A/n: Written for Finals Round 1 of the Quidditch League Fanfiction Competition, as Beater 2 for the Chudley Cannons.
Main prompt: Hermione Granger; BEATER 2: Write about someone persevering towards a goal.
Optional Prompts: 3. (dialogue) "You've never been one to give up when the going gets tough, so don't start now.", 5. (object) book, and 11. (occupation) teacher/professor
Word count: 2918
Making Mischief
"Ten points from Slytherin!"
"But Professor—"
"It was his fault—"
"No it wasn't, you lying piece of—"
Hermione slams a book on the desk, making the two Slytherins in front of her flinch. As the sound of her anger reverberates through the quiet office, she rises to her feet. The thirteen-year-olds huddle together, ashen, fearful of the brunette's wrath.
"Twenty points," she begins, her voice soft but deadly, "and a week of detention."
Seconds tick away as the Slytherin duo stares up at her, wide-eyed and aghast, their barely developed brains slowly processing the verdict. Finally, one of them snaps back to his senses.
"But that's so unfair!" he whines. "We barely even scratched it!"
"Shhhh!" his friend whispers furiously, but the damage is done.
Hermione schools her expression to keep her amusement hidden and says, "So you admit to not only damaging the portrait of Barnabas the Barmy but also wandering the Seventh Floor corridors after hours?"
"N—No?" the boy squeaks.
Hermione walks around the desk, her gaze never leaving them, and the boys cower in fear. They remind her so much of another pair who used to be particularly good at getting themselves into trouble. She purses her lips to hide her smile and is just about to speak when the door is thrown open with a bang so loud, it makes the lads jump right out of their skin.
Harry storms in, his expression murderous, his robes flying about him with such force they could whip anybody who got too close. Hermione glances at the petrified Slytherins and decides that they've had enough of a scare to put them off making mischief for some time.
"Off to bed with you," Hermione says to them, waving her hand. They look up at her in disbelief, and she clicks her tongue. "Run along now, before I change my mind."
"Yes, Professor—sorry, Professor!" Both boys chant and race out the door.
As soon as the door clicks shut behind them, Hermione turns to Harry and crosses her arms. "Well?" she demands when he makes no attempt to explain his very rude intrusion.
He turns, and for a moment, Hermione thinks he's going to yell; but then he breaks out into a grin. He draws an arm out from within the folds of his robes. "Fancy a drink, Professor?"
"It's the middle of the night," Hermione remarks, frowning. "What're you doing up so late?"
Harry scoffs. "Says you. Accio wine glasses."
As Harry fills up the glasses, Hermione pulls her hair out of its bun and sighs in relief. She says, "I had business to attend to."
Harry hands her a glass and gives her a pointed look. "Business that's not yours."
"You know how Pilfer is," Hermione says, begrudgingly taking the glass when Harry hovers it in her face. "He comes straight to me at the drop of a hat."
"Deputy Headmistress, there are—cough—children—wheeze—out of bed!" Harry mimics, bending over and hobbling like the old caretaker.
Hermione swats his arm and tells him off, although she can't help but smile. Harry has a hearty laugh and polishes off his glass, humming appreciatively. Hermione watches her best friend for a moment, taking in the telltale signs of grey in his cropped hair and the creases of smile lines in the corners of his eyes. She thinks back to the two Slytherins who'd stood before her some time ago and pictures thirteen-year-old Ron and Harry instead.
"Their Head of House would've done much worse if I'd sent them to him," she says.
Harry scoffs and rolls his eyes. "Wouldn't expect any less from the man who's hexed the living daylight out of people for having his beauty sleep disturbed."
Hermione eyes Harry sideways as he slips back into the usual, agitated countenance he assumes every time he speaks of a certain blond-haired, silver-eyed wizard. She sips at her wine, surmising that's the reason he's here, drinking with her at midnight instead of getting some rest before the big Quidditch game tomorrow.
"You know the walls have ears, right?" Hermione asks, gesturing to the slumbering portraits. "Literally."
Harry glares at his wine glass. Hermione waits.
Finally, he lowers his voice and says, "I just can't see eye to eye with him, 'Mione." There's a hint of sadness beneath the frustration, and Hermione pats his knee as he continues, "Not twenty years ago, not now."
"It's the Quidditch finals," Hermione says in response, and Harry frowns at her in confusion. She laughs. "Of course you won't get along with your sworn rival when you spend all year trying to decimate each other."
Harry sighs again. "Not from lack of trying."
Hermione swirls the last bit of wine in her glass, watching the dark liquid glisten in the meagre lamplight. Harry shifts beside her, and she hears him pour himself another glass.
"Perhaps it isn't the best idea to get wankered before a big match," she comments off-handedly.
"Leave me be," Harry grouses, taking a long swig. "You're not the one who had a shouting match with another professor in front of the whole school. Again."
Hermione hums thoughtfully. "But I'm the one who has to pick up the pieces after." She takes a sip and revels at the warmth that spreads through her. She says, "I have to say, though, I'd much rather mend broken hearts than broken bones."
"That was one time," Harry grumbles, and Hermione laughs. They settle back, lapsing into a comfortable silence, and Hermione lets her thoughts wander.
She thinks about two boys who always made mischief and marvels at how they never really change no matter how old they get. The red-haired lad in her memories soon turns to a blond one, and the laughter between the pair turns to raised voices. Their rows have become a public spectacle and are a source of great entertainment to anything at Hogwarts with ears, much to one's chagrin and the other's amusement.
She closes her eyes and sighs, a smile playing on her lips as her mind travels back to one of their most widely witnessed fights from the past decade—told from Harry's point of view, of course, as much of their fights are.
"Potter! Potter! I say, Pott—"
Harry stopped abruptly and spun around, causing the blond following him to scramble to a halt a few feet away.
"It's Professor Potter to you," Harry snapped before turning away and resuming his quick pace downhill.
"Alright, then, Professor, would you be so kind as to lend an ear?"
Harry rolled his eyes and stopped again, waiting until the blond was right behind him before walking away. The fellow fell into step beside Harry easily enough, irritating Harry with his previous pretense of being unable to catch up.
"What is it?" he asked, in no mood to listen to whatever it was the other had to say.
"You see, Pro-fes-sor," the wizard began, enunciating every syllable of the word, "I'm having a bit of trouble with these calculations and was wondering if you could help."
Harry already knew what was coming even before the piece of parchment was waved in front of his face. He didn't have to look at it to know it had the scores of Gryffindor and Slytherin scrawled across it, with a large, green, animated snake circling around a House Cup and hissing at a cowardly red lion that ran off the page. He sped up, gritting his teeth to contain his anger.
"According to this, and correct me if I'm wrong, it seems my House won the House Cup," the slimy git continued, matching Harry's pace without sounding out of breath. "And, correct me again if I'm wrong, but I assure you I am not, that means you lost to me."
Harry stopped so abruptly he nearly fell over. He rounded on the other man, robes flapping in the wind, and waved his fist. Even in his anger, he had the sense to not say or do something extreme. Instead, he said, "I'd rather eat my fist than admit defeat."
"That's hardly a challenge for you, Potter; I saw you bawling your eyes out earlier today, fist in mouth and all."
"By Godric, I will—"
"Professors!"
Hermione came sprinting down the slope and pushed the quarreling duo apart. "Stop this at once! There are students watching!"
"Then tell him to keep his forked tongue where it belongs!" Harry snapped.
"Oh, you know exactly where it belongs—"
"Professor Malfoy!" Hermione shrieked, her cheeks flushing scarlet.
Malfoy laughed heartily. When Hermione shot him a death glare, he sobered up and bowed his head, but a smug smirk was still plastered across his face.
"My apologies," he said in such a hearty voice, one would think he was giving congratulations instead of apologising. "I was merely teasing my colleague here. Nothing more than friendly banter."
"Don't you have someplace to be?" Hermione asked, sounding exhausted.
"Oh, yes—thank you for reminding me," Malfoy said, pulling out his silver pocket watch. He opened it, and a giant snake popped out, making Hermione scream and Harry jump in surprise. The snake hissed, "Happy Ssssslytherin day, losssssser!"
Harry grabbed the snake and wrung it so hard its head fell off.
Hermione waved her wand quickly and magicked it away as students walked past, calling greetings out to them. She smiled and waved, then grabbed Harry by the arm and marched him down the hill before he could lunge at Malfoy and snap the blond's head off as well.
"I'm going to kill him," Harry spat, mad with rage.
"You will do no such thing," Hermione snapped, tightening her grip on his arm until he winced in pain. She pulled him to a stop and wagged a finger at him. "You're a professor now, Harry. So start behaving like one."
Harry swung an arm towards where Malfoy was busy celebrating with the Slytherin team. "Tell him that!"
"I will," Hermione said. She crossed her arms. "He's wrong for provoking you, but you're just as bad for threatening violence on him."
"When did I?" Harry cried.
Hermione exclaimed in frustration and walked away.
"He started it!" Harry called after her.
"No, I finished it!" Malfoy yelled from afar.
Harry flipped him off, collective gasps erupted from students all around, and the clomping of heels echoed against the cobblestoned path as Hermione stormed back towards Harry. As she chewed his ear off, all Harry could hear was Draco Malfoy howling with laughter.
Hermione shakes her head as she remembers the earful they got from McGonagall after that. Despite it all, Harry always claims he has no regrets whenever he retells the tale.
"You should go talk to him," she says, and Harry scoffs.
"That's your solution to everything, isn't it?"
She shrugs. "Well, not everything…"
"I've tried, Hermione," Harry says with a tone of finality as he corks the wine bottle. "I think I'm going to call it a day. Here."
"Alright," she says, taking the bottle from him. "Goodnight."
"See you tomorrow," Harry calls as he makes his way to the door.
Once he's gone, Hermione is left feeling like the responsibility of resolving the situation has now fallen on her shoulders. Clicking her tongue, she pockets the bottle and empty glass and decides to retreat to the library to do some thinking. Once there, she winds through row after row of sweet-smelling books, lost in thought, not sparing so much as a passing glance at them.
Oh, what that infuriating duo has reduced me to in my place of worship, she thinks.
Unexpectedly, she finds the object of her frustration by the section on potioneering, burning the midnight oil.
"Professor Malfoy," she says as she nears him. "You're up late."
The blond looks up from the large scroll of parchment he'd been poring over. He's bleary-eyed, so deep in concentration that it takes him a few seconds to recognise her.
"Hermione," he mumbles, then looks around in a daze. "What time is it?"
"Well past midnight," she says as she comes to perch on the edge of his desk.
Draco rubs his eyes and sighs. "Lost track of time."
He motions to the rolls of parchment and books strewn about the desk, and Hermione realises he'd been doing some last-minute planning for the final game later that morning. She can't help but smile. For all that they fight, Draco and Harry are more alike in some ways than they are different in others.
She pulls out the bottle of wine and places it on the tabletop. Draco raises an eyebrow.
"Care to join me?" she asks, uncorking the bottle.
"Imagine the betrayal Pilfer would feel if he were to find the Deputy Headmistress doing something as blasphemous as drinking in the library," Draco says, but he conjures up a glass anyway.
Hermione rolls her eyes as she pours herself a glass. "He really takes after his predecessor, doesn't he?"
Draco chuckles, and they sit in silence for a moment. Hermione watches him, wondering if she should bring up her conversation with Harry, but the blond beats her to it.
"I presume you finding me here isn't a coincidence?"
"Actually," Hermione says, sipping her wine, "it is." Draco doesn't look convinced, so she continues, "But now that we're here, I may as well ask—have you spoken to him yet?"
Draco motions to the glass of wine in her hand. "By the looks of it, you already know the answer to that." She frowns in confusion, and he says, "That's his favourite wine. I know you prefer a good zinfandel over a malbec."
Hermione scoffs. "Only you would remember something as obscure as that."
"Please. You've spent many an evening attempting to talk sense into us over the past ten years. The least I can do is remember your poison of choice." He raises his glass in salute. "So I can get you inebriated enough to shut up, of course."
Hermione rolls her eyes and says, "You'd think after all these years, I could leave you two alone. Yet here you are, having another row in a roomful of students and portraits alike."
"They're the ones who benefit the most from our fights, I daresay," Draco jokes.
Hermione massages her temple, feeling a headache coming on, and decides she's had enough to drink. "I thought being professors would settle you both down, but I was wrong."
Draco hums as he finishes his glass. "Some things will never change," he says with an air of nonchalance.
"Fine, I get it. I've learnt my lesson," she huffs. "I'll resign myself to the fact that I can never talk sense into either of you."
She pushes herself to her feet as Draco chuckles. "I'm only joking, Hermione."
"Are you?" she asks, exhausted. She decides that reasoning with thirteen-year-olds is easier than reasoning with thirty-something-year-olds.
He laughs, and she glares at him. "You've never been one to give up when the going gets tough, so don't start now," he says. "Merlin knows we need you to keep us tethered to sanity."
"Some good that's done," she says as he begins to put away his things. She waves a hand. "It's been a long day; I won't talk your ear off anymore. Good luck with the match."
"Much appreciated," comes the muffled response from behind a tower of books. Hermione shakes her head and walks away.
As she passes the restricted section, she remembers there's a book she wants and decides to pop in for a minute. A minute quickly turns into several as she loses herself in the ancient magic of the books surrounding her, and she has to remind herself to leave before she settles there for the night.
The library's silence is comforting, and she smiles to herself, reveling in its familiar embrace. Only this place, her safe haven, has the power to help her forget her worries, even one as pressing as the unresolved tension between Harry and Draco.
As she nears the entrance, she can hear hushed voices just outside. It only takes her moments to identify them as Draco's and Harry's, and she pauses, deliberating if she should interrupt them.
There's a dull thud, followed by the scraping of shoes against cobblestone and muffled swearing. Hermione gasps, her worries returning all at once, aghast that things may be getting physical, and she rushes towards the source of the sounds. She berates herself for meddling, wondering if she's worsened an already-tense situation, and is prepared to pry the two off each other if need be.
She rounds the corner, pushing her sleeves up and drawing her wand, a spell on the tip of her tongue, then comes to an abrupt halt.
Things have gotten physical, but not in the way that she'd anticipated. For the two men are huddled together behind a suit of armour, their arms wrapped around each other, lip-locked in a passionate kiss, their issues with one another momentarily forgotten.
Hermione grits her teeth in irritation. Yes, it was her that said talking doesn't resolve every situation, but seriously?
Spinning on her heel, she flicks her wand, causing the library's large double doors to shut with a resounding bang. She hears their startled gasps, followed by Pilfer's voice echoing from around the corner up ahead.
"Students out of bed! Students out of be—Deputy Headmistress?"
"They're by the library," she says, and the caretaker hurries off, screaming bloody murder. Hermione smiles to herself.
That'll teach them to make mischief right under her nose.