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Chapter 13

Hermione was trying not to think about Draco. Not Draco, she corrected herself, Malfoy. She was trying not to think about Malfoy. That was better.

It was Tuesday morning, and she was in Transfiguration with the Hufflepuffs. Harry was sitting with Parvati, again - he'd hardly said a word at breakfast. Probably a bad dream last night, or something. She'd have to ask him about it at break, or after Defence Against the Dark Arts. That was the thing about Harry, she ruminated, always trying to carry the burden by himself.

Sort of like Draco, then.

Damn.

After the initial shock of the first lesson with new partners in Potions, she had grudgingly admitted that Snape had actually paired people on the basis of ability, and not, as they'd all suspected, purely out of sadistic glee. And despite the bickering, she was, well, not enjoying Draco's company, but welcoming the challenge.

Of course, she felt sorry for Harry, who'd been saddled with Pansy. Even Draco agreed that Pansy was a 'caustic psycho bitch', not, she reminded herself, that she was at all interested in his opinion. It had been amusing, though, when he'd quipped that the only reason Neville (Draco, of course, had called him 'Longbottom') had been paired with his two sidekicks was that Crabbe and Goyle appeared incapable of independent locomotion.

And then she'd been in the library one evening, whilst Ron and Harry were at their Quidditch practice, again, and she'd been immersed in Arithmancy, the familiar drawl had advised her that she should consider applying the Hygren Transposition to the problem at hand.

She'd glared at him, and muttered some acerbic comment (she hoped it had been witty, too), and then had been surprised to see a flicker of hurt behind those impassive grey eyes. And then she'd apologised. Why? Four years of taunts, petty jealousies and nasty schemes (she would never forgive him for that Dementor trick at the Quidditch match in their third year), and he'd never once said 'sorry'. And she had felt obliged to apologise to him. And then they'd argued about Arithmancy for the next 30 minutes, until she realised that Harry and Ron would be getting back from practice, and the absolute last thing she needed was Ron to think she was consorting with a Malfoy.

Not, of course, that she was 'consorting'. They simply studied together, because they'd found it helpful to have someone to argue with. She loved Ron and Harry dearly, but, with all the best will in the world, there was no way you could describe either of them as the brains of the trio. Don't get arrogant, Granger, she chided herself.

And so, on Tuesday and Thursday evenings, when Ron and Harry were at Quidditch practice, she and Draco had been meeting to study. They'd quickly abandoned the library, as people were bound to notice, and instead they'd adopted Flitwick's charms classroom as their study base.

It seemed to work quite well. Sometimes they sat and argued Potions or Transfiguration or Arithmancy. Other times, he'd sit against the window, she'd be at Flitwick's desk, and they'd spend the entire session in total silence, immersed in their respective books.

So last night, she'd been reading Arithmancy, and Draco had been in the window seat at her back, when suddenly he appeared standing at her back, gripping the back of Flitwick's chair with his hands as he idly read over his shoulder. And, by reflex, she'd flinched.

"You really think I'm evil, don't you?" he'd asked. Amused.

She'd not known what to say to that? Draco? Evil? He was a Slytherin. Quotas Erat Demonstratum. So instead she'd relaxed, and leant back in her chair, her head leaning against his body, as a signal that, well, she wasn't terrified of him.

Her eyes had needed a break from reading, anyway.

But we're not thinking about Draco. Malfoy.

Professor McGonagall was stalking around the class, assessing how well the transfigurations had gone. Hermione wasn't worried - she and Draco had read well ahead in the Transfiguration syllabus, and were contemplating how to become Animagi. The Marauders had done it unaided by their fifth year, and if they could, she was certain she and Draco could.

And so he'd slid his hands down from the back of the chair, onto the arms, to bring his body closer. The back of the chair had still been between them, of course, but, considering their history...

The thing about accustoming yourself to your animal form was that, firstly it was painful, and, secondly, you needed another wizard on hand to help snap you out of the transformation the first few times. The texts warned of the risk of sole experimenters being trapped in their animal form, prisoner to instinct. But they had a way to go before they reached that point.

Of course, Draco wouldn't have been her first choice of partner in the project. But he was probably the closest student to her in terms of ability in Transfiguration. So it only made logical sense, really.

If you looked at it in a certain way.

Neville had managed to transform his teapot into half a rabbit, but the rear half of the animal remained willow pattern china. Harry had told her that Neville deserved all the support they could give, but wouldn't say why - he'd said it wasn't his secret to tell. He was astoundingly loyal to his friends, and even in the midst of going all gooey-eyed over Parvati he was taking time to explain the transformation again to Neville.

And then there was Ron. She sighed, inwardly. It wasn't that she didn't like Ron, she did. Loved him as a brother, even. But, well, nothing more than that. They'd gone to the Gryffindor/Ravenclaw Quidditch party together - as friends, she'd thought.

But then Katie had done a double-take at the quartet's arrival - Harry and Parvati, Ron and Hermione, and asked, wide eyed, if she and Ron were officially an item now. Ron had looked at Hermione with pleading eyes, but she just couldn't say it. "No, just friends," she'd explained, pulling Ron closer all the same. But it had been impossible to miss the hurt in his eyes.

Ron was avoiding her too, now. Probably embarrassed. Another 'talk' to get done then.

Boys.

So, they'd stayed there like that for a minute or so, in Flitwick's classroom, and then he'd disappeared, "See you in Potions, Granger," leaving her somewhat bewildered.

He was definitely... different this year. Still annoyingly condescending, stuck up, opinionated, overbearing, over privileged... and, be honest girl, those were the good points.

What was she doing?

But he was different. The vindictiveness was gone, even if, underneath the more approachable exterior it was still the same old story, kind of. But Old Draco wouldn't have been seen dead breathing the same air as her, whereas New Draco had actually agreed to study with her.

Or had she agreed to study with him?

Enough! No more Draco.

She looked at Neville's desk, where a willow pattern rabbit was hopping to coos from Lavender and Parvati. Honestly, what did Harry see in her? Well, she was pretty, and friendly enough, but, really, she would have thought that Harry would have gone for someone less, well, frivolous. He was the Boy Who Lived - the last thing he needed before going to face the apocalypse was a girlfriend who spent 20 minutes trying to decide exactly which shade of nail polish to apply. She'd shared a dorm with the girl for four years. She knew.

You wouldn't catch Draco falling for that kind of fluffiness...

Stop it! Concentrate. Transfiguration. Defence Against the Dark Arts. Need to talk to Ron, need to talk to Harry. Draco can wait until Potions in the afternoon.

Defence Against the Dark Arts. Quite possibly, now that she'd given up Divination Studies, her least favourite instructor. Hermione pondered this. Snape or Vellum? Both had relatively few redeeming qualities, but at least Snape had Dumbledore's confidence. It was far from clear whether Vellum did.

She vaguely wondered what Draco thought of her - they didn't discuss Defence Against the Dark Arts when studying. It was one of those unspoken things between them. Of which there were many.

Not to mention the fact that, of course, she wasn't interested in his opinion, anyway.

She looked across at Harry, and reminded herself that she really should talk to him at lunch, and get to the bottom of whatever it was that was bothering him. Considering that Defence Against the Dark Arts was his favourite subject, even with his reservations about Vellum, he looked positively distracted this morning.

Unforgivable Curses. They'd covered these last year. Volunteer? Harry, then. But he was looking somewhat reluctant. Not that Vellum seemed to notice.

She'd watched the duel with interest. Harry was putting up a noble effort, and he was undoubtedly far ahead of any of his classmates in this arena, but Vellum clearly had a strategy in mind, and Hermione could see her repeatedly pinning Harry further and further back until he was trapped in the corner, no way out.

All in all, a reasonable, if vicious demonstration, if you were Harry. She couldn't see what Vellum thought the rest of the class would get out of it, though. She resolved to ask the question once the instructor had brought Harry back to his feet.

Instead, however, Vellum had hit Harry with an evil looking curse, his body consumed by blue fire. From Harry's reaction, it had to be excruciating. This was too much.

Vellum ceased the incantation, and strode over to where the boy lay, pulling him up before he collapsed once more. Parvati had already left her desk, and was rushing to help him, and Hermione, full now of fresh loathing for Vellum, had followed suit.

"Harry!", had she really screamed that? He really looked in a bad way, and Hermione fought to stop the tears from falling. She wheeled around to face the instructor, who was surveying the scene with disinterest, "We have to take him to Madam Pomfrey!"

"If you think that's necessary," shrugged Vellum, clearly bored with the whole thing by now.

Hermione stared, open mouthed at the callousness, until the classroom door burst open in a blaze of fury, and an incandescent power swept into the room.

Albus Dumbledore was livid. It was a terrifying sight.

In the days after the Third Task, Harry had tried to explain to Ron and Hermione what Dumbledore had looked like when he'd burst into Moody's office. He'd said that the benign twinkle, the warmth of those blue eyes, had disappeared. At the time she couldn't believe it. That was Dumbledore. You couldn't take those things away from him.

But You-Know-Who feared him. The reason was made abundantly clear to the assembled Gryffindors and Ravenclaws in the room.

This was no kindly grandfather figure, amusedly tolerating his charges' transgressions. This was a full-blown wizard of unfathomable power, cold fire searing from his eyes, absolute energy radiating from his being. Every line on his face was etched with fury, his entire carriage spoke of command of unimaginable force.

And still more terrifying than the presence was the absolute control. Through the haze of tears, a tiny part of Hermione took great delight in seeing Vellum quail.

"Stupefy!" commanded Dumbledore, and Vellum crumpled into a heap. He bent down and removed her wand as Madam Pomfrey arrived. Hermione blinked. To have summoned Madam Pomfrey to Harry meant Dumbledore thought things were bad. Very bad.

"Alright dears," soothed the mediwizard, "you can leave him with me now."

"No!" cried Hermione and Parvati in unison, causing Hermione to consider her dorm-mate in a new light.

"We're not leaving him," declared Parvati, tears streaming down her face.

"There's nothing you can do for him at the moment," explained Madam Pomfrey, patiently, "and you would do well to get some rest for when he does recover."

Professors McGonagall and Snape had now arrived. McGonagall looked shocked, distressed and the hundred other things you would expect the Head of Harry's house to look under the circumstances. The best that Hermione could say for Snape was that at least he had the decency not to smirk.

"...won't we, Hermione?" asked Parvati.

"What?" distracted by the latest arrivals, Hermione hadn't been following the discussion between Madam Pomfrey and Parvati.

"We'll take it in turns to keep watch over him."

"Yes. Absolutely," Hermione faced the mediwizard, "we are not leaving him."

Hermione wouldn't dare admit it to anyone, but inwardly she was prepared to concede that Madam Pomfrey had a point; Harry didn't look as though he would be in any state to even recognise he had company for some time yet. But the vigil was as much for Harry's continued protection from attack as it was moral support.

The combined fifth-years of Gryffindor and Ravenclaw, all of whom had been in the class, had immediately offered to take turns in maintaining the vigil, but Hermione had declared that one of the core three should remain with him at all times. Herself, Ron or Parvati.

He was laid up, once more, in the all-too-familiar surroundings of the hospital wing. Crisp, starched linen scented the air, and even the silence felt antiseptic. Having said that the surroundings were familiar, the particular bed was not. Harry had been allocated a bed in an individual room, with the bonus of a small window, overlooking the Quidditch pitch. She wondered whether that had been a conscious decision, or just a lucky coincidence.

There was also a fireplace - she'd been assured it wasn't connected to the Floo network (Dumbledore had been impressed by her cautious reasoning), but it could be used for communication.

Hermione had taken the first stint, skipping Potions. The last person she wanted to see right now was Malfoy. There, much better than referring to him as Draco.

Parvati had taken over at dinner, and then Ron had taken a stint, bringing with him the full might of the Gryffindor Quidditch team. But there's only so long you can stand in a room talking to an unconscious patient, and in the end they'd left in a distinctly more sombre mood than when they'd arrived.

Hermione had returned at midnight and begged a blanket off Madam Pomfrey. It had taken the full might of a personal note from Professor McGonagall to allow Hermione to stay, but that was hardly a problem.

Dozing in the armchair, she was awoken by the door swinging open as a large black dog padded in.

"Snuffles!" shrieked Hermione, in half joy and half despair. She flung her arms around the huge dog's neck, and, just when she thought her tears had run dry, she found herself sobbing uncontrollably once more.

Sirius remained in Animagus form during the night's vigil. There were simply too many people popping in and out to risk his human form. But he could listen, and Hermione explained, as well as she could, the day's events.

The room was cold, however, and she found herself drawing the blankets around her in the chair. Pauses in her narration became longer, and longer, and the dog watched over her as she fell asleep.