Author's Note: 12/24/2021 section update
The following day, Hermione awoke in a tangle of twisted crimson sheets as prickles of gooseflesh tickled her clammy skin. Golden rays of fair autumn sunlight beamed through the window, speckling swaths of color across her plaid blankets – but the light did little to warm her flesh. The satin material of her white chemise rubbed tenderly across the sensitive peaks of her nipples as she shifted to untangle herself from the silk, shivering as she popped open one groggy eye, sleepy hands fumbling for more blankets.
The damp chill of late September seeped through the quiet dormitory in icy tendrils, and she cast a quiet Incendio at the fireplace with her wand to battle the cool air. She wrapped her blue and green fleece tartan around her shoulders and rolled to her side on the mattress, burying her face in the soft fabric as she hovered in a state of pleasant drowsiness. A spicy, woodsy scent tickled her nostrils, and she hummed into the material as she tried to place the heady aroma. A flash of blond hair and an angular face flickered behind her eyelids as she recalled that Draco must have sat against the tartan when it was on the armchair – his sandalwood and cypress scent embedded deep in the threads of the linen. A reluctant flush graced her cheeks as she flipped to her back and let the tartan fall loose from her shoulders.
So, he smelled pleasant- what of it? She huffed as she pursed her lips in thought.
Plenty of wizards took pride in their grooming, she reasoned sensibly as she relaxed into her pillows. She tried to remember through her fogged brain what Viktor had smelled like so many months ago when they'd spent warm June evenings together chatting about their families and their favorite authors… and found that she couldn't recall.
Nonplussed, she rubbed a languid hand across her nose to dispel Draco's scent and sat up on her mattress.
She had the peculiar feeling that her life was about to change – in what way, she couldn't be sure. She knew that she had approximately twenty-seven Saturdays left with Draco until the Felix Felicis potion was complete. A staggering one-hundred-eighty-nine hours together, confined in her room with only the stone walls and each other's indifference for company.
April 4, 1998, couldn't come quickly enough; she huffed, staggering from her bed as she barely avoided stepping on a snoozing Crookshanks on the carpet at her feet.
She quickly dressed into a pair of plain black fitted trousers and a grey cowl neck sweater and grabbed her beaded satchel from her desk. She pulled out her Muggle Liaison apprenticeship application for the British Ministry of Magic and thumbed through the heavy parchment, reading over the portion that she had yet to complete. The Muggle Liaison Office was one of the least popular divisions in the Ministry, and it also carried a dastardly reputation for being mismanaged, understaffed, and poorly funded.
A winning combination, she thought with a dour expression, but the department did have its advantages. She would work as an editor with witches and wizards in powerful positions who scribed and enacted and wizarding legislation, and she would have the opportunity to attend actual Wizengamot trials, which she found extraordinarily fascinating.
Of course, she had considered other apprenticeships. Hermione found many magical fields of study interesting and felt that she would have excelled as a healer, codebreaker, professor, or researcher; but, few professions offered political advantages at the apprenticeship and intermediate levels, and changing the world was her objective. Wizarding professions were monopolized by an antiquated culture of nepotism and leaned strongly toward hiring pureblooded and halfblooded wizards into their highest positions, and The Ministry and her beloved Hogwarts were no exceptions to the rule. Her professors were halfbloods and purebloods, and while she thought they were exceptional in their roles, she questioned the lack of representation when the student body was so diverse.
Not to mention that regardless of blood status, it was nearly impossible to be hired among the ranks of England's most prestigious and political entity as a new graduate without family connections - even with excellent grades. Percy Weasley, who excelled in academics well beyond even Hermione's capabilities, and who also possessed the association of his father in the Ministry, still started his career as a low-ranking apprentice in the Department of Magical Transportation. The Ministry valued experience - and for now, Hermione had none.
"Unless one is interested in the Muggle-related fields," Ron's father, Arthur Weasley, shared pragmatically one summer day while she visited Ron, Harry, and Ginny at The Burrow. "The Muggle-focused fields could desperately use the wit of a witch who walks with one foot in both worlds. You would excel rapidly through the ranks there, Hermione."
She viewed the Liaison apprenticeship as her first step into a very long, upward battling career in British wizarding politics. She dreamed of writing policies that would transform the world – of striking down antiquated laws that promoted class differences and the segregation and subjugation of magical creatures. And while her earlier political efforts to liberate house elves in Hogwarts had been met with riotous disbelief and upset from wizards and elves alike, she knew that someday she would have the influence and power to effect tangible change.
If only she could answer the last question on her application:
Describe, in great detail, what you are currently doing to promote non-magical person interests in wizarding society.
She frowned at the sentence as she tapped her black feather quill against her chin.
She didn't think that sharing bawdy muggle novels with Ginny counted as promoting non-magical person interests, but perhaps if she made a club of it... with appropriate books – that would suffice.
And thus, Hermione spent her morning planning out the details of Hogwarts very first student-organized, muggle-focused book club. While she had little time for extracurriculars, she reasoned that she was doing this for her future, and therefore it held equal importance as everything else that was already crammed into her busy schedule.
She promptly visited with Madame Pince in the library and scheduled a study room for the first Tuesday evening in November, a little over a month away, to give her plenty of time to hammer out the details of her organization.
With the location, date, and time of her book club secured, Hermione penned a long letter to her mother explaining in precise detail the names of every Pulitzer Prize-winning title that she could think of to jumpstart her project. An avid reader of cultured literature, Jean Granger held memberships in several London society organizations and had connections with librarians throughout the Kingdom. Hermione could think of no one better to entreat to her cause than her own mother.
By the time that Hermione had written her pamphlets, solicited Colin Creevey for his help with distributing them ("Are you sure that you want to post these?" He'd laughed with a nervous chuckle), and posted her letter home to London at the owlery, it was well past noon - and she was famished.
She was the last of her usual Sunday lunch group to arrive in the Great Hall, and she noted that Neville and Ginny were already finished with their main course and were sharing a half-eaten treacle tart between them. Ginny, who was grossly aware that she was on the opposing end of a proper grudge, stabbed her fork into her pasty dessert at the sight of Hermione's approach and watched the Head Girl's determined steps with apprehension.
"Before you sit," Ginny intercepted, reaching into her satchel to retrieve a leather novel with flowery silver script embossed on its cover, "I just want to repeat that I'm sorry for putting you on the spot yesterday. And to show you how sorry I am, I'm letting you read Susan Cornwall's latest release first," she finished with a quick tilt of her head, her green eyes sparkling as she slid the library's only copy of the novel across the table.
"Hot off the press," the redhead added for emphasis with a wiggle of her brows, scooting the novel a little closer with her index finger when Hermione made no reply.
Hermione's fingertips traced the cover without her consent and then acted further of their own accord, sliding the novel into her satchel as if she'd given them permission to move.
"Apology accepted," she huffed with a small laugh and a quick roll of her eyes, taking her usual seat across from her friends and reaching for a bite of their pastry.
Neville nodded to her in greeting and propped open The Prophet, settling in to read aloud.
"The usual?" He asked with a smile after he swallowed, flipping to the quidditch section and reciting the scores and highlights. She hadn't told Neville the extent of her interest in The Bulgarian National Quidditch Team or of her interest in its rugged seeker, but Neville had seen her letters strewn on the Gryffindor table during meals, and she assumed that he'd made the connection.
"They're saying that Krum is still out, Hermione," He whistled with a quiet frown, catching her eyes over the paper, "He hasn't been medically cleared."
She shared a concerned look with Ginny across the table and bit her lower lip, worrying the tender flesh as she shared her insecurities out loud, "Do you suppose that the injury is serious? He hasn't replied to my letters..."
Ginny glanced with a thoughtful expression at the ensorcelled ceiling of the Great Hall, displaying an afternoon storm rolling across the sky, and nodded her head in resolute agreement, "I think that he has a concussion, at the least. Do you remember when Harry had to sit out for a month?"
Hermione bristled as she recalled Ron's retelling of the brutal memory:
"I'm fine, Mum! I can still play." Harry said through gritted teeth as he staggered on the pitch in his soiled quidditch uniform, his arms swinging in an agitated jerk as he tried to balance his gait, batting off attempts to seize him by Ron and his team captain, Seamus Finnigan. Harry had taken a bloody crack to the skull from a bludger, plummeting to the ground with the nose of his broom splintering as it collided with the hard-packed Earth.
"It's a miracle that he's walking!" Boomed the student announcer over the upset cries of the crowd, "His Firebolt is absolutely splintered! A right shame that is."
"You're not alright, mate," Seamus said with grave sincerity as he maneuvered around Harry's flailing arms and secured the seeker's upper body in his grip. "You need to see Madame Pomfrey."
"You've got a concussion, mate," Ron warned with a heavy sigh as he grabbed Harry's flailing legs and helped carry his struggling body to the stretcher, "A right bad one, I'd say," as Harry's parents had died in a tragic motor vehicle accident when he was an infant while they were traveling to his mother's muggle relations in London.
Her appetite was lost with the unpleasant memory, and she picked at her food while she listened to Ginny and Neville debate the logistics of Bulgaria winning the season without Krum playing as seeker. Ginny turned to her at last and uttered, "Oh! You didn't tell me how it went yesterday?"
In obvious reference to Draco.
Hermione shrugged one shoulder and frowned into her plate, her thoughts still heavy with worry about Viktor and Harry. "There were no hexes and no explosions after you left, so I think that it went well," she replied in an off-handed tone, recalling the rest of the evening's events.
She'd been alone for merely seconds when a series of frantic pounds echoed through her dormitory door. With her face buried in her bedsheets and her body wrought with tension, she dragged her reluctant body out of bed to answer – already knowing who awaited on the other side.
"We saw Malfoy leave," Harry announced to her tired expression as she opened the door. Ron shifted in uncomfortable agitation on his feet as he searched Hermione's eyes for any sign of upset, his expression relaxing as he found none.
"Yes," she acknowledged with a casual lean of her hip against the doorframe, folding her arms across her bosom as she waited for Harry to continue.
"Did –," Harry started with hesitation, "… it was alright, then?" He sighed, stuffing his hands in his red plaid pyjama pockets – a matching pair to Ron's that Molly had sewn. His hair stuck up on the sides as if he'd been pulling it, which was a nervous tic that he'd developed.
She nodded, "It was."
Ron relaxed at Harry's side, rolling his willow wood wand between his thumb and middle finger as he finally smiled, "Good. It's a long walk to the dungeons, and I've already dressed for bed."
She quirked her lips at him as he tucked his wand back into his pyjama pocket.
Ron sighed as he geared himself up to say the next thing on his mind. "It's been a bit of a mess downstairs, 'Mione," He admitted in a quiet hush, mimicking her posture as he leaned against the wall, "Dean is rounding up signatures for your resignation. He said that a Head Girl who doesn't deduct points for a prejudice slur isn't fit for the position," He finished with a lame frown of his lips, unable to meet her startled eyes.
"What?" Hermione breathed, offense coloring her face. She'd been so distracted after Ginny and Dean's interruption that she hadn't even considered anything as silly as deducting House points. Preventing a Bat-Bogey Hex and black eyes had been her priority.
"It isn't gaining traction," Harry urged with quiet reassurance, "Everyone knows that you're fair. Ginny wants him to drop it, but, well – you know Dean. He's out for Slytherin blood, and you're caught in the middle of his crusade." He sighed, removing his spectacles and wiping at a smudge on the glass with his shirtsleeve, "You might want to speak with him tonight... before it gets any worse."
She pursed her lips and nodded.
Downstairs in the common room, Hermione found the irate English wizard standing on the cushions of a couch, rallying a group of terrified first and second years around him to sign his petition. She was pleased to see that only one signature was on the sheet – his own.
"And worst of all, she – ah, speak of the snake charmer herself. Good to finally see you make an appearance, Hermione. Where's your Slytherin pet?" He taunted as she cleared the landing. Hermione would have considered Dean a casual friend, but he acted like a stranger to her now as his anger over her supposed betrayal overtook him. Several students turned to look at Hermione's arrival, and some took the opportunity to bolt from the couch to the safety of the dormitory stairs.
"Dean Thomas, step down from there," Hermione admonished with a dignified tilt of her chin. "I have something important to say to everyone in this room," she continued, holding the attention of the underclassmen. "Fifty points from Slytherin for the use of a major derogatory slur," she announced as several underclassmen gave appreciative nods and titters. Dean pursed his lips at her announcement and shrugged his heavy shoulder, crumpling his parchment in his hands as he stepped off of the couch.
She glared at his expression as he walked past, feeling overcome with ill-kept outrage at his attempt to de-seat her. Didn't Dean realize that she had no control over her partnership with Malfoy? That she would have preferred to be paired with anyone else? Her cheek twitched as she felt her blood heat to a near boil, and she took measured breaths to control her frustration at her irrational housemate, lest her hands start sparking with magic or her eyes start leaking with angry tears. Bringing a Slytherin to her dormitory wasn't a crime, and Hermione refused to be treated as if she'd burnt down the tower.
"I suppose that's a start. Though if you ask me, you're still on thin ice," Dean clipped with irrational agitation.
"I'm certainly not asking," She replied with a haughty roll of her eyes, turning on her heels to retreat to her dormitory and stomping up the steps. She huffed out her breath as she slammed the door behind her.
Hermione was returned to the present by Neville's abrupt laughter at Ginny's joke, and she swallowed a few more bites of her bland meal before she declared herself full, waving goodbye to her companions and retiring to her room for the rest of the afternoon with her mood in the absolute gutter.
She tried to put anxious thoughts of Viktor's health out of her mind and tried to stop re-living her row with Dean, but felt that it was impossible to redirect her focus. Her eyes crossed as she stared at her unfinished runes translation that she'd been putting off, and she frowned at the ancient calligraphy as she decided that academic pursuits were momentarily futile. The patter of rain that pelted against her window that she usually found so relaxing was now especially loud – and she muttered an irritated silencing charm at the thin glass while she rubbed at her temples.
I suppose I may as well read for distraction, she sighed as she retrieved Ginny's novel from her satchel, flipping open the leather cover and relaxing into her armchair.
She was so absorbed by the book's ridiculous plot that she read well into the evening hours and was finally alerted to the shift in time by the steady thrum of voices gathering in the common room below. Sunday evenings were reserved for games in Gryffindor Tower, and she politely declined the invitation to play Exploding Snap when she stole down her staircase and passed Seamus Finnigan on the landing.
"Next time," she promised, looking over his shoulder to level a glare at Dean, and ambling through the portrait hole to grab a quick bite of dinner from the Great Hall.
At last, sated and exhausted, she retired to bed – determined to start afresh on Monday.
In the morning, she awoke in a flushed, sticky sweat with her face buried in her tartan. Her abdomen was warm with want, and one thigh was hooked over an overstuffed pillow - her hips ceasing their rolling motion as consciousness came. She knew exactly what she'd been doing in her sleep. She'd dreamt of Viktor again – of his big hands sliding over her waist and pulling her towards him for a rough, open-mouthed kiss. Except, this time when she looked up to meet his crinkling black eyes, with her body breathless and wanting, it wasn't Viktor who looked back – it was Draco, smoldering down at her with his lips curved in a lopsided smirk.
She recalled with vivid clarity how she'd been so pleased to see the blond wizard and how she'd fancied his touch with such abandon that she'd lost herself. She was so overcome by her desire to feel his athletic body on her own that she'd rubbed her shapely hips against his clothed erection and buried her straight nose in his sinewy shoulder – absolutely inhaling his musky, woodsy scent for all that her life was worth.
How embarrassing, she laughed with a bewildered tilt of her lips as she lifted her face from her tartan, throwing the scented garment into the pile to be washed. I'm so desperate for romance that I'm fantasizing about Malfoy.
She knew that dreams weren't premonitions– Professor Trelawney's divination class be damned – but now that the mental boundary had been crossed, the corresponding images wouldn't halt their assault behind her eyelids. She found it extraordinarily challenging to sit quietly in her Potions lecture later that morning when the object of her wet dream was only a meter away at the table. When she met Draco's questioning glance after the third time that she'd been caught staring at his profile, her cheeks flushed with color, and she snapped her face away, pretending to be enraptured by her blank sheet of parchment that was meant to be filled with notes. She felt an embarrassing tinge of arousal at his presence and felt justifiably confused by her body's reaction, and she found no answers for her current predicament on the blank sheet of parchment.
He must be wearing cologne, her subconscious offered in dark amusement, because Draco's heady aroma was so distracting that Hermione hadn't touched her quill once as today's guest lecturer shared his experience from novice to expert– a Ministry Potioneer and personal friend of Slughorn's who'd traveled to Hogwarts yesterday eve for the Slug Club meeting.
She picked up her black feather quill and rubbed it against her lips instead, wondering, What would Draco do, as she turned her eyes to assess his handsome profile for the fourth time, if he knew what I'd dreamt?
She imagined two probable scenarios as she studied the high planes of his cheeks, which were growing pinker with color as he tried to pretend that she wasn't still staring. He would be horrified, she thought, imagining him scoffing and insulting her. Or he might think that it's hilarious, she mused, imagining him smirking and teasing her. For the first time in her life, she wondered if Draco was experienced like he'd been in her dream. She bit her lip as she decided that no, he was probably still a virgin like herself, as she'd never seen him with a witch at school besides Parkinson – who was notoriously opposed to romantic dalliances.
"Men below thirty aren't worth my time," she heard Pansy clip in a bored tone to a trio of Slytherin girls, sweeping her chic dark bob with her manicured hand while she stole glances at a newly tenured professor.
And while Draco's love life was typically spared from the circulating rounds of gossip that floated in the girls' dormitory, there was one recent memory that Hermione recalled from sixth-year:
"I heard that he's engaged," Lavender whispered below her breath one afternoon as they passed Draco in the hallway. Hermione wrinkled her nose at the gossip and turned to look at the blond wizard's retreating form.
"Surely, it isn't true," she laughed with a dismissive shake of her head. For who could stand to spend the rest of their life with such a snob?
He turned his heather eyes and caught her unabashed stare, and his lips curving into a lopsided smirk at her dumbfounded expression.
What, Granger? He mouthed in silence, raising his pale brow in question at her answering startle, and Hermione's mind whirled at one hundred thoughts per second while she flushed at his acknowledgement. The scientist in her wondered which of her hypotheses was correct, and she felt desperate to affirm that Draco Malfoy wasn't actually romantically interested in her.
I know that he's not, she concluded with confidence, loosening her robe and letting it relax onto the back of her chair as she broke their eye contact. Nothing's changed between us just because we spend too much time together, he smells lovely, and I had an erotic dream about him.
Draco turned away from her to reach into his plain satchel on the floor, pulling out a clean sheet of parchment and smoothing its edges on the table, and Hermione bit her lower lip in fascination and worry as she watched him scribe. He was the same as he'd been last week, she reasoned, before they'd spent all day together locked in her private dormitory– angular face, chiseled jaw, stylishly cut crop of hair that was coiffed to careless perfection until he ran his hand through it in agitation like he was doing now.
He slid his sheet of parchment towards her on the table:
Fantasizing about me, Granger?
She reread his scribbled sentence several times and avoided meeting his amused, baiting eyes as she collected her breath. She tapped her black feather quill in distraction against her lips as she considered her response. She could lie, of course, but she was curious to see his reaction to the truth. She needed to be correct in her assumptions about Draco, and she needed to know that her feelings were unimportant – that their fixed, unpleasant relationship was unchanged.
Testing her hypothesis - emboldened, she penned in perfect, scrawling letters:
Yes
With a satisfied smirk, turning the parchment to face him. His teasing eyes sharpened into a wicked glint, and he was motionless for a very long, quiet ten seconds as he searched her expression for the punch.
When none came, he snapped his quill to the parchment and wrote an impatient:
Tell me
In sharp letters, crossing his ankle over his knee in agitation. His dress shoe shook in a serious bounce as he waited for Hermione's response, his body rigid with excitement at her flirting. He balled his fist on the table to redirect his energy, and Hermione studied the bulging web of faint blue veins with wide eyes as she considered how far she wanted to take this impromptu experiment. Tingling shots of surprise coursed through her abdomen and chest as she acknowledged that he'd reacted in a way that she hadn't planned – with curiosity and an abundance of interest.
Determined to steer their course to safer waters, she relaxed her surprised expression and reached for their shared parchment.
Meet me after class, she scribbled, and he nodded once as he folded the parchment into his robe with a blush, his eyes darting to her lips before he faced forward.
She had the distinct feeling as she settled back against her seat that she had not steered the conversation into safer waters after all, and that perhaps she was still in the middle of an erotic dream in her bedroom.
Did I just flirt with Malfoy?
When class ended, Draco followed her to a windowed alcove in the hallway, past the knowing gaze of Justin who waggled his eyebrows at the pair as they passed.
"What is this about, Granger?" Came Draco's skeptical question as they halted in front of a window, the afternoon sun lighting up his hair in a golden halo.
She'd spent the rest of the lecture planning her response and thoroughly ignoring the Ministry Potioneer whose name she couldn't even recall, so she felt confident when she also wholly ignored everything that she'd just done and deflected instead. He doesn't actually know what I was thinking or why I was staring, she reasoned, I could have been fantasizing about murdering him.
"I'm applying for an apprenticeship with the Ministry, and I'd like to learn more about… pureblood society and blood prejudice, as they're prolific in wizarding customs and heavily influence the political atmosphere," she explained with a haughty shrug of her shoulder, shifting on her feet and trying to ignore the way that he was looking at her as if she'd grown a second head, his face wracked with disappointment at her blatant lie, "And I thought that you could help answer any questions that I have on Saturdays."
Silence stretched for an uncomfortable length of time before Draco finally scoffed in disbelief, his dark scowl contrasting sharply with his angelic halo of hair. He finally twisted his mouth in an unpleasant grimace and turned his frustrated glance towards the window.
"And why would I help you?"
"Because – I think that you have questions about the non-magical world," she countered, feeling an immense amount of pleasure at her ability to think on her feet, "And I don't think that you've ever been able to ask."
She watched as his jaw clenched and as his throat bobbed in a swallow. When he finally met her eyes, his features were schooled into a careless smirk, and he shrugged a languid shoulder as if he wasn't bothered by her deflection, "Fine, Granger. Consider it charity."
She scowled at him and crossed her arms across her chest, "And you, as well."
She moved to walk past him, to finally put space between them and to clear her head, when he halted her with an outstretched arm.
"A moment," he commanded, reaching into his satchel and pulling out her book club pamphlet, holding it in front of her face expectantly as she glanced at the parchment and then up to him.
"Yes, what of it?" She asked with impatience, tapping her foot on the stone and feeling anxious to leave.
His smile grew at the corners as he rocked back on his heels, looking like a cat who got the cream, "Are you aware that you named your book club after men's ejaculate?"
She flushed a brilliant shade of red as she sputtered, snatching the pamphlet out of his elegant fingers and reading the title aloud, a heavy groan escaping her throat as the acronym hit:
The Society for the Promotion of Underserved Novels and Knowledge
S.P.U.N.K.
Colin Creevey's nervous laughter as he helped her post the pamphlets echoed in her ears.
Mortified, she ducked her chin as she shouldered past Draco and stomped all the way to the Great Hall.
"Have you seen this?!" she shrieked as she shoved her crumpled parchment into Ginny's flustered hands across the table.
"Umm, about that… yes, I've seen it," Ginny answered in an even tone, laying the pamphlet flat on the table and purposely avoiding looking in its direction, "It isn't bad, Hermione. No one will even make the connection."
"You literally wrote out the acronym," Ron laughed from Ginny's side. "How could you not know?"
"I wasn't thinking, alright?! I was just trying to finish my application for the Muggle Liaison Office, and this is what I came up with!" Hermione half yelled, waving her hand at her creation like it was an abomination.
"Well, I'll definitely come," Harry interjected with a smirk, glancing at Ginny for her approval and dropping his fork with a clatter as the fiery redhead shrieked and smacked at his shoulder.
"You bloody pervert!" Ginny laughed, covering her pretty smile with her hand. Harry beamed down at her, his glasses fogging at her huffed breath.
"You have no idea how lucky you are to have your own room." Ginny sighed dramatically as she flung herself onto Hermione's four-poster bed. "What I wouldn't give for more privacy than a drawn curtain and a silencing spell."
Ginny hadn't declared her feelings for Harry, but Hermione knew that it was only a matter of time.
"A bloody lot of comedians," Hermione scowled, cutting her cucumber sandwich into savage fourths and shoving a bite into her mouth. She would have to suffer the jokes until it was proven that she ran a serious club.
She caught Draco's knowing smirk from across the room and scooted in her seat so that Harry's shoulders blocked her view.
"Well, I think it's brilliant," interjected Neville from a few seats down, pushing his plate to the center of the table and joining their conversation. "Nothing advertises as well as a little word-play. Though, I wouldn't be surprised if your first meeting is a little… unexpectedly attended," he finished with a small laugh, "I saw Crabbe and Goyle handing out copies to Slytherins."
"I'm aware," Hermione sighed, feeling finished with her sandwich and finished with her life.
The rest of the week followed in more or less the same pattern as the one before it. She finished two arithmancy essays, helped Ron finally master his descent with the Ascendio charm, and she practiced other various spells and enchantments to wavering levels of satisfaction. Her toad could now play an entire jaunty chorus of Yellow Submarine by The Beatles, but it was still very much a bumpy brown amphibian and no closer to transfiguring into a golden trumpet.
When Saturday finally arrived, Draco followed her after lunch into the entryway.
"Ready for your lessons?" He quipped as he kept pace with her in the hall.
She'd checked out several historical wizarding novels in the library this week that looked promising – and by promising, she meant classist and sexist.
"Why are you reading this rubbish?" Ginny asked with a wrinkled expression as she held up 'A Little Book of Manners' by Winnifred Dawlish from Hermione's nightstand.
"For research," Hermione sighed, pleased that she was almost finished with the repugnant little novel.
"Are you ready for yours?" Hermione countered while they waited for the stairs to arrange themselves so they could ascend.
"I've been waiting for years," He bantered with ease, adjusting the cuff of his shirtsleeve as they continued on their walk. Hermione tried to break free from his towering side, but his long legs overtook her short steps on the climb.
"Could have fooled me, Malfoy. You haven't stepped foot inside a Muggle Studies lecture."
He smiled to himself as he kept her pace, his big hands shoved into his pockets as he replied, "I prefer private lessons."
She was proud of herself for not faltering in her stride, but she was not proud that her face and neck currently matched her crimson sweater at his teasing.
Is he… is he actually flirting with me? She wondered with perplexity as Justin's words rang in her head, flustered and unable to meet Draco in the eye.
"Is everyone a comedian now?" She asked instead to the heavens after she cast Muffliato at the side of Draco's head, muttering the new password, Fairy Lights, to the Madame. They entered the portrait hole in a single file with Draco at her backside and ambled up the winding stone staircase that led to her dormitory, passing Dean Thomas below on the landing.
"Back for more, Malfoy?" Dean called up the stairs as he rolled back his shirtsleeves in what was supposed to be an intimidating gesture.
"Not from you," Draco replied with casual ease over his shoulder, shutting the dormitory door behind them with a crack of wood.