Yes, You're completely correct! Metamorphis (a.k.a. Evie) is lazy like no one else! The last time I heard, she went more than 6 months without updating! Oh! What horror, what woe is this!

But, in order to express my most sincere apologies (Yes, I also have no concept of time), here's the new chapter!

So yeah, I'll just stop waffling now (hides in a corner and cries)

DISCLAIMER: J.K. Rowling owns the Harry Potter series and all associated characters/ settings etc. But since she still hasn't published the next novel (honestly, if she was a fanfiction writer, her updates are even more spread out than mine:oP), I'm amusing myself by trying to get two unlikely characters in a relationship.

So there! Can't sue me now, can you? (and no, you're not allowed to try!)

Keep Guessing

Chapter Twelve

by Metamorphis

There are many situations in a person's life when all one wants is for the floor to open up and swallow them whole, or crawl into a dark hole and hide there for the rest of eternity, or possibly a combination of both. Hermione had long thought that she had her fair share a ridicule over the first few years of her days at Hogwarts (she did have horribly untameable hair, not to mention the buck teeth that her parents had insisted her live with), and that by the laws of karma, her next dose of embarrassment wasn't due for the next eon or so. But, Fate obviously had other plans, or a very, very wicked sense of humour. Hermione tried to scamper quickly but quietly off Blaise, shuffling on her knees in an attempt to do so.

At this point, it is necessary to throw in a few words on Mazork, who is currently acting as a cover for the rather embarrassed teenagers crouching behind him. Firstly, Mazork – the – Great, was a goblin who first established equal rights for goblins in the wizarding community, and his skills in negotiations was expressed in a solid marble scroll perched on one of his outstretched hands. The second, and perhaps more important thing about Mazork was that he was remarkably short – even for a goblin. Perhaps it was Mazork's vengeance on the world at his distress of the fact that he had been also one of the shortest goblins in wizard kind (Hermione had always thought Marzok's title was compensating for something), that caused Hermione to bump into the scroll in the statues hand as she tried to sneak away. This, of course, due to her atrocious ability to attract ridicule, embarrassment and the like, cause a resounding SMACK! That she doubted even the staggering idiot ferret wouldn't notice.

Draco turned his head towards Mazork-the-Great, where he thought he heard a sound and a slight scuffle. Was that part of a bushy head sticking out?? Draco walked towards the statue, almost feeling the hushed breathing behind the statue. Hah! So there was someone behind the statue! He peered around Mazork, only to find Blaise and Granger crouched in a rather… compromising position.

Great, first he has to find Pansy and Dylan making out on her bed, and now this! The world is going to the dog! Mayhem and insanity! There is no way Granger could fall for Blaise's non-existent charms when he has spent practically the last few days trying to get her attention… this is blasphemy! This will be war!!

And so Draco fumed, nearly missing Hermione's subtle exit (when she finally was able to untangle herself from Blaise after her virtually concussion- causing impact onto Mazork's scroll – maybe karma's cursing her for all her evil commentary on the significant figures of wizarding history?). It was rather odd that he should have so much bad luck in one day, because the last time he checked, he hasn't cursed anyone for a week (only to win the buck-toothed wench's unwavering admiration – no luck on that one yet), nor had he deliberately insulted anyone from Gryffindor. At this point, he deliberately ignored the fact that he performed the full-body bind on Neville not an hour before, and had, as usual, made another jibe about the Weasley's lack of wealth. After all, it's not his fault that the stupid people can't grow a backbone. Really, it was rather tiring having to train the idiotic Gryffindor's into at least responding to his (perfectly justified, so he thinks to himself) provocations. At least Granger can be a spitfire when he calls her Mudblood.

He turned to speak to her, only to be met with a view of her backside.

Not bad… have to get rid of those hideously volumous robes that she insists on wearing though.

Legs? Not entirely unusable as working material – not long, but could possibly be shapely? Darn those horrid robes of hers.

And that hair. Draco almost moaned in disgust. That hair would be traumatising to work with. He almost pitied her hairdresser, although (he ran an eye across those afore-mentioned bushy tresses) judging by that hair, she obviously never met one. Maybe Granger and Bulstrode shared hair-tips together?

He tried to conjure a mental image of an image of Granger's face.

Rosy lips? Might need a lot a gloss to cover that one.

Eyes. Brown, unremarkable. He had heard her eyes often discussed in terms of chocolate, by those dorks that she normally sat with, but he suspected that it was a nice way of saying: "Your eyes look like mud. Unremarkable, boring, mud-coloured mud. The variety that you find in bogs and swamps. You know that colour? Well your eyes are that colour, so deal with it."

Her possibly only redeeming feature was her nose – petite, with just a bit of pertness at the tip that could be used to suggest strong-mindedness.

Overall, however, despite however beautiful her nose might be, Hermione Granger looked like one hopeless candidate for the Prom Queen. He almost wished that his pet project would be Hannah. And he couldn't even tolerate her or her eccentric tendencies to mimic the speech of all the supposed multi-national figures in wizarding history.

Draco was soon drawn out of his musing by Blaise's not so subtle sneaking away.

"You!" Blaise almost felt the venom in Draco's words burning figurative wounds in his body. Corpse actually, because if looks could kill, Blaise would be dead ten-times over already.

"Me?" Blaise sputtered indignantly. Really, the audacity of "Drakey-poo" to suggest such a thing!

"You're deliberately ruining my chances of winning the bet! You want to see me walk around naked!" Draco mentally slapped himself for his self-induced image of Blaise drooling at him as he walked around naked.

"Of course I'm ruining your chances. After all, I don't want to walk around naked" Blaise remarked casually.

"Must you always embarrass the pants off everything that moves?" Draco imitated Lavender's high screech. Not. A. Good. Idea. He swore he could hear his vocal cords protesting and thumping their outrage on his throat.

"Mais oui! Bien sur, ma petite cherie! C'est la passion de ma vie!" Blaise screeched back in a high false soprano, each mispronounced syllable beating a hole in Draco's eardrum.

"I pray for your children." Leaving that particular impasse hanging in the air, Draco made his way to his next class, mentally reminding himself never to provoke Blaise into speaking in such a voice ever again. He shuddered with disgust as he erased the image of a Blaise dancing in pink fishnets from his thoroughly disturbed mind.

Herbology. Possibly one of the most tamest subjects at Hogwarts (Apart from History of Magic, where nothing more interesting than the possibility of ear-wax in Gunodon-the-Ugly's ear is ever discussed), and it is also coincidently the only subject where Neville's presence causes anything but humiliation for himself. In typical Herbology spirit, Professor Sprout bought out pairs of fluffy pink earmuffs and grossly disfigured dragon-hide gloves for everyone in the class. Fortunately, Slytherin was not sharing the greenhouse in that period with Gryffindor, which gave Draco some time to catalogue his thoughts of how on earth he was ever going to go within a ten metre radius of the buck-toothed book-worm.

Sure, he didn't particularly care if he got cursed, slapped or yelled at by her, because that is half the fun of the chase after all. What he couldn't stand was if her two protective bodyguards started breathing down his neck. Disgusting. Not an iota of taste between those two dunder-heads: if they had any sense at all, they'd be flocking around someone who can actually be considered as a decent example of the female species. Although, Draco had a slight feeling that the-Boy-Who-Always-Lives and Weasel-Troll never really saw what Granger looked like anyway, since she's always surrounded by a pile of books. It was surprising, to Draco's materialistic mind, that Granger managed to snag Krum in fourth year, and even managed to find a dress under her piles of books.

So if he can't win Granger by his charm, what can he woo her by? She doesn't seem particularly like the type who would swoon over mushy, diabetes-inducing poetry. She definitely wouldn't be impressed with his offer at showing her his prowess in the more, um… physical side of relationships. And throw in that rumour that caused her to blow several fuses.

There is no way he's going to live through this one.

Whilst Malfoy was soul-searching in his Mandrake-root surroundings, Hermione was struggling to keep her eyes in History of Magic. She had no idea why she was actually in the subject, apart from a vague memory that Aurors are supposed to have at least a basic understanding of past magical conflicts so they can strategise on the battlefield. Or something like that. In her opinion, it was so that all Aurors can brainwash themselves by having drink-fountain conversations about the legitimacy of the claim that Gunodon-the-Ugly had ear wax. In the event that this is possibly to be discussed in her future, chosen career, Hermione was already well versed in both sides of the argument. Namely, no one bloody cares if the Hideous wizard had earwax or not.

Not that Hermione thought that Dumbledore was loony or anything. It's just that, whenever Dumbledore decided to take matters into his mismatched hands, he has a rather, unique, approach to things. Making seventh years learn the intricacies of Muggle appliances is one thing, but learning about troll bogies for SEVEN YEARS AT HOGWARTS is excruciating torture in itself. Needless to say, Hermione was not her usual attentive self in History of Magic. Presumably because there was nothing to be attentive about. Instead, she was internally summing up all that had happened since the start of the year that caused her to be stuck into the sticky position of being Malfoy's supposed soul mate.

Bloody Brilliant (as Ron would say). She can't even walk around with people pointing at her. She felt sorry for Harry. He had been treated like this ever since he was introduced into the wizarding world. Like an animal at a zoo or an intrigue at a freak show. Hermione made a mental note to start a "S.P.A.F." (Society to promote animal freedom) club, and save all the cuddly crocodiles and serpents from suffering such undue trauma!

Okay. So she started the year. Had the supplementary Muggle Studies class. Went to the additional charms tuition where she got her face stuck in a smirk. Oh year, Drac – Malfoy also walked into Harry, and she stole his hand. And the entire school thought that was foundations for a romantic relationship?

Puh-lease.

Even Pavarti or Lavender wouldn't believe that. Right? RIGHT?

A/N: I think that if anyone is reading this, you should really thank Troubled Tazzy for reminding me (again) that I should continue this fic.

I just read it over again, and found that I actually enjoyed it. I guess it's because I haven't read or worked on it for such a long time. So cheers, to anyone who's still reading this, and I hope the next chapter will be up soon.

Evie