Her arms have started to ache but she carries on, lips twisted in concentration. She can never seem to keep track of her fingers when she braids her hair and she's tempted to give up, but Hermione learned a crucial lesson in her fourth year: when you look good, you feel good. And she desperately wants to feel good about herself today. After her initial trek through the castle, she hadn't left Gryffindor Tower for the rest of the weekend. She holed up in her dormitory with Ginny all day Saturday and only briefly made her way down to the common room to see Harry and Ron Sunday morning. Dreadfully behind her study schedule, she'd needed time to focus and prepare herself mentally for the week ahead. It was going to be a rough one.
Hence, a bit of Sleekeazy's and an elaborate braid. Okay, an entire bottle of Sleekeazy's, but today she deserved it! Sighing in relief, she fastens her hair in place and seals it with a charm Ginny taught her. Hermione scrutinizes her work with a critical eye, and decides it's acceptable. Nodding to herself, she starts on her makeup. She knows it's vain and has argued with herself constantly since painting her nails and toenails last night (no one's even going to SEE her toenails and she's gone to school with these people for years, they all know what she looks like...) but she can't help it; Hermione needs to feel pretty today. She's not one for lying to herself, she'd always rather face the truth head on. And the truth is that everybody is going to be looking at her this week and deciding if they would be upset were they in Malfoy's shoes.
She expects lewd comments and demeaning remarks. But she doesn't know how well she can handle it if she hears any jabs at her appearance. Hermione knows other people see her as an individualistic sort of girl. The type who is unafraid, proud even, to be herself. And she is! Yet she's human. She doesn't live in a bubble, she's heard every insult under the sun about her hair and can't forget the torment dished out over her teeth by Muggle and wizarding children alike. While she knows that true beauty is on the inside, she is painfully familiar with feeling ugly on the outside. Ron's embarrassing, public realization that she was female plays in her head every time she puts on a skirt or wears earrings.
Feeling ridiculous and insecure, she gently taps blush onto her cheeks. Something in the smell of the face powder is comforting, reminding her of evenings spent watching her mother prepare for an outing. She doesn't want to go overboard, she's already worried that her efforts are pathetically obvious, but she wants to feel the way she did at the Yule Ball. Worth a second look. They may taunt Malfoy, but Hermione's going to do her best to ensure they also secretly envy him (at least a little).
It's the only armor she has.
Breakfast in the Great Hall was agonizing, her morning classes were mortifying, and lunch was somehow worse than breakfast because everybody took the mid-day meal at the same time. Except Malfoy. After gathering the courage to glance over the Slytherin table (which took longer than any self-respecting Gryffindor would ever admit) she realized he wasn't there. He hadn't made an appearance at lunch either. While grateful for the respite, however short, she wanted to get it over with. To find out exactly how bad the rest of her year was going to be and adjust her plans accordingly. She had two courses of action in mind should Malfoy mess with her, depending on the severity of his attitude, and a few backup ideas she needed to flesh out before they could become workable. The anticipation is grating on her and her earlier gumption is flagging. She's had a long day of speculations and giggles and sympathetic eyes and she just needs it to be over.
Her last class of the day, Herbology, is one of the few she shares with Malfoy. He'll be there or he won't, she thinks as she braces herself. Hermione steps outside, relishing the fresh air even as she pulls her robes tighter around her. The castle felt stuffy and crowded all day long. Everywhere she turned people were watching her. A few boys, mostly Slytherins, had whistled at her and Pansy Parkinson looked as though she'd like nothing more than to hex her right in the face. Parvati had the gall to ask her if Malfoy was a good kisser, horrifyingly enough. Neville falls into step beside her, shooting her a shy grin. Hermione's favorite thing about Neville is his smile. They always feel genuine.
He and Seamus had gone out of their way today to walk her to the classes she doesn't share with Ron or Harry. Sweet Neville had even made sure she got to Arithmancy, though he had Care of Magical Creatures and would most certainly be late. She'd not been surprised by Neville, but had a whole new appreciation for Seamus, who had ardently defended her all day. An undercover gentleman, that one. She and Nev walk in silence, as they are wont to do, happy to enjoy each others company. Hermione finds herself watching him, noting the way his jawline has slimmed and his shoulders have filled out. That's good, he has a kind heart. He deserves to be handsome. He was her first real friend at Hogwarts. Sure, they weren't as close as she and her boys, but prior to the Troll Incident he was one of the few people who would speak to her. She'd study with him in the library on occasion at sat next to him at meals. She wonders now, watching the dying light glint off surprisingly shiny hair, what might have become in a world where she had been able to hold in her tears that Halloween. The Hermione that never needed rescuing might not have become friends with Harry and Ronald. Maybe Neville would have been her confidant. Perhaps she'd have noticed how tall he'd gotten sooner. Neville, with his honest smile and warm, hazel eyes.
She chastises herself for the thought, knowing full well she's not interested in Neville that way. Look at her; she has sex and now she's sizing up her housemates. Besides, she's seen the looks he's been throwing Luna's way. There's something there, she's sure of it. She's also sure that Neville will make someone a wonderful boyfriend one day. He's loyal to a fault she muses. She's lucky to have a friend like him. She tells him so and is graced with another one of those smiles she finds so endearing. She vows to devote more time to Neville in the future. She'll adjust her schedule later when she factors in today's assigned work.
"Which greenhouse are we in today?"
"Oh, is that why you walked me to class? And here I thought you cared for my wellbeing." She sniffs, feigning offense.
Nev looks put out for a moment before she laughs. It feels good to laugh. It's been a tense day.
"Greenhouse Four."
"Thanks."
As her joy fades, the coil of anxiety in her gut winds tighter. She is more than a match for Draco Malfoy if he runs his mouth, but she dreads it all the same. He has an uncanny talent for spotting weaknesses and rubbing your nose in them. She tries to hold her shoulders back and keep her head high, but the day has worn on her and she feels her steps slowing as they approach the greenhouse. Everything in her tells her to turn around and run. Go to bed, go to the library, go see Hagrid. Professor Sprout would understand.
"Everything's going to be fine. And if it's not, I'm right here with you." Neville says suddenly, interrupting her escape plans. Hermione stares at him for a moment, drawing strength from his support.
"I know I already said it," She murmurs quietly as Susan Bones passes them, entering class. "But thank you so much for being my friend. You don't know how much I needed a friend today. Or maybe you did, and that's what makes you such a good one. You're worth your weight in gold Neville Longbottom."
He flushes red as he holds the door open for her, mumbling a thank you. Yes, she decides, he's gotten very cute. Squaring her shoulders, she steps into the warm, damp atmosphere of the greenhouse.
Her eyes find him instantly. It's that shock of white-blonde hair. It draws the gaze.
Looking at him without the filter of potion induced lust, she can admit he's not half bad looking. Malfoy is one of those people who knows how to play up what they have. He knows what he's got and he runs with it. He looks at home in his expensive clothes and from the way that he holds himself she can imagine endless etiquette lessons and days spent inside longing to be outside playing. He had told her in the heat of psuedo-love that his life felt stifling, constricted. "I can have anything in the world I want - except freedom." She wonders now, taking in the tired bags under his eyes, if Harry is right about him. She hadn't seen a Dark Mark, but then again, one didn't necessarily need it to do Voldemort's bidding. Or perhaps he's just losing sleep over his very public tryst with a Muggleborn. He knows she's here. He doesn't look her way, but she can see his jaw tense. It's his tell, she thinks. He should learn to control it.
It was well known among his victims that the best way to avoid Malfoy's taunts was to arrive to class just in the nick of time. Should you arrive before the Professor you could only hope that Malfoy was running late. Which was a rare occurrence, what with the etiquette lessons and all. Draco never did anything too terrible in the presence of authority figures, which implied the presence of a conscience buried deep in there somewhere, being heavily ignored. Professor Sprout wasn't present, and the moment Hermione walks in the whispers break out. She does her best to pretend she doesn't hear and so does Malfoy. He doesn't acknowledge her as she steps carefully past him and makes her way to the opposite end of the greenhouse. Neville sits beside her and gives her an encouraging grin.
She waits for it, but Malfoy does nothing. Doesn't even glance her way. Huh. Maybe this would be it; the thing that finally made him leave her alone. Most likely he didn't want to be seen speaking to her, after everything. Well that's just fine with her. They can act like it never happened, be perfect strangers.
It isn't until the Professor makes her entrance and class begins that she feels his eyes on her.
She looked pretty today. He resents the observation, but takes another few moments to appreciate the escaped curl brushing her shoulder. They're gathered in Greenhouse Four and Granger sits in an errant sunbeam, radiant in a corona of golden light. He wants to rolls his eyes at the romantic notion. He's composing lines now. But he can't deny that it's true. His classmates have noticed too, and several glance her way only to stare, caught up in the beautiful moment she presents. Draco wishes he wasn't noticing these things. Especially wishes he hadn't seen that shit Theodore Nott leering at her as he walked in. He hates that kid. He'd gotten taller over the summer and a couple of girls seemed to find his stooped, sickly thing mysterious and ever since he'd been an unbearable little worm.
As if Granger would ever stoop so low.
Wait, no, that's not right. Nott is a pureblood and Granger should be flattered to have any of them interested in her at all. What with the background she didn't have the sense to be ashamed of. If Draco were her, he'd pretend to be a cousin of the Dagworth-Grangers. But he knows without knowing that she would never do such a thing. The dishonesty of it would eat at her and her pride would rankle. She wouldn't be able to stand quietly by and listen to the unrestrained talk of pureblooded wizards far from listening ears. She'd give them all a piece of her mind, he has no doubt. She adored her Muggle parents, something that had been abundantly clear as she gushed on about them. Her love lit up her face.
Thinking fondly of Granger is disturbing and he struggles to return his focus to the lesson. But it does him little good as another strand of hair escapes at her temple and she tilts her face just so (he wouldn't be told until many years later that this was absolutely intentional) at what he personally finds to be the loveliest angle of her cheekbones. Draco spends the rest of the class practicing occlumency, trying to forget she exists.
When his torture finally ends, he hauls his bag over his shoulder and all but runs through the glass doors. He'll see her first thing in the morning, in Transfiguration, but until then he needs to be somewhere she isn't. He's going to eat and he's going to the Room of Requirement. He wants to lose himself in the problem the cabinet presents. Put his energy into something that confuses him in an intellectual way, not an emotional one.
Ronald Weasley, it seems, has other plans.
He and Potter make their way down the lawn, probably to make sure he hasn't further molested Granger. When the redheaded lout spots him, his trajectory shoots off toward Draco, dragging Potter behind him. They have their tough guy faces on and Draco wants to laugh. They don't understand that a summer with Fenrir Greyback and his aunt have made life absurd, skewed everything, and they're kittens in comparison. Potter and Weasley may hex him, may hit him, but they're not going to draw his intestines out while he's still alive or flay him. He sighs, already annoyed.
"Having it out, are we? I have places to be." He calls out. "Here, let me move this along. Was it supposed to go something like this? Malfoy, you bastard! Stay away from our girlfriend mum! Ferret, blah blah blah, your father, blah blah blah. Does that about cover it?"
Weasel scowls, barreling down the slope. Potter jogs to catch up with him.
"Don't you talk about Hermione, you slimy git."
"Well that's clearly what you want to talk about, pauper." He snarks, pulling his wand from his robe. He doesn't have the time or energy for this and he will curse Weasley in full view of the departing Herbology class if he starts swinging like a Muggle, as members of his brood often do. "Were you going to tell me to leave her alone? Not an issue Weasel, what would I want with her?"
Weasley's face burns bright red and he draws his wand. Potter too, and the three pause for a moment, sizing each other up. He can see that they're not backing down and the other students from class are catching up to him. Soon they'll have an audience. He can't afford to lose any time working on the cabinet so he scoffs, stowing away his wand. He keeps his eye on the Gryffindors as he starts to make his way back up the lawn.
"Whatever, Weasley. You're just jealous." He tosses over his shoulder.
Draco hadn't thought that would be the dig that sent the boy over the edge. As he turns his back, he promptly tumbles forward with the force of a flipendo the sour fucker throws his way. He grunts, getting to his feet, suddenly filled with rage. Maybe it's the gathering crowd that spurns him on; he's always loved showing off for the rabble. Maybe he's just sick of being punished for things he didn't ask for. Whatever possesses him to say it, he is too overcome to stop himself. His anger feels like a second skin, and slipping into it leaves him cold and caustic.
Wiping the dirt from his face, he spins to find Weasley pleased with himself.
"The skin," he says. "On the back of her thighs."
Were he less fired up, he'd find it funny how quickly their eyes snap to him. The throng of students hushes, hanging on his every word, the vultures.
"Is so soft."
Weasley splutters and seems to forget he's a wizard, charging him. Draco trips him up with a stinging jinx and throws up a protego to block Potter's return hex. Weasley's back on his feet in a flash, and manages to bat Draco's arm away before he can send something nastier his way. He lands a glancing blow to Draco's ear just as he casts a jelly-legs jinx that has the redhead falling to the ground again. Potter rushes him, but he's in the swing of the fight now and ducks to the side, throwing up another protego the boy bounces off of.
"Did you know that when she cums, she calls out to her Muggle god?" A collective gasp offered up from the spectators at his crassness.
He's never seen either of them so livid, and revels in it.
"I'll bet you didn't. Her-"
"Silencio!"
And then there she is, taking his voice. Hermione Granger has eyes the color of firewhiskey and right now they are trained on him, full of betrayal she has no right to. Potter takes advantage of the momentary distraction to get another shot in and his head rocks back with the impact to his jaw. He stumbles backward feeling lightheaded and in the time it takes him to gather his bearings, Granger has immobilized Potter. She storms over to him, hair fanning out around her unnaturally in the mild afternoon breeze. He has only seconds to marvel at the way it coils and waves as though she is underwater before she's shoving her finger in his face.
"Don't you dare speak about me like that again." Her voice trembles, her hand shakes. "I know just as much about you as you know about me, don't forget that."
His eyes narrow at her threat and he sneers, but he'd be foolish to carry on when she's obviously not entirely in control of her magic. Fucking Mudbloods never understood that the basic tenet of being a skilled wizard was control. He'd demonstrate some for her.
He walks away, tossing Weasley one more smug look.
His jaw hurts.
Something in his chest hurts too, but he doesn't want to think about that.