Once Upon a Time During SEX:
Chlamydia peeked out from behind a bookcase and ran to her, clinging to her shin. Hermione smiled and scooped the girl up, and she blew a raspberry at Ron (who stepped back to avoid the splatter) before mounting Scabies like a horse. He jumped off Hermione's shoulder and ran toward the door, scratching against it. "Remember your detention on Monday," Hermione noted with a smirk before following her flat mate's shoes and opening the door for them. They ran off at much too quick a pace for her, but she knew they would only wander a bit before returning home and allowed them to explore.
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Chapter Ten: Of Emu, Emissaries, and Earmarked Entanglements
Hermione was still haunting the common room on Friday morning when she heard Draco groan and literally fall out of bed. She had no doubt in her mind that he hadn't gotten much sleep the previous night, minus his nap on the couch, as he'd departed immediately after that to practice on the pitch with the Slytherin team. Harry and Ron had griped at her door for over half an hour, complaining that they'd gotten the pitch for forty five minutes and the Slytherin could keep it until midnight if they wanted to. Hermione countered their argument with a promise to give the entire team a post-game detention if they did indeed stay there until midnight.
When she heard him trip over his shoe and cuss quite loudly at the carpet burns on his knees, Hermione laughed to herself and tiptoed out of the common room before he could find her and unleash a cranky-morning wrath.
Because it was Friday, there were no classes until after lunch and many students took the opportunity to catch up on their sleep as to have more awake-time left over for the weekend. Hermione had never liked waking up to find she had slept through an entire day, and true to form had risen at six AM. Draco, she assumed, would be spending his free half of the day on the pitch- probably scrimmaging with the Gryffindor, as she doubted Harry and Ron would allow Slytherin another free reign. In her opinion, the one thing Hogwarts needed was a practice pitch; she could do without the headache of fighting over who gets the grass. Honestly, why couldn't they play on some other bit of grass? And use a tree as a goal hoop? Then of course, there would be the problem of who got the pitch and who got the tree. In honesty, Hermione could do with no Quidditch. They could play football for all she cared.
The early morning brought with it quiet corridors. The ninety percent of the student body who was not Hermione and did not play Quidditch would not be caught in the halls or at breakfast for a good two-to-three hours, and Hermione took advantage of this by dawdling on the way to her destination. She talked to portraits, and bickered with Peeves, and experimented with several ways to put one foot in front of the other, including backwards and side-ways, but eventually, the warm plaster walls became cold stone, and the carpeting disappeared from the floors. With a sigh of determination, Hermione stepped in front of the full-length mirror, and turned to face it.
With a high-pitched cackle of malicious laughter, the lean image of Hermione Granger became superimposed with the rather stout form of the Bloody Baron. He eyed her curiously, identified the Gryffindor crest on her robes, and hissed in a way similar to a cat before pulling a ghostly sword from its sheath and running her through. Hermione rolled her eyes.
"It's me, Baron."
"Quisling! Emissary! Infidel!" he screeched, brandishing his sword and making sport of slicing various limbs, which stayed firmly in place. Hermione waved him away.
"Stop it, that's cold," she demanded in annoyance, and flashed her badge. The Baron gasped in mock surprise and knelt by his sword.
"My liege," he breathed. "Forgive me."
"Yeah, fine. Emu en utero," she said, reciting the decidedly Slytherin and, therefore, immature and unamusing password. The Baron nodded.
"As you wish, my liege," he said, and the mirror cracked down its center, moving along the wall to either side and revealing a narrow doorway, which would lead to the Slytherin common room.
"Thank you, Baron," Hermione said as she entered and, as the door closed behind her, sighed in exasperation. "Is it necessary to go through that every time?" she asked quietly to herself, and heard a laugh from the sofa near the fireplace.
"'Course it is. Infidel."
Hermione looked up, and the tiny smile of amusement left over from the Baron's antics immediately left her face. Clint stood before her in stocking-feet, looking as if he'd just rolled out of bed and crawled to the common room. Or, perhaps that he'd been in that seat on the couch since the previous day.
Clint noticed the change in her countenance and forced a half-smile in attempt to cheer her. Hermione looked away and shook away all thoughts of the previous afternoon.
"Hi," she said, slightly off-key, and cleared her throat. "I'm glad I found you." Clint lifted an eyebrow as he took the necessary steps closer to her. "I-" she stammered. "I thought you might want this." Hermione turned away and fished a slip of parchment from the spacious pocket of her cloak.
"Oh," Clint said as he took the booklist from her. "Yeah, I do. Madam Pince either doesn't speak English or really doesn't like Slytherin, because she gave me detention for 'being up to something' when I opened my mouth to ask her." Hermione fashioned herself a little smile.
"Oh," she noted in remembrance. "And these. You forgot them in the commons."
"Yeah," Clint said in amusement as she pulled his shoes from her pocket and said the spell to return them to their original size. "I was wondering where I put those. 'Fraid I'd have to borrow some. Dirty feet in Slytherin, couldn't tell you." When she didn't seem amused (or for that matter, happy to part with his oxfords) Clint borrowed her frown. "You okay?" She crossed her arms over her chest and looked up with watery eyes.
"Sure," she said, a blatantly obvious lie. "I... I have to go." She turned and left, without looking back and with ears completely closed off to his beseeching calls.
As she left, the Baron emerged from his glassy prison and frowned from behind her before catching up quickly. Hermione wiped at her eyes and smiled at him, exchanging wordless conversation. He bowed deeply and draped an arm over her shoulder, floating beside her as she walked.
Before the head girl and her ghostly company could emerge from the Slytherin section of the castle, a voice from behind halted them.
"Hermione, please let me explain!" Clint begged, running down the hall with shoes untied and no cloak to speak of. The Baron's eyes narrowed as he noted the boy, and he took a protective stance in front of Hermione, drawing his sword and growling.
Clint came to a stop a few centimeters from the tip of the Baron's cutlass, looking both unafraid and directly through the ghost to the small Gryffindor he guarded. Hermione sighed and crossed her arms, taking a step through the Baron, who drew back in confusion. She smiled up at him and blew a kiss, granting him leave without words. The Baron replaced his sword and stood rigid, giving a curt nod to Hermione and glaring slightly at Clint before making his way down the hall and disappearing into the mirror at its end.
"What was that about?" Clint asked turning to face her, and the small smile Hermione had held for the Baron's sake disappeared from her face. She looked undecided and insecure, arms crossed over her chest and weight shifting from right foot to left.
"At the beginning of the year," she started, her voice soft and monotonous. "I set him up with the Fat Lady. Evidently he adores her singing."
"The Gryffindor tower Fat Lady? Huh. I wouldn't have-"
"Yes," Hermione interrupted. "Some people can get past things like that."
"What?" Clint replied, half in defense and half in confusion.
"A ghost and a portrait," she started, looking up at him. "A Gryffindor and a Slytherin. A wizard... and a mudblood." Clint opened his mouth to defend himself, but Hermione disallowed him the privilege of speaking. "A boy with an illustrious magical background, who can trace the blood of his family for generations, and participates in age-old, patrimonial affairs to preserve his dying heritage... and a girl who spends every holiday explaining to her parents that there really is no logic behind wingardium leviosa. Whose father repeats again and again 'Well there must be some way to explain it. It can't just happen.' Yes it can, Dad. It's magic. This can be magic too-us. We can just happen, Clint. Why do you have to make it complicated? Why can't you forget about everything and focus on me."
"Hermione- it isn't like that, I-"
"Well, then what is it like, Clint? Because I can't stand that you're having this effect on me and I don't even know why." She covered her face with her hands and turned away, letting her guard down for a moment to wipe the salty water from her cheeks. Clint waited for a moment, staring sheepishly at his untied shoes, before slowly approaching her. He moved so that she was again facing him, and enveloped her in his arms. Hermione didn't protest.
"I'm sorry," he said softly into her hair and she rested her face against his shoulder. "I really don't know what else to say. There is a reason, but I... I can't tell you. Not yet; I'm under a very important oath to keep it secret." She laughed softly, and he smiled. "No- I mean it. Written in blood, the whole nine yards- see?" Clint lifted his hand from her back and showed her the fairly deep cut on his left index finger. Hermione frowned at it and pulled away slightly to look up at him. "So you see? It really doesn't have anything to do with you... it's just that I have other... obligations. Nothing bad, I promise."
"Yeah, well," she said softly, looking away from him. "You really shouldn't go about kissing girls you're obligated not to kiss and then leaving them without explanation." Clint smiled and held her more tightly to him.
"I know," he said, sighing. "I'm sorry."
"So I've heard."
xxx
Draco was half unconscious when he made it to the pitch, and the way his teammates were glaring at him was an indication that they had noticed.
"Wha?" he slurred, tugging on his cheeks in an effort to retract his eyelids.
"Malfoy, please tell me you're kidding," Blaise Zabini said, landing on the ground and taking a step toward his blond housemate. "You're an hour and a half late and you haven't got your broom! You're supposed to be captain for crying out loud!"
"Zabini, lay off- Draco's under a lot of stress right now. He's been working his ass off for this team," Millicent Bulstrode said from her broom, taking a swing at a bludger and sending it nicely askew of Blaise's head. He glared at her and stationed his fists at his hips. Draco was looking at his hands, as if asking them where they had left his broom.
"Looks more like he's been working his ass off for that Gryffindor bint and her amazing ability to make work out of sex."
"Hey!" Draco said in his own defense. "If I don't do the fucking class, I get my badge revoked. You know what that means, Zabini? No more practice... ever. D'yno why? Because Potter'll be my replacement. How much time do you think he'll give us? Oh, five minutes at, I dunno, say- midnight?"
"It's a date," Zabini smirked, "Just get your fucking broom, Malfoy." He mounted his broom and shot off to defend the hoops, an unspoken 'play-ball' to the other members of the team, who began dispersing to their positions. Millicent descended slightly and hovered next to Draco, although he didn't seem to have seen her.
"You all right?" she asked, looking slightly worried, and Draco visibly jumped.
"Clint."
"Millicent," she corrected, eyeing him oddly.
"No... Clint- Clint has my broom, the bastard," Draco said, and started off with a determined step. Millicent followed him for a few moments before speaking.
"Draco," she said, and he paused, looking up at her. "The castle's that way." Draco looked in the direction she was pointing; the exact opposite of that which he had chosen to travel.
"Oh," he said. "Thanks." She nodded and pushed him out of the way so that she could hit a bludger that was on a kamikaze mission for his head.
"Fuck off, Courtright!" she called to the other beater. "He won't do us any good in the hospital wing!"
"Just trying to knock some sense into the git!" Abernathy Courtright called back, a scrawny sixth year with a punch strong enough to knock down a wall.
"Look, Draco," Millicent said, flying to catch up to him, as he'd gone off again (this time, at least, in the right direction). "Why don't you skip practice today, and go get some sleep?"
"I can't do that," he said, eyeing her as if she were crazy. "First of all, it's career suicide, second of all, Zabini'll make sure it's homicide, and thirdly... no."
"You're no good to us like this!" she protested. "Zabini'll get over it. Especially when you catch the snitch tomorrow- you just need to relax, and focus. You forgot your broom today Draco. That's like forgetting your wand when you go to a t-fig NEWT. If we don't do something, you'll have some sort of catastrophic breakdown." Draco stopped for a moment and sighed, running a hand through his hair.
"Maybe you're right, Mil. I'll go and get my broom, and then go back to bed."
"Right. I'll take care of Zabini. And Draco?"
"Yeah?" he asked, looking up at her. Millicent leaned toward him and plucked the snitch from where it fluttered a decimeter from his ear. She held it between her thumb and forefinger.
"Don't get up until morning, all right?" she asked and he smiled sheepishly.
"All right."
xxx
"I wonder if Clint is even awake at this ungodly, bleeding hour. Anyone in their right mind would be sleeping," he said to himself and sighed. "Bet Granger's in the library."
As Draco turned the corner and descended the steps to the dungeons, he heard voices and slowed. The persistent ringing in his ears from lack of sleep made it difficult to understand what they were whispering, but it was obvious that it was a couple of some sort. He decided that it would be most polite to attempt to sneak past them without being seen, and kept his footfalls light as he approached the turn into the Slytherin corridor. He stopped in his tracks when he saw them.
"What the bloody fucking hell is going on?"
Clint and Hermione jumped apart from each other, each turning to face the intruder. Hermione looked slightly embarrassed and overly annoyed, but Clint looked downright terrified. There was a moment of silence in which the two boys stared at one another, and Hermione took the opportunity to leave.
"I should go," she said, and kissed Clint on the cheek. It was obvious, however, that she had done it more out of habit than anything else, as she visibly cursed herself for it afterward. Clint made no comment if he noticed; his eyes were glued to Draco.
When he was sure that Hermione was safely out of hearing distance, Draco rounded on Clint, suddenly very awake and aware of his surroundings.
"I trusted you," he spat, pointing a finger in the direction of his housemate. "You were supposed to be my best mate. Even Slytherin don't fuck their best mate's girl!"
"Firstly, I'm sorry- I didn't mean for anything to happen. Secondly, I didn't fuck her- I wouldn't do that, and if you knew anything about her at all you'd know that she'd never do that either. It was just a kiss, a mistake, and I've corrected it. And, well... she's not technically your girl. She doesn't even know you exist."
"That doesn't give you the right to move in and take her!"
"Doesn't exempt me from it!"
"Fine," Draco said, cold and calmly, and whistled for his broom. "If that's how you want it to be, then we're done. Everything we've been through means nothing to you? All the hell I've put myself through; I had duties, and Quidditch, and Sex-Ed and I still tutored you, because I'm your friend, and that's what friends do. And that doesn't change a thing?" He seethed. "I hope you fuck up so badly your father can't see straight and some of the elders have heart attacks and croak."
"Draco, are you drunk? Give me an honest answer."
"No, I'm not fucking drunk! I'm fucking exhausted! It's Friday at nine and already I fell out of bed, made a fool of myself in front of the team, was defended by a broad, and watched my best friend snog the one girl I fancy more than anything. So excuse me if I'm not up to par in speech and linguistics!"
"Look, Draco, calm down," Clint said, holding up his hands in defense. "Nothing's going on with me and the Gryffindor bird, all right? I don't know what happened- it was just one kiss, and I didn't mean it, it's just... you've got one girl, there, Draco." Draco crossed his arms and glared. "I mean it. She's amazing, just the things she says when you're having a conversation with her... and the little mannerisms and quirks... can you believe, she made me take off my shoes in your commons? How adorable is that?"
"Somehow, Clint, this isn't making me feel better."
"Yeah, I suppose not," Clint agreed, and looked down at his oxfords. "I'm sorry, Draco- honestly. It was the biggest mistake I think I've ever made."
"Yeah, well... just don't do it again."
"I will as soon as Dumbledore shaves his beard and starts having us call him Hurbert," he said eagerly, holding out his palm. "Mates?" Draco sighed and dropped his arms.
"Yeah," he said, taking the proffered extremity. "Mates."
xxx
"Draco?" Millicent asked in confusion as he burst from the entrance hall and shot directly into the pitch. "I thought you were sleeping!"
"I don't need sleep," Draco called back to her, gaining altitude and in pursuit of the golden devil which had previously eluded him. "I need coffee and a half-goblet of perk-up."
xxx xxx xxx
"Do you mind if I join you?" Hermione asked, earning herself a Ravenclaw smile and a lifted auburn eyebrow.
"Excuse me? Hermione Granger? Spending a perfectly good Saturday morning outdoors at a Quidditch match? Al, pinch me. Either I'm dreaming, or it's apocalypse."
"Well, I never," Hermione huffed, placing her hands on her hips. "You know what? I don't care." She sat down beside Aly, who had rolled her eyes and attached her gaze on the certain redheaded keeper who was waving to her wildly. "Sucks to you if you don't want me here."
"I'm just joshing you, Hermione, you know that," Ginny defended, smiling madly, and her Gryffindor superior smirked.
"Have they started yet?" she asked, to which both girls gave her odd looks.
"Hermione, the Slytherin team isn't even on the pitch yet," Aly said, turning back to the field, and winced when Ron dodged a bludger that sent him spiraling for a few seconds. "Has anyone ever died playing Quidditch?" she asked, turning to Ginny, who was more so informed on the subject. She shrugged.
"I don't know. Not for a few hundred years, I think."
"Look, the Slytherin teems coming out. Always showing off, they are," Hermione interrupted in an attempt to stop the conversation from going south.
All eyes were immediately glued to the pitch where six green blurs made endless laps around the field, doing daring stunts and making suicidal dives both at the ground and into the crowd. The seventh player, a broad-shouldered blond seeker, bypassed all fancy broom-work and sped into position, as if eager to get the game started. The Gryffindor players, who had had the pitch for an hour or so before the game, surrendered their balls to Madam Hooch, and took their positions as well. Hooch blew her whistle, and the rest of the Slytherin team begrudgingly joined their seeker.
"I want a good clean game," Hooch said glaring sharply at each of the chasers. "None of that ball-in-you-shirt nonsense. And beaters should hit the bludgers. No exchange of clubs will be allowed, except in the incident that one is damaged or lost. Then, beaters may share- but no one else." Then, without warning, she threw the ball and blew the whistle, ducking out of the way just as crimson clashed with clover and the game commenced.
Within the first five minutes, one of the Slytherin chasers had to be replaced due to a nasty incident regarding a broken broom and torn pair of trousers. Hermione grimaced and looked at Draco, hoping to share a silent joke at the Slytherin's expense.
"Turn a quarter anti-clockwise," she whispered to herself with a frown, as Draco seemed not to have noticed the game being played below- there were no time outs for seekers, and he was looking determinedly for the little gold-winged bugger.
"What? Hermione, that's disgusting," Aly admitted, looking outraged. "That poor boy! He'll never live that down!"
"Yeah, but think of the look on Madam Pomfrey's face!"
"Ginny!"
"I didn't mean it like that, Aly," Hermione said, although it was, she decided, very untrue. "It's just a conversation I had with Draco a while back. Did you notice he's acting quite oddly?"
"He knows how good Harry is, is all," Ginny said, pointing her nose to the sky and crossing her arms. "Knows he'll have to be on top of his game."
"Maybe," Hermione agreed, but would not have had time to continue her thought even if she desired to do so.
"Ron!" Aly cried, standing up as if shot from a gun. "Oh, you great lummox! Watch where you're going!" Ron, who had successfully blocked an incoming goal from the Slytherin team, had been smirking over his shoulder at the chaser and managed, somehow, to knock himself over the head with a goal hoop. Ginny laughed to herself, but Aly did not seem amused. Ron, over his slight moment of dizziness, waved to her guiltily and blew a kiss before returning his attention to the game.
The sky was getting persistently darker as the game progressed, and late into the second hour it started raining so hard that Hermione considered attempting to build a raft out of the wooden boards acting as stadium benches. Many of the spectators, especially Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff, sought refuge in the castle- but the game went on. Hermione never for a moment considered leaving until she could be sure that Harry and Draco did not kill themselves in their attempt to reign victor. Secretly, she hoped Draco would win- for more reasons than one. Firstly, he would surely be a grouch of a partner for the next two weeks (until the next Slytherin game). Secondly, he'd been killing himself to ready for the match, and she feared a failure might put him over the edge. Thirdly, Harry wouldn't really mind losing. It wasn't as if it were a house-cup competition. There was always next term to catch up. Lastly, Draco had not said a word to her since the incident in the hallway with Clint, and although she tried to convince herself that she didn't care whether he talked to her or not, Hermione couldn't shake the disappointment she felt when her attempts at conversation failed miserably. A win might boost his esteem and put him in a better mood, or so she hoped.
Hermione missed the catch. She, in her reverie, had searched out Clint in the large crowd of Slytherin and was begging for eye contact, when the entire box stood up. She had feared, at first, that they had seen her staring and were doing so to shout insults across the field, and the thunderous disapproval which sounded from all sides of her did little to correct her. It was only when Ginny shouted "Dammit, Harry!" that Hermione's eyes flashed to her Raven-haired best friend and she watched as he hung his head in shame and descended slowly to the ground. The realization that Slytherin had won registered in her mind, and she looked desperately for Draco, quelling the excitement she felt at the victory. He was easy enough to spot, shooting to the ground at a much faster pace than Harry had. Draco came to a stop beside Madam Hooch and deposited the little gold ball into her hand, before dismounting his broom and stalking toward the gates. The Slytherin team followed to congratulate him, but Draco stopped them with a cold glare and continued on his way- alone.
And, in the scarlet section of the stadium, the one Gryffindor who had had been smiling frowned deeply in sheer disappointment.
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A/N: Reposted 02/25 with minor adjustments