Chapter 3: The Wrong Victim
It was such a simple plan, Malfoy thought, that there was absolutely nothing that could go wrong.
He was going over the plan with Crabbe and Goyle, well, the parts that were the most important- as loyal as his henchmen were, Malfoy did not want to tell them the full extent of what he was planning. As far as they were concerned, this was yet another malicious prank to ruin Harry Potter's life just a little more than usual and if everything went according to plan, he would probably be expelled as a bonus.
The plan was perfect, it just needed to be set in motion. And what better time to execute it than the present? After everyone else had filed out for dinner, Malfoy gave Goyle and Crabbe each a small glass of faintly steaming liquid.
"This one is that Weasley kid, and that one is Longbottom. You should only need a couple minutes to get in and get out. Remember, Weasley owes Potter a butterbeer. Make sure you give it to him, and insist that he taste it to make sure it's cold enough and hasn't expired because you're a poor little git and don't know any better."
Crabbe smirked at this, but Goyle took a couple moments to catch on and laughed a little too hard, making Malfoy narrow his eyes in irritation. He continued on, "Then get out of there before your doubles return. They should be occupied by those fake love letters I slipped in their satchels during class, both from two attractive Ravenclaw girls who definitely won't even give them the time of day. I only wish I could be there to see their faces when they get shot down in flames."
He looked at them severely, "And remember, if worse comes to worse, whoever is going to be Longbottom needs to create a diversion, preferably one that makes him look ridiculous, well, more ridiculous than usual."
Goyle had begun to frown in a way that made his eyes begin to cross and opened his mouth a bit like a fish, as though debating whether or not to begin actually talking.
Malfoy shot him a withering stare that Snape would have approved of if they weren't currently at odds with one another, "You had a question there, Goyle?"
"Well yeah but nah but, well, how're we supposed'ta get in through the door in the first place?"
Malfoy massaged at his temples in exasperation.
"I told you that I had that covered, ok? Just make sure to change into the Gryffindor robes I nicked for you from the laundry room and let the Polyjuice do the rest."
The two thuggish boys looked at each other in silent agreement and then gulped down the contents of their respective glasses.
"Ugh, this tastes like burning leaves, it does," Goyle choked out before collapsing to the floor and writhing in pain as his body contracted and bone structures reworked themselves.
"At least yours don't taste like a wet rat covered in filth," Crabbe was able to say before he too was on the floor moaning in discomfort.
Malfoy began to wonder how Crabbe would know what such a thing tasted like in the first place, but snapped himself out of it as the boys picked themselves off the floor with new faces and bodies to match.
"When you're done with your bellyaching, you're gonna want to put on these clothes, boys," he said with a malevolent grin as he handed the uniforms over, "We've got a Potter with a life that needs destroying.'
Hermione was doing her best to appear engrossed in Mermish for Mortals, but in actuality she had been trying to read the same line for twenty or so minutes and watching the words blur together as she blinked back tears. She'd had a lot of practice at it, after all. Her lack of tact and obsession with learning didn't make her very popular in school unless someone had something to get out of her. Then it was all "Hermione, you're so great" and "Hermione we need you." But they didn't care in the end, not really.
She heard the words "muggle" and "overachiever" and "teacher's pet" snickered behind her back as she pretended not to notice. She knew that if she said anything that it would become overt and even more unbearable. She'd learned the hard way in the school she had attended before Hogwarts. She had thought that the magical world would be different; more refined and deeply enriched in ways that muggles were not, but she had been disappointed to find that wizards were really quite the same, only with owls instead of postmen and elixirs instead of antacid tablets.
And as for friends...
'As far as they're concerned, I'm simply a perpetually bushy-haired third wheel,' she thought bitterly, and a tear leaked out, causing her to blink rather quickly to spread out the moisture so it wouldn't trickle down her cheek.
Stupid, stupid. She was being so stupid. It was completely unfair, that's what it was. To have a crush on him when all he did was bicker with her when everyone knew she was right and then copy off of her homework every chance he got. She hated his stupid red hair and his stupid freckles and his stupid tall, lanky body...but then she hated herself for thinking that way because she knew she was deceiving herself as she forced herself to think it. The worst part of all was that it should have been logical to resent him, to hate the fact that they were always at odds with one another. But her heart wasn't her brain, and there was no book in the library, including the forbidden section (she had checked, obviously), on how to stop feeling the way you feel if you don't want to feel that way anymore.
She finally shut the book with a loud thwack and sneezed as it unsettled the dust within the pages. She would go to their room and see if she couldn't get him to apologize for his latest blunder. Maybe then she could feel halfway justified in letting him copy her potions homework. And maybe she could somehow get close to him and brush against his hand or his thigh without him minding or flinching away the way he always seemed to do when she got more than a foot away from him. It wasn't a good plan, she knew, but it was better than sitting on her bed with a throbbing heart and a thin line of desire running through the length of her body.
She dusted off her robes and flattened her skirt. It would have to do. She picked up the parchment for the potions essay and walked down the steps towards the Gryffindor common room.
It was quiet and almost empty, she saw, when she got to the base of the stairs. She realized it was later than she had thought it was. Most everyone would be down in the Great Hall for supper.
She heard the painting at the entrance to the common room swing open. She glanced over to see Neville and Ron entering with uncomfortable looks on their faces.
"Oh look," Ron said, his voice a growl, "It's her." He was holding a bottle in his hand.
Neville laughed in a very uncharacteristically cruel manner and then seemed to catch himself, saying a bit absentmindedly, "Don't worry about her, we gotta, you know, for Potter, and, er, stuff."
They pushed past Hermione in an abrupt manner into their dorm room, and minutes later reemerged and swept past her with nary a sideways glance, intently talking about how it couldn't be helped because everyone was at the Great Hall anyway and discussing what they hoped would be served for their evening meal. Being ignored was almost worse, Hermione thought. At least when people looked at you in the eye, you could keep some dignity about you. But when people slid their eyes around the spot you were standing like you simply did not exist, you became singularly insignificant, and she found she could not even summon her voice to ask them to wait up.
She decided that she was angry and let it flow into her like a cool flame. Anger felt so much better, so much less painful than the ache of unrequited affection. She turned and used her opportunity in the deserted tower to make her way into the boy's dormitory because all she could think about was revenge.
The room was a mess as usual. Hermione doubted that even the presence of house elves would be enough to tame the clutter and careless filth of the room before her.
Wrappers from Chocolate Frogs and all manner of other candies were strewn about randomly and dirty clothing was heaped haphazardly on the floor and across beds and over chairs. She marveled (and not for the last time) that the boys could all eat so many sweets and still look like beanpoles. It suddenly made quite a lot of sense that Harry had turned up in class that very morning with pants rolled up at the ends while Ron looked like he was dressing for a flood. Now that Ron was quite a bit taller than his best friend, it was quite obvious that they weren't always grabbing the proper trousers in the mornings.
She hadn't meant to giggle out loud, but it escaped her lips anyway. She felt her anger soften for a moment, but she felt it flare up again when she saw the bottle of butterbeer on Harry's nightstand. A note next to it read "Just paying you back for spotting me last Hogsmeade trip! Your best mate, Ron".
Hermione saw red. Harry hadn't bought butterbeer for Ron last time. Or the time before. Or the several times before that. It had been her.
She didn't realize what she was going to do until she suddenly became aware that she had the butterbeer in her hand. A pang of guilt made her reconsider for a brief moment, but when she glanced back to the note (and that poor penmanship, she noted with irritation), she couldn't help herself.
She twisted the top off the bottle and gulped it down, barely tasting it at all. It was only when she put the bottle down that she noticed a strange aftertaste that she couldn't quite place, and after ripping up the note, she noticed that she was feeling something else besides the flutter of rage in her chest.
It was like being on fire, a persistent beat of yearning that built from nothing in an instant. Her mind began to wander, almost feverishly and an unusual image of a man began to form in her mind, his hooked nose softening as a haze of desire overtook her.
She hadn't realized she was still sitting on Ron's bed with her eyes hot and glazed as though feverish. She took a moment to blink a little with bewilderment and her tongue felt oddly sluggish in her mouth as the word slipped from her lips like a gasp.
"Snape."
