Author's Note: 12/12/2021 grammar check
Hermione made the long journey to the seventh-floor common room, climbing the Grand Staircase with a drag in her step and mastering its tricky patterned steps with quiet contempt for the puzzle. She waited with irritation as the stairs moved in ascending arrangement, stepping to the landing above where the dutiful Gryffindor tower guardian stood in her painting, haughty arms folded across her plump chest – the only obstacle left before Hermione could climb the final staircase to the relaxing comfort of her home.
"Banana Fritters," She enunciated with annoyance to the frowning portrait who behaved as if she'd never seen the Head Girl before, despite it being Hermione's privilege to confer with the madame as she set the weekly password. The Fat Lady promptly rolled her painted eyes and swung open her frame with a dignified hmph, the soft creak of the canvas swing reverberating in a welcome hum in Hermione's ears.
She climbed through the portrait hole and trudged up the stairs, tossing her beaded satchel onto a squashy burgundy armchair and noting with pleasure that the room was unusually empty for a Monday afternoon. She cast a quick Incendio with her vine-wood wand towards the fireplace and warmed her hands in front of the flickering flames as she pondered that morning's incredulous series of events. Next to her feet on the warm stone hearth laid her half kneazle-cat, Crookshanks, purring in a fluffy heap of coarse orange fur. The wooden logs crackled and popped in the grate while she ruminated over Justin's salacious gossip and her unexpected potions assignment with Draco, and she bit her lower lip with worry as she stared at the dark plume of smoke that funneled up the chimney, nostrils crinkling at the sharp scent.
She needed to speak with Draco and coordinate their plans.
"Accio," she muttered over her shoulder into the quiet room. She dug into her beaded bag, which had been spelled with an Undetectable Extension Charm, and pulled out a clean sheet of parchment and her favorite quill with its bitten feathers that had seen better days. She hummed to herself as a plan formed in her mind: she'd write Draco a letter.
D.M., she penned in neat, slanted letters as she sat on the floor next to Crookshanks, her parchment flat on the warm hearth and her inkwell wobbling on the seam where the carpet met the stone. She stared at his unfamiliar initials for several moments before her hand regained its function and moved in scrawling, perfect penmanship.
Assuming you haven't dropped–
We need to coordinate our schedules. Liquid Luck must have its ingredients added every seven days at precisely the same time. Once we start, we're committed. Saturday or Sunday is my only availability. I prefer starting at the noon hour or early afternoon. We can meet in the potions lecture hall.
Choose a day and time with these preferences in mind.
-H.G.
She sealed her letter with a spell from her wand and capped her inkwell in her hands, returning the little bottle to her bag. She gave her furry companion a hearty scratch behind his large ears as she stood and then walked with hastened purpose to the owlery, desperate to return to her private dormitory for a much-needed nap.
"Draco Malfoy, please," she directed in a polite tone to the brown barn owl that she'd chosen for her task, tying her parcel with a red ribbon in a neat bow to the creature's spindly leg. The owl took flight in a silent gust as Hermione turned to retreat to Gryffindor Tower, ambling through the portrait hole and at last turning to climb up a separate set of winding, uneven stone stairs to the single room that she occupied, where she laid her head down on her fluffy pillows and drifted into a dreamless slumber - the stress of the morning forgotten for the moment.
She awoke in a groggy, disoriented huff thirty minutes later to a persistent tap tap tap at the single window that occupied her little section of the tower. She startled against her pillow at the sight of the brown barn owl perched on the outer stone ledge, its black eyes standing in harsh contrast against its snowy face and its little head peering through the ancient glass.
She rose to her shaking legs and opened the latch of the window to offer her breathless thanks to the owl, untying the red ribbon and retrieving the parcel from its leg. Her dark brows snapped into her hairline, and a frown marred her expression as she realized that Draco had sent her back her own letter. He'd taken care to draw neat black circles in thin lines around two words that she'd written: Saturday, and, noon, and had made no other mark on the parchment.
She snorted at the tiny amount of effort that he'd taken in his correspondence and hoped that this wasn't a taste of what he would offer as her weekend partner. She felt rankled that he hadn't bothered to even sign his name on the sheet, although she supposed that she was pleased that he'd answered in haste. Nonetheless, she crumpled up the parchment and tossed it over her shoulder into her room's brick fireplace as kindling as she crawled into bed to return to her dreamless nap.
The rest of the week passed with dizzying rapidity, with her seven N.E.W.T classes and Head Girl duties and patrols consuming most of her daylight hours.
Draco ignored her presence on Wednesday in Potions, which was to Hermione's immense and immediate relief. Her stomach had soured after trying a plate of seasoned sausage at breakfast, and she was confident that she'd lose it on the table if he mocked her over the obviously sexual daydreams that she'd indulged in at his side earlier in the week.
On Thursday, she spent a portion of her time after class meeting with Anthony Goldstein, who held the position of Head Boy, and the Prefects; dividing the following month's patrolling schedule before returning to her dormitory to practice casting a nonverbal Toad to Trumpet transfiguration spell - the difficulty of which was perplexing to her, despite having read the chapter an innumerable number of times. Ginny was her companion on this late afternoon. The redhead sat on the overstuffed chair next to a bursting bookshelf with her long hair draped over the chair's arm, reading the September copy of Witch Weekly with one skinny leg crossed over the other while Hermione stared in silence at the bumpy little toad – her lips pursed to the side. Her brows pulled together in concentration as she chanted the spell in her mind.
A moment later, the little toad bellowed out a throaty, ribbiting F Major Scale that startled Ginny in the chair, her lilting voice rising to a cackle as she tossed her head back in amusement.
"You're getting closer," Ginny hummed while thumbing to the next page in her magazine, her lips quirking at the corners as she eyed Hermione over the pages, "Another week or so, and it'll play a little tune."
Hermione huffed with displeasure as she released the spell, returning the toad to Professor McGonagall's classroom and petting its bumpy little head with a murmured apology even though she knew that it hadn't been harmed.
Later that night, after she'd showered and felt measurably more relaxed, with her skin pink and flush from the warm water and her dormitory door locked, she allowed herself to indulge in the daydreams that she'd been so desperately teased for in class. the vivid images of her crush, Viktor, holding her in a tight embrace and whispering sweet words in his low voice in her ear.
She eased onto her comfortable, large, four-poster bed, the plush blankets cradling her limp body and her charm-dried hair fanning in a coarse sheet across her fluffy pillow. Her breath hitched in her throat as her warm hand traveled down across the gentle curve of her abdomen, passing her navel and dipping lower to the hot pleasurable juncture between her parted thighs. Her fingers trailed over her trimmed brown curls, and she bit her bottom lip as she dipped her middle finger into her warm wet folds, hot pleasure erupting at the sensation. Her cheeks flushed with warmth as she dragged her finger up and over the sensitive bud of her clit, rubbing at her tender flesh in practiced, languid circles as she imagined Viktor's hands on her body instead of her own. Her hips lifted in a keening, writhing motion off of the mattress as she imagined Viktor's thick fingers teasing the sensitive nerves of her opening. A moan escaped her lips as she imagined him prodding at her tight entrance and thrusting his fingers inside her ready, wanting body. Her mouth parted, and her jaw relaxed as she imagined what it would feel like to clench around his digits, and she jerked and spasmed into a soaring climax as her fingers trembled against her clit- her vaginal walls pulsing in hot release as she turned her face into her pillow to muffle her cries.
Masturbation was a familiar night-time routine for Hermione that had started in her early teenage years, and she felt incredible comfort and expertise with bringing pleasure to herself. She had insecurities, of course, as every young adult possessed. But she felt ready to have intercourse with a man, and she was confident that the sexual act would blossom to spectacular heights when the novelty and awkwardness transformed into familiarity and trust – with the right wizard, of course.
She was still somewhat self-conscious about the idea of being nude with another person, as she hadn't been so since she was a young child, and she was also self-conscious about her appearance and the things that she couldn't change – she felt that her legs were too short and that her hair was, at times, such a natural disaster that it rivaled the magical weather events in the history books; but overall, she was pleased with the general shape and fitness of her body.
Her legs and backside were toned from years of stair climbing and walking in the castle, and her hourglass figure was enhanced by a tiny waist that was trim from eating like a bird, as Ginny called it. She'd inherited her mother's buxom chest, which had been a hindrance until she'd been taken to a seamstress appointment over winter holiday during her third year of school. A proper brassiere made a world of difference in comfort and appearance.
She knew of several wizards at school who had fancied her from afar, and she probably could have dated them if she'd desired – but she hadn't. Yes, she was tired of being single, but she couldn't force feelings that weren't there, and she didn't fancy being pawed at by wizards who didn't hold her attention.
I want to be romanced, she thought with incredible want in the haze of her post-orgasmic glow, her mind clearing and her sticky body chilling to the ambient temperature in the quiet room. She turned to lay on her side as she pulled her blankets over her hips, settling under their comfortable weight and snuggling into their familiar warmth as she stared at the wall. She wrapped her favorite green and blue tartan around her shoulders as she replayed memories from her early teenage years, of a time when her body had been confusing and new to her.
She recalled a memory from when she was the awkward age of thirteen, of a time when she excitedly ran with her luggage through Platform Nine and Three-Quarters at King's Cross Station in London, to the Hogwarts Express and to her two best friends waiting for her on the other side:
Hermione hadn't seen Harry or Ron all summer and had yearned for their easy company with fierce desperation. They'd exchanged letters every few weeks, but nothing could compare to the comfort that she felt with seeing them in person.
"Ron! Harry!" She screeched as she ran through the brick platform, dropping her luggage handles and running towards the boys with her arms outstretched. She'd worn a grey wool v-neck sweater from the previous year, which was starting to pull a little tight across her chest, and plain black trousers that hugged her expanding hips. She threw herself into their awkwardly extended embrace and gave them both a sloppy kiss on the cheek as she stepped back to provide them with space, her eyes searching their expressions with confused amusement at their muted response.
Harry ran a stiff hand through his messy black hair, the unwashed strands sticking up on the sides as his eyes raked her body in confusion, his throat engaged in an awkward gulp as he cleared it. A blush warmed his cheeks, and his eyes sparkled as he met her gaze, "You, um – you look well, Hermione," he smiled as if he couldn't resist, his reluctant gaze bouncing from her eyes to her breasts once before he flattened his lips and looked away with a slight shake of his head. Hermione looked down at her chest, seeing nothing amiss, and then cut her confused expression back to Harry. She folded her arms self-consciously across her chest as she realized that she'd forgotten to put on her robe.
Ron's face was the color of his hair, and he looked everywhere but at Hermione as he muttered a soft 'Blimey' at the sky, clearing his throat with an awkward sigh and stuttering at her profile, "Yeah, um, yeah – you look – yeah." He walked around her stiff position to grab her forgotten luggage.
"Here's your robe," he muttered, grabbing the garment off of her luggage handles and thrusting it towards her chest.
Wrapped in the security of the billowing black cloak, Hermione vowed in silence that she would never again reach for this sweater. She knew that her friends were entering a vivid hormonal period just as she was, and she couldn't stand for things to become awkward between them.
She knew a thing or two about what was happening to her and the other students, as she'd had "the talk" two years ago during the summer before her twelfth birthday when her first menses came overnight, and she'd bled through her sleep pants and onto the bedsheets.
"Your body is going through perfectly normal changes," Her mother explained, stripping the bed and carrying the sheets out of the room, returning a moment later with a fresh stack of linens. Once the fitted sheet was situated and the wrinkles were pulled taut, she sat down and patted the mattress next to her.
"Let's talk about it, hmm darling?"
The awkward talk started with her mother's gentle explanation on menstruation, which Hermione already knew something about - having recently read 'Are You There God? It's Me, Margaret' by Judy Blume (the leading authority on all girl matters, according to her friends), and from sneaking peeks at her parents' university biology textbooks – which was actually more truthful to say that she'd read entire chapters from the texts. She was too embarrassed at first to respond to her mother's careful explanation with anything more than an occasional nod or cringe of embarrassment, but eventually, Hermione gathered her courage and interrupted the unwanted talk.
"I've read the reproductive chapter in your biology text, mum. I understand what's happening with my… bleeding," Hermione admitted in a quiet huff with a blush on her cheeks, "What I don't understand," she paused as she stared at her hands, "Is what happens… you know… when I'm… I get these… feelings, and I don't know what to do, and sometimes I-," She cut her bumbling off with a helpless, frustrated look at her mother.
Jean Granger cleared her throat as she moved to stand, nodding at her daughter as she replied, "I understand. Put on your shoes, darling. We're going to the library."
Thirty minutes later, the pair left the library with two books in her mother's purse: 'Deenie' which was another Judy Blume novel that Hermione was excited to read, and 'The Joys of Sex', the illustrated edition which was perhaps scandalous and daring for a girl of Hermione's age, but the Grangers were progressive, and Hermione was mature.
"I think these will help explain things a little bit more," her mother said in a soft whisper to the top of her head as they walked home. Jean had one comforting arm wrapped in a snug embrace around her daughter's shoulders as she continued in a gentle tone down the pavement, "But you can always ask me questions, darling. And your father, too."
Later that week, on Friday afternoon, Hermione stood in the shallow, chilly water near the shore of the school's Black Lake, practicing the Ascendio charm with Harry and Ron. They'd chosen to exercise the charm's spellcasting in water in case a soft landing was required – a fateful foresight on their part, as it became evident moments later that a trip to the infirmary would have been required had they practiced instead on land.
Hermione made the most progress of the trio with controlling the tricky and dangerous spell, lifting several feet into the air before returning in a graceful arch to the lichen-riddled shoreline with a small splash of murky water. Harry was also an excellent charms caster, and he shot skyward in the autumn air with a triumphant grin and holler of excitement, landing in the shallows with a sizeable splash that wettened his trousers and Hermione's clothes.
Ron had considerable difficulty a few meters away and had yet to take flight from his position in the knee-high bogbean stalks. He struggled with underperforming the complicated flick of his wrist on the third counter-turn of the charm's sequence and was mouthing colorful obscenities to himself as he fumbled with his willow-wood wand.
"You almost have it," Hermione smiled at him as she interrupted his colorful swearing, wading in a careful trudge through sludging mud and a thicket of decaying bogbean stalks to his agitated position. They'd ditched their usual school robes for rolled-up muggle trousers and pullovers, and frigid mud squished between her bare, frozen toes as she corrected his wrist movement with practiced ease.
He repeated the sequence with an abundance of enthusiasm and overshot the flick – soaring airborne higher than Hermione and Harry had risen with absolutely zero control of his descent. Hermione sucked in a frightened breath as he plummeted towards the middle of the cold lake, breaking the surface of the black water with a heavy splash.
"Hurry up and swim out!" Harry yelled through his cupped hands at Ron's sputtering head, "Or cast it again and aim towards the shore!"
Ron, who feared the Giant Squid almost as much as he did spiders, fired another overpowered Ascendio spell, rocketing across the top of the water as the magic erupted like a skipping stone towards the bank.
He breathed a heavy, sputtering breath as he climbed onto the muddy Earth, rolling onto his back with his drenched clothing dragging through mud and strands of seaweed threaded in his soaking strands of hair.
"Trial by fire, eh?" He said with a breathless, cheeky grin as Hermione approached his side with a bemused expression. He grabbed a heaping fistful of mud in his frozen hand and smeared it up her bare calf as she bent down to untangle the seaweed.
"Hey!" She startled, jumping back and scoffing at him, "I was helping you!"
He flicked his muddy hands up at her as he laughed, and she shielded her face from most of the flying mud speckles as a few drops landed in her hair and marred her pinkened cheeks. Ron snorted as he grabbed another heaping handful of mud, flinging the chilly mess at Harry and striking him in the chest. Harry erupted into a fit of laughter as he kicked frantic and chaotic blows of water, soaking the other two as they tried in vain to retreat.
"Now we all match," Ron beamed at them.
They returned to the castle shoulder to shoulder, laughing at their muddied and wettened clothing and exchanging excited exclaims at their progress with the Ascendio charm. They hadn't bothered to spell themselves clean, except for their feet, as a good shower was the best remedy for caked-on mud and filth, and the house elves would attend to their clothing with better care than any of the trio's Scourgify spells. Hermione loved casting cleaning charms, but she'd ruined a few too many sweaters with over-spelling the fabric, and she was reluctant to lose this jumper, too.
They passed the unexpected company of a small gathering of seventh-year students in the castle's entryway – their afternoon Herbology lecture having just ended.
Hermione sucked in her breath and wished for a time-turner, her subconscious warning her that she should have Scourgified her clothing and hair after all, her jumper be damned - but the seventh-year Slytherins had already spotted their position. She hadn't been referred to as a Mudblood in many years, and she didn't think that anyone would take liberties with the terrible insult now that she could remove House points, but she also knew that she made an easy target while covered in filth.
Pansy Parkinson and Gregory Goyle were expressionless as they walked past, their bored eyes raking over the trio's muddied clothing in a quick dismissal. Vincent Crabbe and Blaise Zabini flanked Draco in the back of the group and were shooting expectant looks at their blond friend, waiting for his remark that was sure to be scathing since he was in front of a crowd. Draco took one annoyed look at the three muddied Gryffindors and sneered at their disheveled clothing, his cold eyes narrowing in finality on Hermione's clinging muggle jumper as he judged the trio's activities and peacocked for his friends.
"Coming back in from a carnal roll in the dirt, Granger? Not enough mud up in your rooms?"
She glared at him as she stuck out her chin, narrowing her eyes at his accusation. This was the closest that he'd come to calling her a mudblood since their first year, the implication heavy in his words, not to mention what else he was implying.
"As a matter of fact, we've successfully cast the Ascendio charm this afternoon, Malfoy. Have you managed to take air yet?" She retorted in a prim huff, her arrogance showing as she knew he struggled with the complicated spell in their shared Charms lecture. She couldn't look down her nose at him because he was so much taller, but the effect was still present.
He glowered at her as he picked at a non-existent piece of lint on his cuff, his cheeks heating with color as he scowled. "Whatever, Granger," was his brilliant reply as he bumped his heavy shoulder against Crabbe, signaling his intent to leave. Blaise snorted at their exchange and looked between Draco's retreating form and Hermione's smug expression before warning in a lazy, sardonic tone, "Careful, Granger. You've hurt the man's pride."
"You should take away House points, Hermione. Malfoy deserves it," Ron spat from behind her shoulder as the Slytherins disappeared around the corner towards the dungeons. She'd made Harry and Ron swear an oath last year to stop intervening, brawling, and dueling on her behalf.
"I can handle myself," she told Harry gently as she sat at his bedside in the hospital wing. His lip was split from Draco's fist while Ron was being tended to by Madame Pomfrey for a nasty Conjunctivitis Curse that Goyle cast.
Hermione shook her head with vehemence at Ron's seething suggestion, "I don't need to take away House points. I've already taken something far more valuable: a sliver of his stupid ego."
On Saturday, Hermione rose early to finish her arithmancy essay at the breakfast table before meeting with Draco in the Potions classroom. She'd arrived at a plan while showering the night before to squash any unexpected daydreams: when a risqué thought occurred, she would mentally recite her essay until the urge to indulge in the fantasy passed. She hadn't tried it yet, as she'd only just decided on her self-proclaimed brilliant plan, but she deduced that reciting Bridget Wenlock's theories on the magical properties of the number seven would be more than sufficient distraction to redirect her mind.
Discipline, she thought with confidence.
She chewed a bacon and toasted egg sandwich while she sat in comfortable companionship next to Neville Longbottom, who was reading The Daily Prophet and filling her in on the quidditch match results that she'd asked him to recite aloud.
"And that about sums it up, Hermione… Oh, sorry, one more page," he remarked as he flipped over the parchment and grimaced, "Looks like Bulgaria took a beating last night against Austria. It says that their seeker took a foul bludger to the face."
Hermione blanched at his reluctant announcement, her arithmancy essay forgotten on the table, "What else does it say?" She asked with haste, dropping her quill and trying to read the paper over Neville's outstretched arms. He handed her the paper, and she scanned the article with narrowed eyes, frowning as she remarked, "There's nothing else."
"Those blokes break their noses every other day, Hermione. I'm sure he's patched up by now," Neville reassured, rising to stand, "Ready to walk back?"
"I think that I'll stay for a bit and finish my essay. Do you mind if I keep the paper?"
"Take it. I'll see you later," he waved as he retreated.
She scanned the page twice more and bit her bottom lip, stuffing the useless article into her endless satchel and debating with herself as she mulled over the advantages and disadvantages of sending another letter. She'd already sent her regular reply to Viktor's latest correspondence, and she didn't want to seem overeager by sending a second owl in the same week.
If he'd been seriously injured, wouldn't the article have said more?
Frowning, she asked herself: If any of my other friends were injured, would I even hesitate to write?
She grabbed a clean sheet of parchment from her bag and picked up her quill, taking the tip to parchment as the words flowed from her mind and bled onto the parchment.
Viktor,
I saw the Prophet article this morning that said you've been injured – the seriousness of the bludger attack undisclosed. Who knew that Gerald predicted your fate instead of mine?
I hope that you're well. Your poor nose can't take any more beatings.
Your friend and confidant,
Hermione
She folded the letter and sealed it with her wand, walking with quick purpose to the owlery. She thought that Viktor would appreciate a slight bit of shared wit instead of an overbearing amount of pity.
"Viktor Krum, please. Austria, I think. Or maybe he's back in Bulgaria," she inclined with a polite tilt of her head to the same barn owl that had helped her earlier in the week with Draco's correspondence. The little owl launched into the air and took a steady flight, setting a southeastern course.
Hermione had just enough time for a quick rune translation assignment in her dormitory before it was time to meet Draco on the sixth-floor tower for their assignment.
Malfoy, her steps faltered as she thought of her surly potions partner. She knew that if they continued on their current path, that they would never make it through six months of Saturdays together without hexing each other through the classroom window.
She paced in agitation in front of the single window of her dormitory as she pondered what to do about Draco, her runes assignment forgotten on her desk.
Something has to change, she thought as she rubbed at her chin, We have to call a truce.
She couldn't drop this class, and she couldn't fail this assignment. A career in potioneering wasn't her first choice after graduation, as she found brewing rather dull at times, and the career path didn't offer the political connections that she aspired towards, but she wanted every available option at her behest upon graduation, and quarrelling and bickering with Draco was a hindrance to her future goals.
Recognizing herself as the more mature one of their unpleasantly fixed arrangement, Hermione decided that she'd have to be the one to take the upper hand and extend an olive branch – a truce. He would probably sneer and laugh as she presented her offering, but she thought that he would accept her offer in the end, as he was a Slytherin, after all, and by design would always take the advantage that furthered his advancement.
She thought back to Monday's potion class with heated embarrassment and replayed everything that transpired. Time helped her analyze the situation clearly, or with more clarity than she'd initially possessed, and she admitted to herself that Draco's teasing had been relatively innocuous, albeit still embarrassing.
And perhaps a bit… flirtatious?
But yesterday's exchange in the entrance hall… when Draco's cold eyes snapped from Ron's muddied clothing to Harry's wettened trousers, and finally to Hermione's clinging top… yesterday was unacceptable.
She thought back to the first time that she'd met Draco Malfoy, and the first and last time that he'd called her a mudblood:
Hermione kissed her parents goodbye on Platform Nine and Three Quarters and wiped her teary eyes on the back of her sleeve as her lower lip trembled.
"You'll be fine, darling," Her father soothed with a gentle kiss to the top of her bushy curls. She plastered on a brave, watery smile and waved goodbye one last time.
When she stepped up the stairs onto the steam train, she was unsure where to sit. She navigated her luggage to an empty car and sat on the cushioned bench, listening to the excited squeals and peals of laughter from the other students in nearby cars as she fiddled with her hands. She was working up the courage to walk the aisle and introduce herself when a silvery-blond-haired boy appeared in the doorway, his brow arched in curiosity at her appearance.
He was fair-skinned, taller than she was by several heads, and his moonlight hair was worn in a slicked back crop. He gave her a once-over assessment and interrupted the silence in a posh, Queen's English accent, "I'm commandeering this car."
He moved his luggage inside and sat across from her on the bench, staring at her with an expectant expression.
She hesitated at his odd announcement and introduced herself. His manners were poor, she decided, but perhaps they could still be friends.
He sneered and looked at his fingernails when she said her name.
"Muggle-born, are you?"
"What?" She asked, puzzled at the unfamiliar word.
"A muggle. Non-magical," he explained in a curt clip as his lips flattened at her befuddlement.
She nodded at his explanation and gave him an uneasy smile, which only seemed to irritate him further.
"Well, Granger, I'd say that you're on the wrong train. This train is for real witches and wizards, and there's only one in this car."
She reeled back in her seat at his judgmental tone, horribly affronted, as hot tears stung at her eyes.
"E-excuse me?" She stuttered, her little hands clenching into anxious fists in her lap.
He sneered at her and waved his hand towards the open door, "See yourself out, Mudblood," he replied with cool acidity, "You're stinking up the car."
In a whirl of movement, two boys burst through the open door and grabbed at the front of Draco's robes.
"Leave her alone!" The redheaded boy yelled, shaking Draco roughly and disheveling his slicked blond crop. The black-haired boy with circular glasses stood protectively in front of Hermione like a human shield, his arm outstretched as if to hold her back.
"Get your hands off of me, Weasel-breath!" Draco shouted, shoving hard against the redhead's chest.
Hermione gathered her courage and stood in a flurry from her seat, pointing her shaky finger at Draco and joining the ruckus as she yelled, "I do too belong here, you pompous prat!"
Outnumbered and overwhelmed, Draco levelled a feral glare at each of his counterparts, his disgust evident on his aristocratic face as he rolled his eyes and scoffed. He grabbed his luggage and left the compartment, pushing a rough shoulder against the boys on his way out.
"Don't listen to that wanker," spat the black-haired boy, extending his hand towards Hermione in greeting.
"My name is Harry," he grinned, grasping her small hand in his.
"Hermione," she responded, returning the shake, "and thank you both."
"I'm Ron," replied the redhead, shutting the car door and taking a seat across from her on the bench.
She settled back into her seat and thought about what Draco had said.
"What is a 'mudblood'?" She finally asked, worrying her lip as she examined Harry's uncomfortable expression and Ron's irritated face.
"It's a prejudiced word for non-magical people," Harry replied in a dull voice.
Despite the rough start on the Express, Hermione was actually able to enjoy her first day at Hogwarts and found that most of the other people who she encountered were amiable. She made quick friends with Harry and Ron, and when the Sorting Hat covered her eyes and bellowed out "GRYFFINDOR!", her fate was sealed with theirs.
She'd written her parents that evening to tell them about her first day – about the magical creatures that she'd witnessed, the unusual professors who she'd met, the magical assignments that she was working on, and how she had made two new friends who protected her from a bully on the train. Life continued in novel excitement for Hermione until two days later when she was pulled out of her Transfiguration lecture by a kind Hufflepuff prefect.
"Headmaster Dumbledore wants to see you in his office," The girl announced as they walked through the corridor.
Hermione fretted, pulling nervously at her sleeves as they walked. "Did I do something wrong?" She asked.
The prefect shrugged her shoulders as they stopped outside of Dumbledore's office, her voice kind as she replied, "I don't think so. Your parents are here to say hello."
As Hermione soon deduced, her letter about the school bully had sparked parental involvement, and the Grangers had written with haste to Dumbledore with the express interest of resolving the conflict immediately. Dumbledore humbly agreed and requested the attendance of all three Malfoys.
"Ah, Miss Granger - welcome. Do come in, please. Mister Malfoy has something he'd like to say," Dumbledore greeted with a gentle nod at Hermione as she entered the office, her parents smiling with encouragement at her from the right side of Dumbledore's large wooden desk. On the opposite side of the room stood a striking blond couple in elegant black dress robes, their hands resting in a comforting grip on their awful son's narrow shoulders.
Hermione leveled an expectant look at Draco, and he scowled at her expression, toeing his dress shoe against the carpet in irritation.
"Go ahead, Draco," urged the blond man with gentle resolve, giving Draco's shoulder a soft squeeze.
Draco's scowl deepened, and he muttered out a low, "I'm sorry." Though he didn't meet Hermione's eyes.
She watched as Draco's mother gave his other shoulder a gentle squeeze.
"And?" His mother prompted, her gaze transfixed on the top of her son's head.
"I won't say it again," he promised to the floor.
And he hadn't.
Noon came quicker than Hermione expected and caught her off-guard, and she was late as she met Draco outside of the classroom. She noticed that he'd ditched his usual elegant school robes for a causal set that he wore in an open style, and she tried not to gawk at him; at his broad chest and fit waist that were usually covered by loose black fabric, as she was unused to seeing him dressed casually in this proximity. She'd seen him plenty in his quidditch uniform, of course, but it was always from afar, and she hadn't paid much attention at the matches.
"It's full," He said as she approached, gesturing at the doorway with annoyance, "Any other bright ideas, Granger?"
"It's full on a Saturday?" She questioned, walking around him to see the classroom for herself. Huffing, she leaned against the doorframe with a frown. She was wearing her bulky Bulgarian quidditch sweater, a black knee-length skirt with sheer stockings, and sensible black loafers. Her hair was left loose and wild in a tumble down her back. She'd tried once to charm it into the popular, fashionable curls featured in Witch Weekly, the kind that Lavender wore, but the effort that it took wasn't worth the time.
"They're all fifth and sixth years, too. This could take a while," Hermione hummed, scanning the room.
"Excuse me?" She called from her spot in the doorway, effecting her characteristic Head Girl tone as she interrupted the underclassmen, "I'm sorry to interrupt - but is anyone going to be finished with a table in the next hour?"
When silence greeted her call, she tried again - clarifying, "The next two hours?" She bristled as the only answer that greeted her was that of the bubbling cauldrons.
"Three hours?" She snapped with an incredulous expression as a table of students shook their heads no at her.
Draco moved to flank her in the doorframe, leaning in a causal manner against the wood an appropriate length away. "I can't meet tomorrow," he said in a stoic tone to her profile, "I have quidditch practice. It has to be today."
She felt her annoyance increase at his unhelpful comment. "So, think of something," she replied with a brusque clip, using her big brain to catalogue their options. Potions were strictly prohibited in the school's library. They could try to find a classroom on another floor, but she knew that they'd have no luck, as she'd recently instructed the prefects (at Dumbledore's behest) to lock the empty classroom doors at curfew and on the weekends. An unruly student, whose house association was unknown although highly theorized, had transfigured Snape's desk into a working loo, which, although hilarious, had been rather destructive.
Some of the desk's inner contents - lesson plans, trinkets, and potions - were ruined in the transformation process, as the spellcaster had been too inexperienced to wield the magic that was required to transfigure objects that were made of such different masses and compositions.
They could try one of their common rooms, but the shared areas would be loud on Saturdays – chaotic with chatter and activity, and it really wasn't a choice at all. Her mental catalogue was quickly nearing its end as she flicked her eyes to Draco.
He looked distracted in thought, leaning on his heavy shoulder with his sinewy arms folded across his broad chest. Heat flooded her cheeks as she realized that his eyes were locked with intent rapture on her stocking-clad legs. She'd left her modest black robe in her room that she usually donned for class.
She tapped her loafer on the stone, and his eyes bounced to the movement before snapping to her indignant expression, his chiseled jaw drawn tight and his cheeks tinting with color at being caught.
Hermione felt like she was a specimen on a slide under a microscope and she moved to stand a little farther away from her potions partner, crossing her arms over her chest in a protective fashion as she glared at his flummoxed expression. She thought that he was probably judging her outfit inferior, and she bristled with resignation as she realized what she had to do.
I can handle you, Malfoy. Can you handle me?
"Malfoy," she interrupted into the awkward silence, "I'm calling a truce."
She examined him with careful consideration, waiting for his reply. When none came after several moments, and he continued to stare at her with furrowed brows, she added a dignified, "If you'll accept my terms."
He stared at her for another moment with a stoic expression before he pulled himself off the doorframe, rolling his brawny shoulders in a stretch as if this was a casual conversation. She tried not to notice how his shirt pulled tight across his chest with the movement. His muscled pectorals were right in her line of sight, and it would have been a pleasant view - had he been anyone else.
"And what, Granger, are your terms?"
She cocked a dark eyebrow as she replied, "All that I ask is that we remain civil and stop quarreling."
"Easy enough," he answered with casual disinterest, his eyes narrowing at her in a challenge.
"That means no more insinuations about my heritage and no more mocking me in class." She huffed, feeling two seconds away from poking her finger into his athletic torso.
He smirked at her as he cocked a pale brow, "Have I hurt your feelings, Granger? Made you cross?"
She glared at him as she replied, "Do you accept or not? Or do we have to live with the shame of being separated in class like children, forced to tell Slughorn that we've failed our assignment when we're meant to be graduating in the summer?"
She knew that Draco hated to look foolish in front of others and that he hated to be embarrassed. He was at his worst behavior when his ego was threatened. Her words registered an effect on him, and he scowled, nodding his head in agreeance as his expression relaxed.
"Fine," he muttered as he leaned his shoulder against the doorframe, "I accept."