Hermione dragged her feet on the way to her Thursday morning Potions class. She had been up late last night, tortured by Ron's letter and her unclear feelings, and the last thing she wanted right now was to have to endure three hours of Malfoy's inane comments or hear him whining about how much they had to do. He had picked the potion, for Merlin's sake! True, his methods of selection had been dubious to say the least, and she was seriously considering choosing it anyway, but it felt easier just to blame him for everything that was wrong in her life right now. If only she could find a way to hold Malfoy accountable for her unpleasant situation with Ron, her life would be much better.
She had reached the heavy door to the potions classroom by now, and turned the slightly rusted ring handle with only a moment's hesitation. Her unwillingness to endure three hours of Malfoy was overridden by her desire to do well. Not that she particularly needed to try hard in Potions, as Slughorn fawned over her at every opportunity: she was part of the Golden Trio, after all, and considerably intelligent. Slughorn wanted to collect her very badly indeed… Hermione wondered briefly if she could use her leverage with the bumbling old professor to switch partners and find herself someone who wasn't capable of inducing a skull-splitting headache within ten minutes or even someone with the ability to converse normally. She rejected the idea with some difficulty, but managed to convince herself that Malfoy was a challenge – she'd never been able to resist challenges.
Nevertheless, her mood still plummeted as she headed towards her seat beside the blond boy who was, as usual, smirking. By the time she'd made it across the classroom, her temper was positively foul. She slammed her books down on the desk, violently dragging the stool out from under the desk and plonking herself on it with a grumble. The commotion earned her a few odd looks from other students in the classroom, and one perfectly raised eyebrow from Malfoy. That only served to send her into an even worse mood, as raising her eyebrow was one of the few things she had never been able to master. The fact that the slimiest git in the school could do something that she couldn't, and do it so gracefully, almost sent her over the edge.
"So, class, I hope you've all managed to decide on a potion to brew as your coursework," Slughorn began, breaking off to take in the self-satisfied smiles and nods Hermione's classmates were giving each other. "Good-o. Before I allocate rooms to you, would one of your pair please come up and write the name of your chosen potion (and both of your names) on this please?"
Malfoy didn't move, clearly expecting Hermione to do all the work. She prodded him sharply with her quill and gave him a look that clearly said If you think I'm getting up, think again. He rolled his eyes complied without further comment, clearly understanding that picking a fight now would result in his swift murder.
"Everybody done? Yes? Good. As I'm sure you're all aware, I cannot actually make suggested changes to your methods, only mark you accordingly. However, what the exam board doesn't know won't kill them, eh? So with that in mind, I might be coming round to discuss some non-potions related topics with some of you," Slughorn paused to wink dramatically at the class and pop a pineapple chunk into his mouth. "In the meantime, you will each be given a key to a spare lab room. Professor McGonagall has taken the precaution of charming them so that only you and your partner together can open the door. Obviously, she seems to suspect some of you will attempt to sabotage each other's work – and I wouldn't put it past some of you, especially jokers like Miss Granger over here!" Slughorn concluded his grand speech with a theatrical head-jerk in Hermione's direction, before beaming at her as though to clarify that he was making a joke. She mustered up a weak smile in response, but it seemed to do the trick as he then bustled around the room handing out keys of various shapes and sizes. Oddly enough, Hermione could have sworn she recognised a large, rusty old key which Slughorn handed to Ginny and Luna (only the last time she'd seen it, it had had wings). Professor Slughorn came to Hermione and Malfoy last, proffering them a delicate golden key, barely larger than Hermione's little finger. He looked utterly delighted with himself, leaning in and whispering, "I'm supposed to distribute the rooms randomly, my dear, but I won't tell if you don't!" With another comically large wink, he bustled off, rubbing his rotund belly and smiling vaguely around the room.
Once out in the corridor the potions class scattered, equipment in hand, to find their allotted rooms. Hermione followed the small tug of the key in her palm – Slughorn informed them that Flitwick had not only charmed them to lead the way to their classrooms, but also to act as a sort of egg-timer to let them know when certain brewing phases were complete. She was relieved to see that Malfoy was keeping his distance, and was even saddled with most of the equipment. Not that they were carrying much, as Slughorn had hinted conspiratorially that they should "travel light", whatever that meant.
The pair halted in front of a modest wooden door.
"Are you sure this is it?" Malfoy asked.
Hermione lightly traced the intricate rose detail of the little golden key, feeling the magic lightly thrum under her fingers. She nodded, reaching out a hand for the handle, which was wrought with the same rose. The key turned in the lock with no resistance, and she swung the door open to reveal the room they would be spending the majority of their term in. She couldn't prevent a small gasp from escaping her lips as she took in her surroundings. Looking back at Malfoy, she saw the same sense of wonder etched across his face.
A crystal cauldron stood on a white marble table in the centre of the room, shattering the sunlight that poured down on it from a large round window in the ceiling into a thousand rainbow fragments. All around the room were phials, books and equipment, housed in glass cases and white marble shelves. The back wall was partially taken up by a wide bay window, through which more natural light filtered in, with the same rose design as the one Hermione had traced on the key. It was, in a word, beautiful. Malfoy unceremoniously dumped the equipment he had carried from the dungeons in a corner, where it sat looking shabby and infantile by comparison.
"Well this is…nice," Malfoy said quietly.
"Understatement of the century, Malfoy," Hermione replied, but the surprising room had drained the anger from her voice. She stood stock-still near the cauldron, eyes moving furiously to and fro as she tried to take in every inch of her surroundings at once. In her peripheral vision, she saw Malfoy move towards one of the glass cases holding a row of beautifully bound potion books. He slid back the glass and plucked one out from amongst the row. Crossing to the bow window, he settled himself with his legs up on the cushion and began reading. Not to be outdone, Hermione unstuck herself from her spot and moved towards the case bursting with ingredients, some of which even she'd never heard of. She pulled a spare piece of parchment from her robes, as well as a self-inking mini quill she had accidentally borrowed from the library and began to scribble furiously, as she was wont to do.
After several minutes (fewer than five or more than twenty, it was impossible to tell in that place) of unadulterated tranquillity, Draco looked up from his book to see Granger writing, as usual.
"What're you doing?" he drawled lazily, the words distorted by the yawn that accompanied them.
"Making an inventory – we've got so many ingredients here already, it's going to halve our preparation time."
"Joy of joys," Draco replied, almost sarcastically. He genuinely was happy about the idea of having to spend much less time doing work, and much less time with Granger in general, but he wasn't about to let on that he actually had emotions.
He stretched out his legs and rested his cheek against the cool glass, which looked over a piece of the grounds he had never seen before. Abandoning his book for the moment, he stared out at the expanse of gardens beneath him. The only garden he'd been to in the Hogwarts grounds was the Herbology garden, but that was purely functional. Here, every detail was aesthetically crafted for the enjoyment of nature. It was beautiful, every colour and shape of flower imaginable blending perfectly into one another. A light breeze outside seemed to create the illusion that the colours ran into each other in a wonderful river of vitality, and the garden was alive with minuscule birds who flitted here and there, the sun catching their golden feathers and setting them ablaze. In the far corner stood an ancient weeping birch tree, and beneath its graceful boughs was positioned a carved white bench. If he had thought that the room he was currently in was a surprise, one look outside told him that he had far more to discover about his school than he had originally thought.
Obviously, Granger had to ruin the moment. She had probably noticed that he was enjoying himself for once, and decided that this simply could not be allowed. She wandered over and stood by his shoulder, following his gaze to the garden below.
"It's beautiful," she gabbled, "but how come I've never seen it before? I mean, I've never even read about it – it's not in 'Hogwarts: A History', how is that possible? I wonder what it's for…"
"Not everything in life has a purpose, Granger, although yours seems to be to annoy the shit out of everyone," he snapped as she shattered his serene mood with her incessant prattling. He swung his legs down from the window ledge with such speed that he nearly kicked her. Serves her right for ruining the one moment of true peace he had actually managed to find since everything had gone wrong. He groaned internally as he realised what was coming, but no amount of willpower on his part could stop the dreadful memories from once again consuming his mind.
He stood, flanked by his mother and father, facing the Wizengamot. Their day of judgement had finally come, preceded by months of nervous wait. August 23rd, a Wednesday – it was, for most, just another day of the holidays where they could laze around in the glorious sunshine. For him and his family, far removed from the normality of life and stood in an enormous room where no natural light could ever hope to filter through, it was their day of reckoning and it was not going to be pretty, by any means. Rows upon rows of plum-coloured robes, nameless witches and wizards who would be deciding the fate of him, his mother and his father and who were all decidedly biased against them. Who could help but hate them? They had run from the final throngs of battle, deserting both sides like the cowards that they were. They had been found unconscious in the Forest, halted in their spineless escape by the sudden explosion (for want of a better word to describe the phenomenon of their own skin splitting open and a beam of light breaking through) of the mark which earned them so much hatred in the eyes of the Wizarding community. They had not had the integrity to belong to either side: they did not belong with the fervent lovers of Voldemort, whom they had abandoned like rats fleeing a sinking vessel, but nor were they able to be welcomed with open arms by people they had fought against in the war that had changed everyone.
Thus they stood, the three of them, close enough to feel the heat from one another's bodies but forbidden to seek desperately-needed comfort in the touch of an arm or a hand, waiting. Lucius' eyes were unfocused, his head bowed towards the floor under the great pressure of the hatred emanating from the faceless mass of plum robes. He was a broken man, the last ounces of his spirit destroyed by those he had once considered unworthy even of a glance from his eyes. Narcissa stared straight at the Minister for Magic, her grief and worry almost hidden by a perfected façade of pride. She bore herself well, his mother, to the very end. Draco's eyes combed the tide of faces before him, seeking out those with amusingly ugly features to distract his mind from the enormity of what was to come. He had reached the third row from the top, detachedly admiring the enormous bulbous nose of a short old wizard with tufts of white hair springing from his balding scalp when the Minister spoke. The whispers which had suffused the hall ceased immediately and everyone fell silent to listen to the final verdict.
"Lucius Malfoy, the Wizengamot finds you guilty of crimes most heinous, including harbouring Tom Marvolo Riddle in your own home, knowingly placing a life-threatening object of Dark Magic into the hands of Ginerva Weasly, then a child of 11, and using Unforgiveable curses willingly under direction of Riddle. As an ardent follower of Riddle, you bore the Dark Mark for many years and performed acts of inhumanely grotesque natures. The Wizengamot therefore sentences you, who have forfeited your right to a life through the destruction of so many others, to the Dementor's Kiss." The last words echoed around the silent hall, and for a long time after the last 's' had faded from human hearing, Draco heard it resonate yet in his ears. Lucius' position was unchanged, as though he had not heard a word of what had been spoken, but his mother's carefully maintained mask had shattered, and silent tears rolled down her alabaster cheeks. Her entire frame shook with the effort of remaining standing, but she stood resolute and did not look away from the Minister of Magic as he solemnly delivered his verdict.
"Narcissa Malfoy, née Black, the Wizengamot finds you guilty of harbouring Tom Marvolo Riddle in your own home, knowing with absolute certainty who he was and what horrors he had committed and had yet to commit. You did not, however, bear the Dark Mark and you have since admitted that all you have done against your country you did for the sake of your son, who stands here also. Therefore, the Wizengamot has decided to show leniency, and you will not be sentenced to the Dementor's Kiss." Draco's whole body relaxed when he heard those glorious words. His happiness was premature, however, as the Minister of Magic went on after a slight pause, "Harry Potter has submitted his witness report, claiming that you in fact lied to the man calling himself Lord Voldemort, thus saving his life. This act has granted you some leniency. We have come to a decision that, as punishment for your transgressions, you will spend one year living amongst Muggles, with a full memory wipe. You will be closely monitored and if, at the end of this period, the investigators are fully convinced that in such a Tabula Rasa situation, you will not sink to a life of immorality, you will be returned to the Wizarding world, your son and all of your memories." Draco's mouth fell open at the injustice of their decision – without his mother, Potter would be dead and the war would not have been won by these people. She was a fucking hero, and she was being banished? Before he could find his voice to scream blue murder, the minister's eyes fell upon him.
"Draco Malfoy, you have been found guilty for the attempted murder of Albus Dumbledore, venerated headmaster of Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry. You too bore the Dark Mark upon your arm as a follower of he who called himself Lord Voldemort. However, Dumbledore's last memories beg this court to show mercy, taking in to consideration both the corruptibility of age, and the fact that you acted for the preservation of your family and not through ardent belief of your own. Therefore, the Court has come to the decision to withhold your funds until such a time as a reliable character witness proves you to be an altered person, fully repentant of all of your ways. You will return to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry to complete your education, and you will spend the remainder of this summer in a Muggle boarding facility. Your headmistress, Professor McGonagall will make regular reports to an investigator on your behaviour, and should it prove to be against the rulings of this court, you will face banishment to the Muggle world or indeed a sentence of indeterminate length in Azkaban." The whispers which had started up after each of the minister's speeches once again died down, and all eyes focused on the Malfoys as the trio was led from the courtroom, each as broken as the other.
Malfoy looked down at his hand, surprised to find it balled so tightly into a fist that the skin over his knuckles was stretched and white. He blinked twice to clear the last wisps of the memory from his mind, and looked up, realising that Granger was standing extremely close to his face looking utterly livid.
"You are just asking for me to hit you again, aren't you? Are you ever going to respond, or am I too far below the high and mighty Malfoy for you to dignify me with an answer?" she shouted.
He winced, cowering away from her voice. Inexplicably, her face softened slightly and she looked abashed. He looked at her quizzically as a faint suffusion of pink rose to her cheeks.
"I'm sorry, I'm not in a good mood and it's not fair of me to take it out on you. Even if you're an annoying git…" she trailed off uncomfortably. Had Granger actually just apologised to him? It really was a day full of surprises.
"Merlin, no need to go all girly," he said. He had intended to snap back, resolving not to show weakness, but apparently his voice had other ideas. His throat was still tight, constricted by unshed tears, so his withering comment came out deflated and weak. Suddenly, he was struck with the ideal way to regain the upper hand in the conversation. "Say, this wouldn't have anything to do with Weasel, would it? Can't make up your mind whether to get some of that ginger loving?"
It was the perfect thing to say: her mouth opened and closed wildly as she searched speechlessly for something to say while the blood flooded to her cheeks. Granger was lost for words, probably for the first time in her entire existence. Finally, she found her voice and squeaked a very pathetic, "Shut it, Malfoy," before storming to the opposite side of the room and staring intently at a row of potions books. He chuckled and turned back to his long-abandoned book, letting the peace of the room wash over him once more.
For a long time he registered nothing but the words between his hands, but too soon the letters began to dance before his eyes and he shut the book with a sigh. He scanned the room, looking for Granger lazily. When he realised she had disappeared from view he began to panic, wondering just how long he had sat reading. Long enough, he assumed, judging by the lack of feeling in his posterior. He started to cross the room in long strides to put his book away and hurry off to class, but stopped when he realised that Granger hadn't disappeared, after all. He found her lying on her stomach, a gold-and-leather-bound book acting as a makeshift cushion for her head. She was dozing lightly, her eyelashes fluttering against her rosy skin and her full lips parted slightly in the abandonment of the unconscious. The worry lines that permanently creased her skin had smoothed, leaving it flawless. One stray curl rested upon her cheek, drawing Draco's eyes to the soft rose of colour on her cheekbone. It looked so soft and inviting that, without thinking, Draco put a hand out to tuck the curl behind Granger's minute ear. She stirred at the contact, but did not wake. The movement was enough to shake Draco from his bizarre mood, and he shook her shoulder to wake her, all traces of intimacy and gentleness gone. She blinked groggily and groaned slightly, propping herself up into a seated position. Draco straightened, smiling slightly despite himself as he caught her eye, bright with not-long banished sleep.
"Nice of you to join the land of the living, Granger. Need I remind you, we have work to do," he said, turning to the correct page in the book and rolling up his sleeves. She was at his side a minute later, rattling around and generally making a lot of unnecessary fuss. He rolled his eyes, but watched as, face still softened by sleep, she allowed herself to be consumed by activity. The sunlight streaming in from the rose window he had just vacated hit her hair and he couldn't help but be reminded of those golden birds who flitted around the garden below him and blazed in the sun's rays.
For some reason, the top bit won't let me write. Not much to say, anyway. It's shorter than I thought it was, again, how rubbish.
Oh, and May the Fourth be with you all. International Star Wars Day, apparently.