictable. Draco should have just gone there to wait without subjecting himself to this ridiculous cloak-and-wand routine. He dropped farther behind, the better to remain unobserved, removing his hood and adopting his usual casual saunter. She wouldn't notice him in her distracted state anyway, and he could easily make up an errand in the library if anyone who mattered noticed him. When he entered the library, it was as empty as would be expected, given the hour. Everyone else was still at supper. He noted the flare of light in the section she'd chosen and took a roundabout way through the bookshelves to get a look at what she was doing.

Magical Creatures? What in Merlin's name was she doing in there? That imbecile Hagrid certainly hadn't assigned them anything that would require this kind of research. Or research at all, actually. Draco pictured the Blast-Ended Skrewts and shuddered. Skrewts. It takes a certain horrid genius to be useless, disgusting and dangerous. Anyway, that class was an almost complete waste of time, except that it afforded him an opportunity to irritate Pothead and Weaselby and spar with Granger. Draco settled down at a table one bookshelf removed from Granger's, where he'd be able to hear her moving, and began to search for a book that could reasonably have brought him here. This had the dual purpose of allowing him to peer through the shelf at her. She was bent over a giant book, running her finger down the margin and muttering to herself. From time to time, she would make an outraged sound and write something fiercely with her quill. She was pressing too hard; there was no way she could be writing properly. (Draco preferred a Gothic Rotunda, himself. It had a pleasant quality, and the letters took up a bit of extra space, meaning assignments could be finished more quickly.) Using that kind of pressure, Granger couldn't have any grace in her hand at all. No varied line weight – in fact, she seemed in danger of tearing the parchment. Draco shook his head. Muggles were absolute savages, sending their children off to school without even the most basic study skills.

Draco sat down and opened his book. Charming Charms, it was called, and while perhaps a bit advanced for him, it was actually somewhat interesting. He turned randomly to the chapter on elemental charms, and settled down to read about Morphincendius, which allowed the caster to give a flame a shape. This struck Draco as less "charming" than "pointless," but it would perhaps make a good prank if he could master it. He was saying the incantation under his breath and practicing wand movements when an odd sound from behind the bookshelf caught his attention. Kind of a triple "thunk" sound. What on earth was the daft girl up to? He returned to the shelf and peered through, finding Granger standing next to a machine with a lever of some kind on it. She was putting slips of paper, then metal circles onto it (thunk), then pressing the lever down (thunk) and dropping the resulting object into a box (thunk). He watched for some time, bewildered by how she'd gotten the machine in the first place, and why she hadn't enchanted it to do the work for her in the second. After a while she pushed that shrubbery she called hair out of her face, cast a quick look around the empty library (Draco ducked down as her eye slid past his peep hole) and walked in the direction of the library door. She hadn't taken any of her things, so she must be looking for another book or perhaps running to the loo. Draco stuck his head out from behind the shelf to confirm that she was actually leaving the library, then slid around to take a look at what she'd been doing.

Unbelievable. Hermione Granger had clearly gone mental. Draco bent over what she had been writing, which appeared to be stories of exceptionally loyal house-elves who had sacrificed themselves for their families, mixed with cautionary tales of elves who had failed in their duties for one reason or another and been justly punished. It was clear, however, that she'd missed the point of the stories entirely. Everything about her writing, including the writing itself (she had a terrible hand, just as Draco had suspected) bespoke outrage. And what was this? Draco reached into the box she'd been dropping the round things in and discovered that they were badges imprinted with four letters. "S.P.E.W."? He scanned the sheet and discovered that this stood for "Society for the Promotion of Elfish Welfare." Beneath these words was an outline for a manifesto, written in classical Granger swotty style, opining that house-elves were enslaved and abused. Utterly barmy. She had the whole concept backwards, and to top it all off the design of the badges was horrible. Just plain block letters on a solid color background. Experimentally he tapped one with his wand, but it remained resolutely drab.

Draco shook his head. "Elfish welfare" was entirely predicated on being useful to their masters. That's what the elves wanted, and that's what wizards wanted of them. Any child could tell you that. How could the girl be so bloody clever in lessons, and so utterly thick when it came to everything else? It was absurd, another failure of this ridiculous school, that "Muggle Studies" was a requirement while Muggle-borns were allowed to run around like ignorant savages.

A slight scuffing noise in the hallway saved him. Draco jerked up and away from the table, scurrying back behind his shelf, the badge he'd been holding still in his hand. Granger returned to her table and finished her thunk-thunk-thunking, filling her box with her pathetic failures of design. (Though now that Draco thought about it, it was comforting in a way to find something she wasn't good at.) Draco ignored her, keeping his head bent to his book, picturing flames that turned into snakes and struck at passing first-years. Yes, this charm had definite appeal. It would be tricky to make it respond to the right people, he couldn't have the torches jumping out at professors or any of the upperclassmen, but he was confident he'd be able to work it out. When Granger had finally packed up her project and left the library, Draco took the book and walked back toward the dungeons. On an impulse he didn't care to examine too closely, he tucked the S.P.E.W. badge into his pocket.