After dinner Hermione still hadn't decided what to do. It would not be unlike Malfoy to try and lure her into some kind of trap. He must still be angry for that time she'd punched him in the face. She chuckled, he had deserved it though. Not that he would ever admit it had happened, at all.

She took out the little frog of her pocket and watched it jump around on the table. Having been read but having no message to return it didn't quite know what to do with itself.

She pocketed it again when the portrait of the Fat Lady swung open and Ron entered through.

"Practice was murder. I almost got hit by a bludger, twice. I still think bludgers are more dangerous during practice, so it'll be easier during the games," Ron ranted on as he sat down next to Hermione. She knew better than to comment on his theories on Quidditch. Before you knew it he'd insist on telling you the full story of how the Chudley Cannons won against the Delirious Dragons in 1988.

"Where's Harry? I thought we were going to do the History of Magic homework together," she swiftly changed topics.

"He went to the owlery, said he needed to think. But we could just get started. I don't even have a topic for my essay yet."

"You can't do it about Quidditch, again," Hermione warned him. Somehow Ron always found a way to make his essays at least mention Quidditch. He had once handed in an essay to professor Snape with something along the lines of 'The qualities of flobberworm mucus were discovered by Theopolis Vicker, who also happened to be the grandfather of the famous seeker Alethea Vicker, who plays for the Dungeon Deities as a keeper.' Snape had failed him and Ron had had to redo the entire assignment.

"It clearly states it had to be about 'a battle that was of importance during the war of the Giants.'"

"But that was ages ago, what does it matter whether it was Gorgoyle or Gregory who won that one specific battle. They're all dead now, anyway," Ron whined.

"Those who fail to learn from history are doomed to repeat it," Hermione quoted ominously.

"Who said that?"

"Winston Churchill."

"Who?" Ron asked again. Sometimes Hermione forgot how oblivious wizards and witches could be to everything that happened outside of their world.

She sighed, "Nevermind." She closed her books and put them in her bag.

"Where are you going, what about the assignment?" Ron asked, eyeing her desperately.

"To the library. I already finished mine last week," she said and walked away.

One big reason that she was so good at doing her homework: she didn't procrastinate. Once she got an assignment she started on it right away, doing just a little at a time. Thus she always finished on time. Unlike those who started two days before it was due. They had to do all that work at once. Some got it done, after pulling two all-nighters combined with a lot of stress. And others just didn't. She'd tried to teach Harry and Ron that method, but they never seemed to listen.

It was nearing seven o'clock. She took a piece of parchment and wrote: 7.05 pm, the boathouse. She folded it into an airplane and enchanted it to find Malfoy.

She had decided she'd only meet him on her conditions. Changing the location last minute meant it was less likely she walked into one of his traps.

Draco was waiting nervously in the boom closet. It was already one minute past. He heard a soft thump against the wooden door. Again. He opened it and a little paper airplane flew inside, hoovering in front of his face until he caught it.

He grunted and crumbled the paper; it was cold and he didn't feel like walking all the way to the boathouse. He would break his neck trying to descend the slippery steps while covered in darkness. Why did she have to be so difficult. What was he going to do to her, lock her up in the broom closet? Then he realized he was indeed fully capable of doing that and flash of anger shot through him. Was he that predictable?

She was sitting in one of the boats, back towards him. He could just hex her right now. Turn her hair green or give her a lizard's tale. Instinctively he took out his wand.

"Don't even think about it, Malfoy," Hermione said sternly, her wand pricking in his neck. He raised his hands in surrender. The image in the boat faded, smart.

"I knew you were up to no good," she hissed and walked round so she could face him.

"I didn't mean to..." He stopped, everything he'd say would sound like a weak excuse.

"What were you going to do to me, petrify like you did last time to Harry. And then what? Break my nose, leave me here and send Filch to find me after curfew?" She grew angrier with the second. She had helped him and this was how he repaid her. But what had she expected, he was a Malfoy after all.

"Are you done?" he asked, looking amused. She shot him an angry glare but remained silent.

"I came," he took a step back and lowered her wand, "to thank you, and repay you. I'd rather not stay indebted to a mudblood." He saw her flinch and instantly regretted saying the M-word. But he couldn't help himself, dissing the golden trio had kind of become second nature to him.

"So, what do you want. Gold, a new broomstick, books. I'll even let you take a shot at Crabbe and Goyle," he all so very generously offered.

Funny how the only thing he could do was offer gold and betray his friends.

"Why were you in the library," she suddenly asked. Stupid she hadn't questioned that fact before, she must have been too tired.

"What," he said, obviously taken aback by the question. She looked at him with those piercing eyes and he stumbled over his words.

"Why- why were you in the library?" Ha! He had countered her question with a question. She'd probably been searching for some information regarding Potter's next adventure.

"I was studying," she answered simply.

"At night?" He tried, hoping her answer would waver.

"I like the quiet, keeps me concentrated." He couldn't respond to that.

"Your turn, why were you in the library," she asked again, obviously not letting this go. But he couldn't quite tell her he'd been busy plotting the murder of professor Dumbledore, now could he.

"Erh, studying." Hermione raised an eyebrow. "I also happen to like the quiet," he muttered.

"Yeah, right," she whispered. She turned around and headed for the gate.

"Granger, wait. The debt."

She turned back, thinking it over once more. "I'd like you to stop calling me a mudblood," she finally said, "in my presence or otherwise. Can you do that?"

Slowly, Draco nodded and took Hermione's offered hand. But instead of a handshake she whispered a few enchantments.

Immediately Draco pulled back his hand, holding it to his chest like he'd been injured. "Did you just make the Unbreakable Vow?" he screeched hysterically.

Hermione shook her head, her eyes glittering with pleasure and her mouth turned to a smirk.

"No, but now, every time you call me a mudblood, I'll know." With that she turned around, robes swirling around her and made her way to the castle.

Draco was left feeling silly and cursing himself. "You sounded like a little girl," he spat as he turned to watch Hermione disappear into the darkness.

That night Draco tried not to be bothered by the fact that she had such low opinions of him. It was justified, after all. In truth it was jealousy that drove him to act as an unbearable prat.

The golden trio, outshining him at every turn and for what? He was a pureblood, a Malfoy. People should be praising him like they did Harry Potter. And Ron, that insignificant little weasel had triumphed where he had failed, to rally the boy-who-lived to his side that very first day. He, Draco Malfoy, deserved to be the best, to outshine all his classmates, like Hermione did, and yet they always seemed to win. He wanted to scream into his pillow. Next time, he told himself, next time he would win.