A/N: Hello all! Nothing much to say here, but I do enjoy writing A/Ns, so...there you go...
"When you disarm [someone], you commence to offend them and show that you distrust them either through cowardice or lack of confidence, and both of these opinions generate hatred." -Niccolo Machiavelli
There was no one in the world that Draco Malfoy loathed more than Hermione Granger. Even Potter and Weasley, blood traitors that they were, had the decency to take a proper place of inferiority. But Granger refused to submit to the stark truth of pureblood superiority, insisting on beating Draco in every class for the past six years. It was infuriating. An inherently second-class set of magic had somehow found its way into Granger's dirty blood, but it was nothing compared to the noble, ancient magic that coursed through Draco's body, as pure as his blood.
Draco didn't do magic. He lived magic. From the tales of potions and spells that his mother regaled him with as a child, to the venerable magic tucked away in every inch of the Malfoy Manor, to his first broomstick he had received at the age of six, to the imperious teachings of his father, to the Dark Mark that burned, bright and hot, on his left forearm, he was a Malfoy.
And from the stupid, mundane stories her Neanderthal Muggle parents likely spun for her, to the crappy shack he was sure she inhabited, to her complete obliviousness of Quidditch and its place in the wizarding world, to the fumbling inadequacy of her lineage, to the 'MUDBLOOD' carved into her left arm, dark and ugly, she was a Mudblood.
Draco tried to ignore the unpleasant lurch in his stomach when he recalled what his late aunt had done to Granger a mere year ago, pushing down his traitorous revulsion for the barbaric torture he had witnessed in the drawing room of his own home. Of course the methods were a bit...misguided, he assured himself, but the fact remains that she doesn't deserve magic.
But as he spilled these thoughts to Pansy and Greg, accompanied with a buck-toothed impression of Granger leaping out of her knickers to answer a professor's question, his friends' laughter did nothing to change the cold truth: that Hermione Granger had outscored him again on their latest Arithmancy exam.
Hermione had settled into a comfortable routine of judiciously ignoring Draco Malfoy: Wake up in the morning. Ignore the low hiss of his shower. Prepare her tea and breakfast in the small kitchenette between their dormitories. Ignore the snide comments he spat at her as he sneered down his nose at her Muggle cooking methods. Retreat to her bedroom to dress for class. Ignore the arrogant lilt of his louder-than-necessary voice as he prepared his black-as-a-Malfoy-soul coffee by magic in derision of her Muggle practices. Take a long, warm shower. Ignore (with extreme indignant difficulty) the thorough mistreatment of whichever house-elf had the misfortune of having to bring Malfoy his breakfast. Gather her textbooks and notes from the comfortable study they shared. Ignore the door he left open as he prepared for his busy day of condescension and bigotry. Scamper out of the Head Dormitories before he finished his morning routine, thereby avoiding a steady stream of verbal abuse.
It was on Day 9 of her co-habitance with the nauseating Prince of Slytherin that Hermione realized she was not ignoring Draco Malfoy—she was avoiding him. The realization came with an overwhelming rush of humiliation. Does he think I'm scared of him? she wondered as she gulped her pumpkin juice during her quick lunch between Arithmancy and Potions. She cast a wary eye over to the Slytherin table, where an immaculately groomed Malfoy was holding court for a simpering Pansy Parkinson and a guffawing Gregory Goyle.
A hot surge of anger shot through her body at the sight. She was sure that he fancied the notion that she was frightened of him. The ludicrousness of that idea sent a mirthless noise of derision, unbidden, through her lips, startling the slim, freckled girl seated beside her. "Is everything okay?" Ginny Weasley inquired, eyebrows slightly scrunched with concern. "Oh, yes," Hermione assured her breezily, "Everything is fine. I'm just a little stressed about N.E.W.T.s. You know, they determine a lot about your future career options, and personally, I wa—"
"Ron's right, you worry far too much. N.E.W.T.s aren't even until second term! There's no way yo—"
"—of course, very advanced subject matter, and Transfiguration is getting a tad diffi—"
"—and George didn't get any N.E.W.T.s, and look how well he's doing. He's practically rolling in Galleons as we spea—"
"—know that the practical for Defense Against the Dark Arts will probably include at least identification of the Unforgivabl—"
"You're brilliant, Hermione," Ginny cut in firmly, ending the argument with a pointed look and taking her hand for a brief second and squeezing it. She paused, teetering on the edge of speech, then returned rather hastily to her mashed potatoes. As Hermione packed up her bag to leave, Ginny said in a quiet voice: "It's okay, Hermione. I miss them, too."
As Hermione swept out of the Great Hall under the pretense of urgency, unshed tears bit at the back of her stubborn eyes. She missed them more than she could say: the affable ease of Harry's brilliant smile and unwarranted modesty, and the endearing awkwardness of Ron's crass joking and genuine warmth.
She felt the burn of embarrassment rise to her cheeks as she imagined the fuss they would make over how Malfoy was treating her. But inside, Hermione felt that it was not Malfoy to be fussed at. Of course he would act like an arrogant git. It was all that he knew. After all, he was a Slytherin. But Hermione Granger was a Gryffindor. And with the familiar swell of courage enveloping her chest in a blazing effulgence, this Gryffindor had made up her mind: she would avoid him no longer.
A/N: Sorry for the short chappie but there's another one right on its heels!
