Before Seventh-Year

Hermione stared at the collection of photographs on her bed. She had meant to go through the photo albums quickly, take out two, maybe three for herself, edit them and put them back together, and now she just—couldn't.

She held up the photo that had rattled her. She'd never seen it before. It showed her and her dad on the beach in Étretat four years ago, laughing as they were skipping stones. Her mum must have snapped the shot.

Hermione had completely forgotten about that moment; about the white dress that used to be her favourite and that she and her mum had shopped before the holiday, or the choker she had got from the only Mizz magazine she'd ever bought.

Hermione scrutinised her face.

Her younger self looked happy and carefree, she had a tan and the water had made her hair curly; it was flowing in the stiff sea breeze. Nothing gave away that she led a dangerous life as a Muggle-born witch, just having survived a basilisk attack. Her dad, too, seemed younger, more mischievous than he did these days. Maybe it was his hair that didn't have any of the grey streaks it did now, or maybe because of the way he looked at her —another thing Hermione had never noticed before. She recognised it from the way Sirius used to look at Harry; the look of utter adoration.

Something large and heavy lodged in her throat.

With a great deal of trouble, Hermione swallowed, fighting back the tears welling in her eyes. She sat down onto her bed, breathing deeply, focusing on what she'd set out to do.

Go through photo albums.

Remove herself.

Reassemble albums.

Crookshanks jumped onto her lap and watched her through his large, yellow eyes. Hermione patted his fur. It was so soft. She buried her hands into it, and he purred contentedly.

'Oh, Crooks.' Hermione swallowed again. 'I am doing the right thing, aren't I?' Crookshanks continued to watch her attentively, and she knew he understood. 'You clever boy. Oh, I wish I could send you along with them.' Crookshanks let out a long, whiny meow, his bushy tail twitching nervously. Hermione smiled sadly. 'Don't worry. You're not going to Australia—' Hermione kept stroking him, swallowing around the lump in her throat. 'You're not going either…'

Abruptly, Crooks pounced off the bed with such force that a couple of photographs sailed to the floor.

'Oh no.' Hermione dropped to her knees, collecting the pictures that now lay strewn across the carpet.

A few Polaroids had been taken by her dad, easily identifiable by his angular handwriting that had marked the year and the place the picture was taken. The others were mostly photographs she had sent her parents, among them one of the day they had met Gilderoy Lockhart and a blurry snapshot of the Quidditch World Cup with a juggler doing tricks. Crookshanks pressed himself against her leg, and Hermione put the pictures showing Stonehenge and the arch of Étretat back into the album. Looking at the ones she had taken, she hesitated a moment but then she pocketed the photo her mum had taken in France, the one with her dad on the pebble stone beach, along with most of the pictures she had sent them over the years.

'Hermione!' her mum cried from downstairs. 'Where are you?'

'Upstairs,' Hermione shouted back, hastily assembling the edited album. The photos she had selected went into her leather pouch where she kept her other memorabilia. Hermione hesitated a second, but then she put the pouch into a beaded handbag she had got just a few days earlier and enhanced with several charms. She stored the wand into her similarly enhanced jeans back pocket and bound down the stairs, where her parents were already waiting for her, ready to leave.

'Have you forgotten the time, dearest,' her dad said, shuffling nervously. 'We can't be too late for the film!'

Hermione chuckled, pulling on her trainers. 'And we can't be too late for Luc Besson, can we!'

'We certainly can't!' her dad shouted and tore the front door open. Her mum snorted, shaking her head at her husband's antics, and mother and daughter followed him outside.

Whenever Draco had imagined his seventeenth birthday, it had gone something like this:

At breakfast, his place setting would have been laden with so many presents he wouldn't have any space to eat. He wouldn't have any time to either because his entire house would gather around him, eager to congratulate the heir to one of the noblest houses in Britain to have reached adulthood. For lunch, he'd meet his parents in Hogsmeade. After a lengthy and expensive meal, they'd gift him his grandfather's pocket watch, the one his father had shut away in their Gringotts vault whilst pretending not to know where it was. Their eyes would shine with joy as they told him that they were proud of the man he had become.

In the evening, he'd celebrate with his mates in the dungeons, and because he was a Prefect, he'd be able to send away all the younger students and claim the common room for himself. They'd have barrels of Ogden's finest vintage, bottles of wine harvested in his birth year, and the prettiest and purest witches of all houses would be at his feet, eager to laugh at his jokes and share in his conversation. When he'd go to bed, there'd be at least one witch joining him.

By the time his actual seventeenth approached, Draco had stopped caring about it altogether. He was preparing himself for the very real possibility that he wouldn't live to see his future anyway, which was why he set the date of his mission to the day before. Looking back, Draco thought this had been pretty fucking brilliant. Lowering your expectations was the trick to exceeding expectations.

All things considered, being Crucio'ed by the Dark Lord on his seventeenth birthday was a bloody fantastic outcome.

It meant he'd survived. That his mother was alive. And that Dumbledore was dead.

Relatively speaking, it hardly mattered that there had been tiny moments of weakness. Draco had witnessed enough Cruciatus curses to know that the Dark Lord had been pleased, and that consequently, he was being let off easy for his moment of doubt.

Relatively speaking, it had been a fucking brilliant birthday.

Draco pulled his new Invisibility Cloak tighter around himself. He patted his left robe pocket, reassuring himself that the phial was still there. Now, after Dumbledore's death, Knockturn Alley was practically deserted. There were even fewer people than last summer, all with their heads lowered, unwilling to see and be seen.

Officially, not much had changed. Officially, the Dark Lord was elusive, and he and Snape were on the run. Officially, the Ministry was still in charge. And yet, since school had ended, nobody had dared to as much as approach the Manor.

Draco knew it and Britain knew it, too. The tide was turning.

Draco pushed the grimy old door to White Wyvern open. The pub was practically deserted, bar the single old hag sitting by herself at the smallest table in the far corner. She sat there unmoving, not the slightest bit bothered by the invisible entity that had entered the establishment. Considering this was already the third time Draco had done this, she might have got used to it. She might also be blind.

He crossed the room and stepped into the dirty little bathroom and firmly closed the door behind him. A wave of his wand reassured him that he was indeed alone. He was relieved his mother had eventually stopped following him once he'd started apparating away. Licence or no licence, Draco saw no reason to give up practically the sole privilege his seventeenth birthday had afforded him.

He silenced the stall with the spell Professor Snape had taught him, stripped to his underwear, and downed the contents of the phial.

Draco hated the first few moments of stasis; waiting for the worst that was yet to come. Gradually, a despicable feeling of discomfort grew in his stomach, twisting and growing, slowly spreading into his extremities and rapidly transforming into the horrible feeling of his insides turning inside out. Draco leaned against the bathroom door, panting heavily, almost buckling under the nauseating sensations of bones shifting and skin bubbling. It was the memory of how much worse things could get that kept him calm.

When all felt normal again, Draco dressed in the clothes he had brought and stored his robes in a leather messenger bag. Only then, he allowed himself a look in the grimy mirror above the sink. His hair was almost black and a little curly, his jaw wider and more angular than usual, and though he was of a similar height and build, he definitely looked older.

Draco smirked, extremely pleased with himself. The Muggle he'd nicked the hairs from had been a great choice, as were the jeans and short-sleeved shirt, even though it felt rather horrible on his skin. However. Nobody would suspect the elusive scion of the house of Malfoy behind the facade of just another ordinary Muggle student.

Pulling his invisibility cloak over himself again, he walked out of Knockturn Alley: he was eager for a taste of freedom.

Oxford Street was still bustling despite its late hour, and that was exactly what Draco had been looking for. Faceless masses afforded him a level of anonymity not even the Polyjuice potion could supply. Draco never made a plan of where to go. He liked to follow the flow of Muggles that eventually washed him up in the sort of dingy pub where he liked to get nice and pissed along with other nobodies; somewhere elusive, where a brawl wouldn't result in the coppers being called right away, or if someone did call them, they'd take their sweet time getting there.

Draco had got into a few extremely satisfying fights recently. The thrill of apparating away just before things got too tight made him feel alive as not much had in quite some time. He couldn't care two Knuts that it was childish or reckless. Whatever semblance of freedom he had at the moment, it would be over soon enough anyway. Why couldn't he bloody well do as he pleased just once? He was an adult now, wasn't he?

Draco wrapped his hand around his grandfather's pocket watch. He had got it after all, as a belated birthday present. His father's eyes had been shining as he'd gripped Draco's shoulder; his mother had been sitting next to him, sobbing. Draco had been lying in bed, unable to feel anything besides the absence of excruciating pain.

The watch was a great tool to keep track of the Polyjuice consumption whilst in Muggle London. Wouldn't his grandfather be proud. Draco laughed darkly to himself.

That was the moment he saw them.

Amongst the crowd walking into his direction from Tottenham Court Road three familiar faces jumped out at him: a tall middle-aged man with laughing eyes and silver streaks in his short, chestnut curls; he had his arm slung around an elegant woman with red lipstick who was smiling and shaking her head; and their grown-up daughter who was their perfect mix— wild-haired and red-lipped.

Draco froze and someone bumped into him. The man swore at him. Too bewildered to curse back, Draco stepped to the side, staring into the shop-window, reacting utterly on instinct, waiting.

'You're absolutely mad, Richard.' It had been three years, and still, he recognised her mother's voice in an instant; that no-nonsense attitude with an undercurrent of irony. 'Don't believe a word he says—'

'It's very true, Hermione.' Her father sounded just as cheery and light-hearted as he remembered. 'You won't believe the things your mother convinced me to do while we ought to have been studying—'

Granger giggled as they passed him. He stared at her reflection in the window. As usual, when they met outside school, something about her seemed… off.

Draco gave them a head start and then followed, but not before making absolutely sure that he was not being followed as well.

They didn't walk long. Soon, they disappeared into one of the many pubs that framed Oxford Street. Draco looked up at the sign: The Tottenham.

He entered, and it was only when he stood in the packed and raucous Muggle pub that he stopped to wonder what on earth he was trying to accomplish by tailing Granger.

Draco got lucky. Even though it was pretty packed for a weekday evening, he found an empty table just next to where the Grangers had settled. From here, he was able to follow their conversation and covertly watch them in the reflection of the engraved windows that separated the booths.

Not knowing what to expect from a place Granger and her parents frequented, Draco was pleasantly surprised. The interior with its dark wood inlays and stained glass art might have been considered kitschy, but it reminded him of his late grandmother's solarium. He didn't feel uncomfortable.

Draco sipped his pint, pretending to read the newspaper a previous customer had left behind. He had imitated Mr Granger's order. The beer he'd been served, something Granger's parents appeared to love, he found bland, almost watery, despite the fact that it was an odd mix of sweetness and bitterness. It did, however, mask the horrible taste of Polyjuice which he had to keep imbibing.

Granger was currently at the bar to get the third round of beer whilst her parents kept conversing. As far as he had gathered, they were discussing their previous entertainment. It must have been a theatre production of sorts, though he found it a little odd that they referred to it as a "film". Draco was at a complete loss as to what on earth photography had to do with theatre. Even stranger was the title of the piece, The Fifth Element . He had never heard of a play of that name before. Though it was to be expected that Muggles had their own plays, he was stunned that they would choose such a topic. As far as he was aware, Muggles only knew about the four classical elements—that, at least, was how his father liked to present their Fountain of Five Elements on their back lawn to all Manor visitors: each element was represented by a magical creature, the Dragon for fire, the Sphinx for earth, the Horned Serpent for water, the Occamy for air, and the Dukawaqa for the immaterial. Maybe his father had erred.

'Just incredible,' said Mr Granger. He had been raving about this "Fifth Element" for the past hour. 'The references to Metropolis , the perfect and powerful woman—'

'But a powerful woman who is good, too!' said Mrs Granger. Her eyes were sparkling, not unlike Granger when she was permitted to swot away in class. Draco remembered that her name was Helen. It only occurred to him now that it must have been the reason why they'd named their daughter Hermione. Draco froze— did Muggles know about Shakespeare?

Granger was just returning and placed three full glasses onto the table, next to a camera that seemed far too tiny to function.

'Yes. That,' her father— Richard — said and reached for one of the pints. 'Thanks, darling.' He grinned at his daughter and she smiled back, though in the distorted reflection of the window it almost looked a little forced. 'Anyway. Simply incredible how he tipped the entire genre on its head. It's like Star Wars on acid! Ha!' He held up his beer and laughed, his face crinkling around his eyes. 'Cheers!'

'It was pretty remarkable, I'll give you that.' Granger's mother nipped at her drink. 'I do wonder, however, if I don't prefer Lucas's heroine to Besson's. Leeloo was a little too… perfect.'

' Too perfect?' Richard Granger pretended to be scandalised. 'I'd have thought you'd be delighted to see a woman as perfection incarnated. I certainly loved it— not that the notion was anything new of course.' He grinned proudly at his daughter who shifted in her seat, mumbling something Draco couldn't hear.

'I might have agreed— if they had made her bright and not, you know—' Helen Granger pressed her lips together in a way that distinctly reminded Draco of Professor McGonagall '—a supermodel.'

Granger snorted. 'Intelligence, unfortunately, does not have any sex-appeal,' she said sarcastically.

'Really, Hermione, I don't—'

'Seriously though,' Granger continued, cutting off her mother, 'I liked Leeloo. It was great to have a woman be the solution for a change, instead of a man.'

Her father nodded vigorously in agreement, and Draco wondered when his father had last agreed with him in a discussion. He couldn't think of an instance. As a matter of fact, he could hardly think of when they'd ever had a true discussion.

'Still,' her mother continued, 'I'm a little concerned by the idea of perfection this story presents. Thin, model-like women. Is that how we imagine perfection?'

'But the woman is powerful!' her father seemed scandalised. 'She saves the world.'

'Does she really?' Granger mused. 'Yes, she is powerful, but in the end, she needs a man to tap into her powers. Without him, she's weak.'

There was a pause, and it suddenly occurred to Draco that he probably ought to stop staring at the window. He unfolded the newspaper and pretended to read while he kept listening. 'Do you truly think of it as a weakness?' he heard her mother say. 'She is desperate, yes. She has lost hope. She has lost her belief. She still has her powers, but she wonders if it's worth the trouble. That's the problem. The way I see it, she needs the man because he reminds her of what is good in the world. Of love.'

Richard Granger hummed in agreement. 'And isn't that beautiful, too? Only together we can experience love. It's not a power that sustains itself, but something that relies on reciprocity. Then it becomes the most powerful force in the world.'

'See,' Granger interjected, 'that's where the film lost me. Somehow we're supposed to believe that love is able to defeat the purest manifestation of evil. And while we—' She paused; Draco noticed in the reflection that she was glancing in his direction. He pulled up the newspaper, twisting slightly in seat, ostensibly ignoring them. '—while I, erm, know that love can indeed be powerful, I only ever heard of a mother's love being the type of benign force the plot demands. The heroes—they only knew each other for all of five minutes, which makes it a little hard to believe that they would already have the kind of love for each other that literally saves the world.'

Draco frowned at the headline in front of him; something about an election. Though he had never consciously thought about love that way, he supposed that Granger wasn't completely wrong. Hadn't he done all in his power to keep his mother safe? And from what she had told him since his mission had ended, she had done the same for him. However, love as an actual power, not a mere motivation, sounded pretty outlandish. Then again, Muggles had no idea how magic worked, so they would construe outlandish ideas, wouldn't they?

'Of course, you're right, my dear. Not every type of love is quite as forceful as a mother's love.'

'Or a father's!' her father interjected, grinning broadly.

'Yes,' Helen Granger said. 'But I would still maintain that true love can have that sort of potency which would overcome great evil.'

There was a great silence at their table which seemed to amplify the surrounding noises. The laughter and chatter of the Muggles filling the pub rang louder and more raucous than ever, and it seemed almost comical to Draco how Granger and her parents talked about existential issues whilst everyone else was carrying on with their inconsequential lives. He allowed himself another covert glance into the window. Helen and Richard Granger were staring at each other adoringly, while their daughter was staring moodily into her beer.

'I don't know,' she said, her voice a little subdued. 'Maybe if they had given their love story more depth… but it just seems as though the woman is a mere vessel through which the male hero realises his true potential and proceeds to save the day in the end. I mean… it's great, they save the world, but… her role in it is a bit depressing really.'

'You can also argue it the other way round!' her father said excitedly. 'Leeloo embodies the strong, independent woman who is clearly superior to all the blundering men she is surrounded with: that priest, Vito Cornelius, who has no actual idea of how to achieve that grand plan of his, despite his knowledge of the prophecy; and then there's Korben Dallas who isn't actually a hero but a complete and utter failure as the film starts. So his journey is, in many ways, a road to redemption. Indeed, the way I see it, it's his love for Leeloo that makes him the hero! Not the blazing guns!' He glanced around the table, eager for both women to agree with him.

'Now you're reaching, Richard,' Mrs Granger said, shaking her head. 'I wouldn't go quite as far as to say he is an anti-hero—'

'But you have to admit that he is quite the failure. He left his job in the military to become a cabby, at which, to all appearances, he's completely miserable at.'

'Yes, but—'

'And only when he starts caring for Leeloo, he seems to take an interest in his life again—'

'Which might just be plain sexism—'

'—or emotion, you can't know that—'

'—actually, I can, considering they've known each other for all of thirty minutes at that point—'

'—now you're just being obstinate—'

'—it's you who's being the boboline—'

'—you fopdoodle—'

'The longer I think about it,' Granger said quietly, and her parents stopped bickering, 'I wonder what her role was to begin with. The film makes her out to be naive and ignorant, and it's the man who has to help her realise that love is what makes all the bad things go away. Which, by the way, is another thing that seems a little far-fetched. What was he doing there anyway? Wasn't she supposed to be the only one needed to stop the great evil? Aside from that — I just don't see how love can be the ultimate solution to everything. Yes, love is great and all, but people also do lots of stupid things for love.' Her voice had become a little hoarse and she took a large gulp of beer.

'What do you mean—people?' Her mother stared at her. Draco recognised that stare; it was the type of motherly stare that came far too close to Legilimency. 'What do you mean by that?'

'Oh… just—you know… people use love as a justification all the time, so subjectively it might be a valid reason for them. And yet, looking at their actions objectively, intentions can't always justify the results.'

'Maybe not,' her mother said slowly, 'but it doesn't take away from the fact that love is a terrible force.'

Her father nodded vigorously. 'You were probably too young to have noticed it but there were a couple of instances when your Mum practically turned into a fury on your behalf. That Malfoy chap for instance. He was lucky he got away. Your mum had a good rant about him in France the day we met him.'

Draco froze in his seat, his ears ringing.

'What a horrible man,' he heard Helen Granger muttering. 'I'm just glad that that boy didn't tease you at school. I know the type. Looking down on other people. Knew quite a few of them at uni. Simply horrible. Never needed to work a day in their lives because Daddy "knows people in all the right places". Yuck.'

Draco's face burned. Instinctively, he pulled up the newspaper a little higher.

'And do you recall Emily Spungen in Kindergarten?'

Granger made a sort of disgusted sound.

'Your mum had a good shouting match with her mum.'

'I didn't shout. I just made it very clear to her that—'

'Point is,' Richard Granger continued, his voice sounding light and joyful, 'that you should never underestimate what a mother is willing to do to save her child.'

'Even if— it compromises the independence or free-will of a child? I mean, does doing it for love excuse complicated issues such as these?'

Her mum considered her for a long moment. 'That's a tough question. I'm glad that I don't have to know the answer to that.'

Draco studied the reflection. Granger's mother was smiling, but Granger's mirroring expression seemed to be off. She giggled and took another gulp of her drink.

'That's derailed us quite a bit off the film,' Richard Granger said. 'The point in the film was very much that the fifth element was love and love can save all.'

'The good old amor vincit omnia, eh?' Helen Granger said. 'Wrapped in a bit of romance and male heroism.'

'Right,' Richard Granger said. 'Can't forget about the male hero, can we?'

Helen Granger laughed. 'Maybe Hermione does have a point. There was not much of a point to Leeloo in the first place since she, as love, couldn't have been able to tap into her powers hadn't it been for the hero.'

'That's what I meant,' Granger nodded eagerly, 'she was just a catalyst for the hero's journey.'

'Yes but,' her father began, 'wasn't she the most powerful being?'

'Powerful, except when the hero needed to save her,' muttered Granger drily.

'That's true,' said her mother, frowning.

'Don't get me wrong,' Granger continued, 'I do understand that every person has to play their part in a mission for it to go right. But Leeloo had only one task, a task she couldn't perform in the end because—' she paused, taking a deep, exasperated breath, 'because she was too sad about war?' Granger scoffed, and Draco almost laughed at the familiarity of the situation. The fact that she talked to her parents like this was pure hilarity. 'That's so unbelievably naive, especially given how they had just blown up an entire ship killing hundreds of monsters.'

'Those were her enemies, weren't they?'

Granger scoffed again; she seemed to have talked herself into a rage. 'What a simplistic world view that is. I mean, I suppose that works for fiction. You have a clear line between the good people and the bad people, and killing bad people is, apparently, unreservedly okay. But in reality, it's not like that, is it? It's never acceptable to kill, not even if it's your worst enemy because that makes you a bad person—worse actually. Killing compromises your soul; it rips it apart, making you less of a person than before and thus, making it very hard to move on to the afterlife.'

'Hermione,' Granger's mother was still watching her closely, but her expression had grown worried. 'Darling, is everything all right?'

'Yes,' Granger said, a little too quick for it to be believable. 'Yes, of course. Why wouldn't it be?' she added in a suspiciously light-hearted tone.

Draco found himself wondering what Granger's parents knew about the goings-on in the Wizarding world. They appeared utterly ignorant of the war that was about to come and that could put the life of their daughter at risk. In that moment, he realised for the first time that even though Granger and her parents seemed so close, there was a distance between them that couldn't be bridged. There was a dull ache in his chest; Draco thought about his mother who seemed to be perpetually worrying about him these days.

'Goodness child. You really need that holiday.'

'Your mum's right. Each holiday, you come back even more serious than before, and I'm not sure if that's—'

'Oh dad, I'm just growing up,' Granger laughed and it sounded false in Draco's ears. 'It's completely normal to philosophise about death and morality at my age.'

'Of course it is, but I would have never pegged you for a person who ponders the morality of killing in such detail!' Her mother seemed legitimately shocked.

'That's just part of our education,' Granger said, and Draco knew instantly that she was hiding something. It was absolutely not part of their education; Dumbledore had made sure of it. But it pointed to the fact that Granger — in contrast to much of Wizarding England — had no illusions about what was brewing. Her next words were spoken so quietly, that Draco held his breath in order to grasp every word. 'You know there's—' Granger stopped herself mid-sentence and chuckled nervously. The sound had Draco almost jumping in his seat. 'Um. Anyway,' she coughed awkwardly, and continued in a normal voice, 'what I meant to say was that I didn't care for the depiction of romantic love either.' Draco didn't need to see her to know that she was blushing. He could hear the embarrassment in her tone.

'As usual,' her mother said matter-of-factly. 'I don't remember a single film wherein you found the romance believable.'

'Aside from Pride & Prejudice, of course' her father said jokingly.

'Don't get cheeky,' Granger lectured her father. 'You know full well that it hasn't got anything to do with Colin Firth! Pride & Prejudice is just one in a million where the protagonists actually get to know each other, and their mutual love grows through the knowledge of their respective characters.'

'Despite knowledge of their characters, you mean,' her mother said. Draco could hear that she was smiling.

'Quite.'

'How's Ron doing by the way,' her father asked. Draco who had lifted the glass to his lips, choked on his stale drink. 'You haven't bothered us yet about visiting him this summer. Anything wrong?'

'No,' Granger said hastily. Draco knew again that she was lying, and he found himself wondering what she was lying about. 'I spend an awful lot of time with him and Harry, so I thought it would be nice to be with you two for a change.'

Her dad grinned. 'Him and Harry, eh? You ought to pick, you know. It's the decent thing to do.'

'Oh, stop it, you!'

Draco's ears burned. For some reasons, the harmless comment had spurred his imagination. But there were things he never wanted to think about—a naked Potter and Weasley with Granger in their midst currently being top of the list. He hastily finished his drink and escaped.

Draco closed the compartment door behind himself and Pansy, and settled into one of the seats Zabini and Nott had saved for them.

'So?' Nott raised his eyebrow, lowering the newspaper he had been reading. Draco could see the two large moving photographs on the front: Potter and Granger. Undesirable Numbers One and Two.

'Weasley's not here,' he said.

'Oh?' Blaise raised his eyebrow. 'I've seen his sister though.'

'You have, have you?' said Pansy acidly. She crossed the arms in front of her chest, covering the large head girl badge.

'She is, but he is not,' Draco said simply. Everything about this train ride felt... off.

'Apparently, he's sick with Spattergroit,' Pansy sneered. 'We've sent an owl.'

'Ah,' said Nott, though he kept looking at Draco.

'What?'

'Nothing,' Nott said and picked up the papers again to continue what he had been reading before. The way he held The Prophet , Granger stared directly at him. It was a cropped version of a picture The Prophet had run last year in one of their many stories on the "Chosen One" and his friends. She looked younger somehow, carefree. Last he had seen her, there had been a distinct air of sadness surrounding her—then again, he hadn't actually got a good look of her.

'Put that away, Nott,' Pansy said, scowling.

'Why?'

'I don't care to have Granger's ugly face staring at me for the duration of the train ride.'

Nott laughed. 'Threatened, Pansy?'

'As if!' she sneered. 'I don't want that dirty little Mudblood anywhere near me— not even if it's her photograph.'

'Then read a book, Parkinson. That way you can look at something more edifying.'

'I'm not reading a book!' Pansy protested in a loud, whiny voice.

Draco sat there, wondering how he had ever managed to fancy her. She had never appeared less appealing to him.

Parkinson, Head Girl. Who would have thought? Certainly not him, that was for sure. He'd always pictured— then again, things were different now. Now, he was Head Boy and Parkinson Head Girl. Pure-bloods in positions of power. The way it ought to be. The way he deserved it.

Theo and Pansy continued bickering. Blaise was bored and stared out of the windows. Crabbe and Goyle were nowhere to be seen. They had taken to patrolling the corridors, their wands out, ready to abuse their new-found Death Eater son privileges.

Never in his wildest dreams would Draco have thought that achieving one of his goals would feel— like this. Hollow somehow. Maybe he needed Potter and Granger to rub it in their faces.

Their compartment door banged open. Crabbe and Goyle stood in the door, grinning maliciously.

'We've found a Muggle-born,' Crabbe said with an expression as though Christmas had come early.

'So?' Draco said, unwilling to move. He stretched out his legs, crossing his ankles. 'What d'you need me for?'

Goyle seemed thoroughly confused. 'We just thought—'

'Don't you want to do the honours?' Crabbe said, his browns knitting.

Draco let out a weary sigh. 'Why should I? You know what to do, don't you?'

'Right,' Goyle said, still frowning as though he was concentrating very hard indeed.

'My God,' Pansy said, irritably. 'Does one have to spell it out for you? Take their wands and owl the Carrows. It's not that complicated.'

Behind his newspaper, Draco thought he heard Theo snickering.

'And don't disturb us again,' he added, 'can't one have a moment of peace before school starts? Honestly.'