Disclaimer: This universe and the characters within it are not my own. They belong to Warner Bros. Entertainment, J.K. Rowling, RDR Books, Scholastic Books, and all other respective owners. This is a work of FanFiction that no one will be profiting off of. Seriously, no copyright infringement is intended in the slightest, and I'm super-dooper sorry if it has occurred. Super-dooper.

Author's Note: Thanks again for reading, especially for reading this far! I'm sorry for the wait, my computer is sometimes troublesome and refused to open OpenOffice for a while [so, really, it was StillClosedOffice, har har har.] Or GIMP, for that matter, and I was very put out. Anyway, I hope you enjoy the chapter; reviews deeply appreciated.

Chapter Four

What the hell was a butterfly? What was Granger playing at?

Draco needed someone to talk to, and there was, as usual, absolutely nobody he could confide in. So, naturally, he confided in a nobody. Again.

~o~

"Do you remember her exact words?"

"No. Something like, 'I don't think that butterflies are ugly.' Does it matter? Should it matter? What, in Merlin's middle name, did she mean?"

"You're not very perceptive. You are obviously the butterfly."

"As in, I'm my own worst fear-"

"No," she interrupted dreamily, "Not at all. Well, no, maybe, but that isn't what I meant. You must have your own personal herd of nargles."

"You mean, I am..." his voice trailed off as his words faded into thoughts.

"Yes. You are a nargle-attractor."

"You, you dolt, I was going to say-" he heard footsteps, "That it's nearly curfew. Evening, Lovegood." He nodded to her, sneering, and walked off.

"That's not what you were going to say," she replied dreamily before heading in the opposite direction.

~o~

Hermione read the note for a third time. The elegant, spidery writing was not hard to read, but she still felt compelled to read it over to be sure she had read it properly the first few times.

I am not a Butterfly. I am a vicious Snake. Send my regards to your Weasel.

It was obviously from Malfoy. She just didn't want it to be. But, alas, there were so few words, it was difficult to find something that could be interpreted to suggest it hadn't been from him. Why had he written it, anyway? Should she accept this, like all his other recent acts, at face value? It felt like all she could do.

"Who's that letter from, Hermione? I don't recognize the owl," she heard Ron say, his words surprisingly easy to make out through his mouth full of food. She covered the note when he tried to read it.

"It's from Vitkor, if you must know," she lied, indignant, blushing profusely.

Harry hastily changed the subject to Quidditch, and Hermione left for Arithmancy before Ron's face could turn entirely red.

Besides, she thought to herself as she walked through the corridor, he's not my weasel.

~o~

Draco Malfoy likes performing unexpected acts. It made him less than entirely predictable, and so he gained the upper hand over his adversaries. Usually.

The problem was that, lately, it seemed his main adversary was destined to be Granger, and she was less predictable than him without trying.

It wasn't fair. There were all sorts of things she could do that nobody else could, and she never had to put any effort into it. She was just naturally so... perfect.

Well, no, not perfect, but probably as close as you could get while still being mortal. She had faults. Draco could list them.

Her hair was too bushy

Her teeth-- no, strike that, they were fine

Both of her parents were entirely muggles, and she was a witch

She was a know-it-all

She didn't seem to give a damn about anything from her hair to her heritage

She had biting insults that still stung weeks after they'd been spoken

It made Draco's insides crawl with hatred. In fact, he could even consider the good things about her, like her big brown eyes, and his face would flush with controlled rage. That was how much he hated her above all others. Well, except maybe Potter.

It wasn't that something about Granger set her apart from Draci's other enemies, it was that everything about her did, and it bothered him to no end.