Chapter Thirteen - An Iris in Bloom

Only through sheer will power was Hermione able to maintain any level of focus through her Monday classes. The night before sleep had once again come easily, but fatigue was not necessarily the issue. Rather, her thoughts, if not kept under stern control, would waver from one topic to the next.

History of Magic, her last class before lunch, trudged along at the pace of a fagged snail. The speech which wound from the spectral mouth of Professor Binns served more as a hypnosis technique, than an informative lecture on the discrimination of half-bloods through 18th century Ireland. More than once her restless attention would dart tentatively to Harry and Ron as well.

Some grim, excessively melancholy message repeated in the back of her mind. It no longer hurt to look at them - not in the same way, at least. The hurt was not so thrashing and red, not nearly as tinted by anger.

The change was not for the better, because there was no doubt as to why the emotions had morphed so suddenly. The pain - the missing them - were still there, of course, but it was glassy, and empty: flat, aching grief, the sensation of her heart vibrating meekly in her chest. What had replaced the bitterness, the anger, and the resentment were none other than solid masses of wistfulness and resignation. In her heart, she was beginning to let them go; perhaps as a defense machanism, an instinct that enough was enough. Her logical mind had begun to find its body a glutton for punishment with how long it had dwelt.

As Professor Binns listlessly recounted the heroics of one muggleborn, Paedar Murphy, Hermione's eyes remained glued to Harry's profile. A small portion of her attention was relegated to the professor's lecture, but mostly she took in the sight of her friends.

They were both angled so that Hermione could just see the sides of their faces, two rows beyond where she sat. And beneath all the previously described emotions, she felt a burst of love for them, a burst of affection so strong and steady that it was almost a sound - even cacophonous in the demand to be acknowledged.

She began to sift through the countless memories she'd shared with them.

Their time together in Diagon Alley, in the waning days before the start of their third year together at Hogwarts; this was the first thing to receive her review. There was no telling how Ron or Harry recalled those days, but for Hermione, they stuck in her memory as the first time she'd truly comprehended just how close they'd become. She'd realised that those two boys - one gangly, one broody - were the first friends she'd ever made.

Then there was the memory of Moaning Myrtle's lavatory, of all the hours they'd managed to steal in order to brew Polyjuice Potion; the long nights spent in solving the mystery of the Sorcerer's Stone; then, that moment Harry had come out of thin air outside the Triwizard maze. White-hot terror could still, after all this time, wash over in any instant the moment was relived. She could shut her eyes and perfectly visualise Harry, bloodied and hysterical as he clutched Cedric Diggory's lifeless corpse; she could hear how he'd wept.

Where Harry was the naturally humble and empathetic aspect of the trio, Ron was the constant relief. He was the one to make you laugh when you felt as if a smile were hundreds of leagues under an ocean of possibility. He could rarely take anything seriously and he had the sensitivity of a dead limb; but Ron could always, always make Hermione happy when he was in that generous spirit.

Neither of them could understand how deeply, how strongly she felt for them... how she loved them. They couldn't possibly know how she'd always experienced their pain and embarrassment and indignation right alongside them - that she would die for them, in an instant, without a single question or regret but that she'd have to leave them behind.

There were very few who could say they'd done the things they'd done together. The three of them had solved such a great deal in such a short amount of time; oftentimes flying blindly, and recklessly.

But they'd flown together, and at the moment Hermione felt like the only one alive who understood that.

These are the only words to describe the goings-on of Hermione Granger's heart. On paper they might span for pages, but still the picture painted would always miss something, would lack just a bit more justification or explanation. And, all of it scuttled across the conveyor belt of thought in the short space of time it took Binns to finish up his languid rendition of the Ode to Paedar Oughin.

And then her internal, unspoken goodbye was stopped in its tracks, by the most transient of glances from Harry. He'd looked at her almost sheepishly as he twitched his head slightly over his shoulder. His eyes poked into hers for two beats and then leapt hurriedly away. He turned his entire head as well, so that she could no longer see even his profile.

There was no way to decipher the expression Harry had aimed at her. But, he'd looked. It was a drop of rain on soil that had begun to crack under arid elements. Hope was sprouted anew.

And she was taken by a strange track of thought:

Suppose there was a force somewhere - some kind of force - if that was even the proper word, or concept - that kept them all together. One which pulled them back from the edges of bad (although perfectly trackable) decisions... Hermione would have been glad of it, even if the prospect gave more than a little fright.

As Hermione was released from the indolent confines of the History of Magic classroom, to make her way to the Great Hall, she dropped her things about halfway through the entrance hall. If she'd only glanced up and to the left, she'd've noticed yet another person looking at her with no small degree of interest.

Hogwarts was, apparently, a place for meaningful glances and prolonged bouts of examination, and Cormac McLaggen had fallen victim to its ways. He'd stopped in his stride as he chanced to see Hermione come down the way, and leant against the wall so that he could watch her pass. He would have helped her gather her things, but he hadn't yet thought of the perfect thing to say to her. And, Cormac did not consider himself the type to quickstep his way through any sort of conversation with an accomplished girl like Hermione Granger.

And then she was gone, as quiet as always - as unseen by everyone else, as always. He smiled ruefully to himself, and gave a shake of his head as he propelled himself off the wall and continued down the corridor. He shoved his hands easily into his pockets.

Draco assumed his usual position in the dungeon, in the seat he took whenever he met Granger. If anyone happened to look in on him, they may have seen him as an immovable statue; hands palm-down on the surface of the worktable and face set into an impassive mask. Yet, inside, he writhed. Inside, he paced to and fro with sweat from every pore - pausing only to deal himself a healthy smack to the forehead.

Whatever was wrong with him could not be quanitified, no matter how valiant the attempt. At times, the nerves appeared to come from nothing but the same old sources, (Dark Lord, parents, what have you) and at others; he felt that he was only angry at himself for how far he'd been carried away by Saturday afternoon with Granger.

Again and again he pictured the way he'd sat next to her and laid his hand on his shoulder as she'd cried like a wounded animal. Each time, he gritted his teeth involuntarily to the point of discomfort and expelled mighty puffs of air through flared nostrils. The inward fury was unavoidable. His hand, his touch, her tears, the way he couldn't seem to stand them. They all vaulted through his mind with the skill and grace of Olympic gold medalists.

But was it truly fury that he felt?

That was the One Question, the one which kept him from certainty. The moment confidence grew that anger was the culprit, it morphed right under his mind's eye into fear. Fear of her. Fear that if he'd had it all to do over again, he would give in to the same actions. Even now as he thought of the way she'd ripped herself open and spilled out all of her fear and thoughts, that guilt would claw back into place; would bury under his tongue with that metallic taste, to which he'd grown pathetically accustomed.

To put it frankly - this did not at all jive with who Draco Malfoy was. He did not feel badly for mudbloods, and he certainly did not run amok to stroke their shoulders and offer comfort. Guilt was not a trait passed along either the line of dignified Malfoy or ancient Black. He was a Death Eater, for Merlin's sake!

He wondered now, rather violently, what his father would say, what his father would do if he had been able to witness what Draco had done with Granger. He wondered what would happen if Lucius could somehow find out that Draco was here, right now in the dungeon, waiting for Granger with more than a little anticipation at play in his stomach.

A sudden memory flashed across his mind like a firework so bright it could illuminate the trees below it, the faces of all the lookers-on. A memory that he hadn't even known he had until this very instant:

Nestled in a remote area of Scotland, there was a sizeable town of magical folk called Mackeney. For generations the location had been nothing but a quaint village, raised from a small settlement of witches and wizards sometime during the 16th century. However, as time wound on Mackeney became reputed for the beauty of its surrounding landscapes: the moors, swept with purple heath and grass that sighed with the wind; the trees, tall and reaching like beautiful women poised to dance; and the remarkable river that laughed its way across it all, ending in the great lake over which Mackeney looked.

As its reputation grew, more magical blood found paths to the village. Buildings were built and parks erected... Now, it was a bona fide town. Still small, still quaint, but in a way that was fabulous.

Lucius had first taken Draco years ago, when he had been but a boy - practically a tot. Young enough that he was able to forget the whole visit had even happened.

They went to visit a cousin of Draco's father, who owned half the shops in the bustling tourist's sector of the town, and to get a breath of Scottish air. Draco had marveled at everything, was swept off his feet by the blueness of the sky and the whiteness of the clouds - the great, sparkling lake that reflected that magnificence overhead. Splendour ran with bouyancy across the horizon.

Most of all, he remembered a girl.

A girl he'd met by that lake, as she'd sat and read to herself about a famous warlock called Dangever. He'd gone to the lake simply to have a look and see what manner of watery treasures he could find along the banks. When he was a child, Draco had been more disposed to wandering and getting lost in nature. But he'd found her instead... Anella - that was her name - the name of a girl he literally wouldn't think about again for over a decade.

She'd had long red hair that bunched into frizzy curls round her freckled face; chubby cheeks which cushioned hazel eyes. She was pretty, and she was a year older, which made her cooler. And, she was nice. They must have stayed by the lake for only an hour, perhaps more, but memory made it seem as though he'd been with Anella all afternoon.

At the end, she'd picked a flower - a simply daisy with a yellow center fuzzy with pollen - and held it under his chin to determine how much he liked butter. He'd laughed at her accent; rough, yet gentle and lilting. And then his father's voice cut through the lazy warmth that had, up until then, surrounded them. He started towards them with such fury - spouting angry half-phrases at Draco - that Anella began to cry and she ran off without another word.

Lucius seized Draco's wrist and took him back to their rented townhouse. He'd lectured hatefully as he nearly dragged his son through the grass.

"That girl is filth, Draco! Filth!" He'd spat, as Draco tripped over his feet in the effort to keep up. "I never want to see you associate with those people again."

"What people, Father?" Draco had cried, and Lucius stopped in his tracks and turned to Draco.

"The Allaways, Draco, as well as the rest of those putrid, mudblood families. You have no business with them, and they have no right to business with you." His father had seemed so tall in the moment, he could have blotted out the sun.

"Anella isn't a mudblood," Draco pouted, horrified with himself as he tried to wrench free of his father's grip. Lucius slapped him against the back of the head to make him stop.

"Yes, she is." He'd brought his face to only a few inches from Draco's.

Much later on, during later visits to the town, Draco would understand how deeply the hatred ran for the Allaways, in particular.

To his father, honour was the centre of everything - and this included the reason he and his family made trips to Mackeney in the first place. Along with its beauty and tradition, Mackeney was settled with a majority of Pure-blood families. Only a handful of houses possessed intermingled blood, the Allaways among the most notorious; because they were well-to-do.

Mudblood families were not meant to thrive so well when interspersed so thinly amongst the Pure households. It filled traditionalists with a heady resentment to see the Allaways maintain so well, think so highly of themselves, in such a place they did not deserve. It no doubt filled Lucius with revulsion, to see his son at the discovery of puppy love with one of those soiled offspring.

"Sooner or later, you will learn to tell who is Pure and who is not, but for now I will teach you. You are never to speak to anyone without my permission. You will not tarnish our name, our reputation. Do you understand?" He'd said. "Do you?"

"I understand." Draco had said, and with a jolt, he realised he'd said it again in his current time; sitting alone whilst waiting for Granger.

He and Lucius had never again spoken of the Allaway situation; and Draco had evidently gone through great lengths to forget that he'd debased himself.

It's very likely that had Hermione not come through the dungeon door only a moment later, he'd have picked himself up from his stool and fled from the dungeon the moment he gathered his wits. He'd have left her to find an empty dungeon, and would have avoided her at all costs; thinking of Annella Allaway, thinking of his father, and thinking of filthy blood.

But Granger had come, before Draco had even fully pulled himself from the wormhole of cold remembrance. The faint blush that grazed her cheeks was undoubtedly mirrored by his own; it was impossible to tell which of them were (or ought to have been) more embarrassed at that moment.

Granger cleared her throat.

"Hello." She said softly. And after a moment's hesitation, she shuffled closer and sat at the stool adjacent to him, just as she always used to.

He inclined his head to her, but his gaze was cast over her shoulder. "I brought the ingredients." He matched her soft tone, but in such a quiet environment, it felt as though he'd screamed it at her.

"There's no point in starting a new Draught of Peace." Hermione said. "We all but finished the last, and you seemed to have the basics."

"So what'll we be doing?"

"Draught of Living Death - pretty much the opposite." She smiled a little and reached into her bag for her papers and book.

Draco followed suit, and as he extracted his sixth year Potions text he remembered for the first time that he'd managed to steal and destroy Potter's. The memory was welcome, and inspired a smile of his own to glimmer.

Granger noticed.

"What's that look for?" She asked.

Immediately, his mouth settled into an indifferent line. "You'll notice that I don't interrogate you when you smile."

"One question hardly constitutes an interrogation, but have it your way." She shrugged. "Anyway, I thought this potion would come up ages ago in Slughorn's class, but it hasn't yet. I think we should start practicing techniques and recipes that are approaching so you'll be better prepared to face the pressure."

As another long-winded lecture registered on the forecast, Draco resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

"Last time we talked about this it became clear the pressure is your biggest problem. You know how to brew, you know the principles and the laws, and I'd even say you've got a natural knack for Potions, but the pressure is the culprit. The only thing that can alleviate that, I think, is to practice anything and everything that may come up in future lessons, because you apparently aren't doing that on your own time."

He was partly flattered by the sudden compliment Granger had flung his way, but there was still some smart to his ego every time she attempted to deduce "his problem". The most he could trust himself to do was nod dryly and allow her to hand him the list of directions to brew the Draught of Living Death.

As she slid the paper into his hand, he noticed that hers was bandaged tightly, and before she pulled it away he took it and examined the wrap with some interest.

"What happened here?" He hadn't even thought of what he was doing until surprise took over her features. He let go quickly.

She looked at the bandage herself with a silly smile. "Tragedy with a pen knife." She said. "I'm not very good at healing spells so I used Murtlap essence and wrapped it. It should heal soon enough. If not, Madam Pomfrey is always available."

He was inches away from telling her to unwrap it so that he could heal it himself, but he snapped his mouth shut and gave an ambivalent shrug. "I would've reckoned you'd master healing spells by now."

"I'm not terrible at them, but I've made cuts and bruises worse on myself before. I was tired, I took the easy way out." She set to arranging the vials and jars she drew from her bag atop the table. Draco stared at the bandage on her hand as she placed a small chopping block on the space in front of her, and a small silver knife on top of it.

"Let's get started, shall we?"

Draco sighed through his nostrils and leaned forward, elbows on the table. "We shall."

Time was once again fluid - and this was something he could admit to having missed. Granger only occasionally murmured instructions, but otherwise she kept silent. At intervals his eyes were drawn to check the weather pattern over her face. All seemed tenuous, and she was inscrutable.

However, in between glances in his direction, to check his progress, she was absorbed by the contents of a book which appeared to contain warding spells. Occasionally, she'd break again to scrawl something relevant, no doubt, to what she read on a length of parchment unrolled upon the table.

When had he last felt that ease, with which she switched between tasks? There had been a point when Draco's mind could focus on more than one thing at any given moment, but that seemed another lifetime.

Draco set aside a concoction of potioning water and African sea salt for it to stand five minutes without disturbance. And when he straightened from his concentrated slouch, he caught Granger's eye. She quickly looked away, and Draco did the same, but before the concoction was ready to use, she sighed heavily.

Draco looked back expectantly.

"What?" She asked.

"I should ask you that." He reached for the beaker and tilted it over his cauldron. The mixture poured slowly into the great iron belly as Granger blinked at him. "You've got that look which always seems to spell trouble."

"I don't know what you mean." Granger frowned again and he broke in the search for wormwood essence to point at her with amusement.

"That look." Draco said. "Whenever you've got that look, it means you've also got something to say."

"I don't." Granger insisted, but as she watched him grasp the jar of wormwood she added, "Other than to tell you to be careful when you measure that."

"I know what I'm doing." He held a graduated cylinder before his eyes and let the wormwood essence flow to the 40-ounce tick in the glass. "There's something on your mind. And if it's something that's bothering you, tell me now. I don't want you to explode."

"Let's not pretend that I'm the volatile one in this room." She must have immediately felt badly about the irritation of her tone, as it only took a few moments for her to say, "You're doing rather well, you know."

The corners of his mouth perked into a slight smirk as he lifted his cauldron at an angle to add the wormwood essence, but he refrained from a reply; there was no sense getting ahead of himself.

After a few minutes of silence, Granger (who'd now cracked open her copy of Advanced Potion-Making) began again. "I think for the next two lessons we'll review this recipe, and then we can try brewing the Volubis Potion... Although Transfiguration's already covering voice-changing effects... so maybe a Strength Potion...?"

Draco, who only partially listened, said, "Next week is an important practice for the team, so we'll have to take the lesson over that weekend."

"I can't." Hermione said. "Next Saturday is the start of the holiday."

"So?"

"So... I won't be here."

Draco glanced up from his cauldron, into which he dropped little squares of Valerian root. He paused for a moment, his features stilled; and then dropped in the next three squares.

"You and Weasley, then... You've made up? You'll be going with them?" He asked, in tones of greatest nonchalance.

"No, what would make you think that?"

"I thought you might go with him and Potter. Don't they always spend the holiday at that sty?" His lips curled into a smirk and Granger bristled.

"It isn't a sty, Draco. They may not be my friends at the moment, but I am still theirs. Don't say negative things about them... around me, at least."

Draco matched her expression of defiance with one of his own, but he gathered himself. He simply shook his head and returned to his work.

Silence prevailed again as he stirred his potion counterclockwise ten times. It wasn't until he began to add the powdered root of asphodel that he spoke again, and when he did his voice rang with the suppressed curiosity he couldn't quite quash.

"Where are you off to, then?"

"Home, of course. I still have a family, last time I checked." While Granger smiled ruefully at her joke, Draco's eyes averted instantly down, to the cauldron. "Home is where I would have expected you to go, as well. Don't you always go home?"

"Not this time, Granger." He said.

"Why not?"

His hand flexed against the rim of his cauldron as he once again held it at an angle to stir. Long enough passed that it seemed almost awkward to answer now, but it came, anyway.

Just as Granger had returned to her book, he said, "My mother wrote, asking me to come home. But that's the last place I want to go." It wasn't a direct reply... that much was unwise to give.

He felt her eyes on him for a few beats.

"I'm sorry." It was spoken with a hush, and though he refused to meet her gaze, he knew she meant it. He knew she meant well, even. And, instead of the anger he instinctively felt upon any occasion of pity Granger had ever shown him, it was somehow welcome in this case.

To Granger, Draco was still relatively unscathed. In her eyes, he was not quite obscured by the full weight of his family name, though he'd used their ideals to mock her. She'd nearly combusted with her insistence of his innocence to the half-wits she seemed to love beyond rationality. She believed he was still Draco.

"Don't be." This was always the only response he could ever give to her offers of sympathy. And he couldn't even let it sit between them long, as he quickly segued into, "Who knows? I might leave the castle. Gallivant across Europe, young bachelor as I am."

"You could go to Paris." Granger hugged her open book against her chest. "I went to France one holiday. I'll never forget it."

Draco quirked a brow at her. "I've been to France four times already. And Russia, and Germany, Sweden, Austria, Spain, and Hungary, and-"

Granger bowled over his enumeration with, "Well aren't you just the epitome of sophistication."

"You mean to tell me that with all your reading, you've never been anywhere other than France?" He asked absentmindedly. He let the last square of Valerian root in the recipe fall into the potion with a small plink and sizzle. He'd meant to sound as though he was rubbing it in, but the question had simply come out curious.

"I went to the States, once," Hermione said. "Mum's cousin lives in Seattle there. He's a biochemical engineer. Either that or he's a neurobiologist, I'm not quite sure."

"Doesn't matter which, considering I haven't got a clue what either of those things mean." Draco quipped. What small lives, muggles must lead.

"Yes, well, why would you?" Granger's expression muted. She glanced at the clock over Slughorn's desk and Draco craned his neck to line his vision with hers.

"Almost time for lunch." Draco said quietly.

Where had the time gone? In his mind, Draco had begun to picture his life as a montage of calendar pages fluttering away from a post on the wall in hectic rapidity.

"You'll want to practice this again." Granger said as she closed her book and set it aside. "On your time, as well as during the following lessons."

"Sod off," Draco blurted, and brandished his hand over the contents of his cauldron. "This go's as close to bloody perfect as even you can expect."

"I never said it wasn't." Granger responded, as she eyed the potion with interest. She abruptly stood for a closer look - and adopted an eagle's eye to search for any flaws. Draco did the same, if only to reassure himself.

And, he was confident. The brew was translucent; a pale rosy shade that seemed almost phosphorous.

"... In fact you've done a fantastic job." It should've been a compliment, but she was far too grim. She sat back on her stool and crossed her arms over her chest.

He nearly laughed. "Are you jealous, Granger?" He asked earnestly. He ducked his head to peer into her eyes and she quickly began to pack away her books.

"I'm not." She huffed, though as she went on she'd developed her habitual flush. "But you should still practice. If you never believe a thing I say, trust me when I tell you this one will come up in Slughorn's class. It would probably go a long way if you pull off a brew of this calibre while under a clock."

When she looked at him again, there was something else beyond the jealousy. The feeling couldn't be escaped that Granger respected him a little in that moment, and that it was evidently a new thing for her. This, of course, was another pinch to his ego, but he'd listened to enough of what she said that he couldn't deny the truth of it.

If he could do anything to satiate the infernal scholastic beast, hadn't he better do it?

He waved his wand over the cauldron to vanish the Draught from its belly, as Granger gathered all her ingredients. He'd many years ago begun to associate Granger with the sounds of books shutting with a brusque snap, and the creak of a chair as she fidgeted for a professor's attention with a raised hand. Now, with so many memories of her packing away jars and vials, he'd forever associate her with the musical clink of glass, as well.

He fell into watching; she swept three jars into one hand and placed them in her bag. Her actions were fast, and haphazard, but it was certain that nothing would break or spill inside. She was clearly one accustomed to careful hurrying. That trait was in everything; her brisk walk, quick packing, even the way her words tumbled from her mouth at times, one after the other. It was as though she were always afraid of being late, being cut off, or being seen at all.

Draco wanted to ask Granger whether or not she'd ever just slowed down, wanted to ask her what sort of things made her want to; the words had hiked down to the very edge of his tongue, yet he breathed them all back in. He'd have looked foolish with such random questions, and Granger would probably find a way to be insulted by it.

He carried the cauldron to its stand beside their table, and then made a beeline for the door. He only noticed that Granger wasn't behind him when the door of the dungeon swung shut behind him. Some part of him knew she'd probably changed her mind and opened a book as he stared at the door. She'd probably study or read another muggle novel, she'd probably avoid the Great Hall for as long as she could, until she got too hungry.

Author's Note:

I'm very thankful to all the positive feedback I got on the last chapter. I didn't want to make it too over-the-top and I worried that it had run on a little long, but it seemed like there was so much to be said between them. I'm glad to know it seems to have been received well. It's impossibly early morning but I don't see myself getting back to sleep which means... you lovely lot might have the next chapter by the end of the night! Or, I may prove to have been to ambitious in my post-sleep fugue-state. We shall see.

As always, feel free to voice any feedback or criticism, it gives me momentum. And don't forget to follow so any time I post you'll get the notification. Thank you all, sincerely.