Hermione makes her way down to the Gryffindor changing rooms to congratulate them for the game, despite the loss. She believes that even though they lost the first game, they all played spectacularly, and they could take the loss and use it to improve over the next three games. As she pushes open the changing room door, she's greeted by shouting. She spies Ron in the corner, tearing his Quidditch uniform off and throwing it in a crumpled pile in the corner as he swears to himself, ripping his leather gloves off, chucking them on the floor. Hermione begins to force her way through the crowd that has gathered in the changing room, towards Ron, where she wraps her arms around him – or at least tries to; his shoulders are far too wide, and he is far too tall for her to be able to properly hug him. He shrugs her off, giving her an angry look as he pulled his shirt on. "What, Hermione?" He snaps at her. She glares at him; she wasn't going to let Ronald Weasley of all people talk to her like that, so she pushes him out of the way and goes towards her other best friend.
Harry is admittedly calmer than his ginger counterpart as he carefully folds his Quidditch robes so that 'Potter 07' is facing upwards, before he places them into his bag. He sees Hermione making her way over to him and gives her a slight smile. "Hi, 'Mione." He pulls her into a hug, and she rests her cheek on his shoulder as she feels him deflate. When she pulls away, he runs a hand through his dark hair. "I can't believe we lost," he sighs, pulling his shoes on. "I was this close to having it." He holds his index finger and thumb together. "Looks like it wasn't close enough though." He slings his bag over his shoulder as he starts to leave the changing rooms. Hermione hurries beside him, her short legs struggling to keep up with his long strides. Unlike they did for her, the crowd parts like the Red Sea for Harry as he walks past them, most reaching out to pat him on the back and accuse the other team for cheating, which makes Hermione frown. She doesn't like the idea of Slytherin being ahead in the Quidditch cup either, but to be so blind as to accuse them of cheating than just accepting the loss is something completely beyond her. Hermione is far from Malfoy's biggest fan, but she cannot deny that he is an incredible rider and a stellar Quidditch player.
Harry opens the door to the changing rooms and lets Hermione out before him, back into the harsh weather. He starts towards the castle, head bowed in an attempt to battle the rain, then turns towards Hermione when he notices she's not in step beside him anymore (not that she was to begin with). She's looking towards the pitch, towards the opposite changing rooms, then back to her friend. "Harry, I thought you guys played amazing today. Don't let this one loss push you back. There's always going to be other games." She smiles at him, and he returns it.
"I know, 'Mione. And we're going to train harder, faster, and for longer, than we have before just so that we can continue our streak of winning the cup." He jerks his head towards the castle. "You coming?" Hermione shakes her head slightly, her sopping hair heavy.
"I'll be there in a minute." Harry shrugs, pleased with her answer, and heads back to the common room. Hermione walks to the Slytherin changing rooms, not sure what she's doing. She just wants to congratulate them on the win, like a good sport. She will not let every other student put them down just because they can.
When she gets to the door, she hesitates. What is she thinking? They aren't going to react well to a Muggle-born Gryffindor entering the changing room. Maybe it was a mistake to come alone. Maybe it was a mistake to come at all. As she stands outside contemplating, she realises that there is no noise coming from inside the changing room, so she tentatively pushes the door open, to be greeted with… complete silence. The changing room is empty. The pegs are bare. It hits Hermione that the reason they were in and out of the room so quick is because nobody showed up to say they were proud of them. Nobody came to say well done.
Nobody cared.
Hermione feels a coldness in her chest as she thinks about how awful that must be – to win something, to try your hardest, and yet still feel like you've lost.
Out of the corner of her eye she notices one of the pegs still has someone's robes on it, and her naturally inquisitive nature takes over. She looks at the clothes neatly folded beside the Slytherin robe, and spies the wand laying on top of the crisp white dress shirt. It's ten inches, made of hawthorn wood, a creamy brown leading to a smooth black handle. Malfoy. Hermione starts, looking back around the changing rooms. He's nowhere to be seen, and she lingers by his cloak just for a second, waiting for his return, to congratulate him on the victory. She quickly decides it would be stupid to be caught alone with Malfoy, a boy who believes in blood purity; she doubts she'd even be able to stretch her hand out for him to shake before he hexes her.
A sudden crash of thunder shakes the changing rooms, and Hermione shudders, pulling her cardigan closer around her. Taking a final look around, she goes to leave, and notices the door at the back of the room is open. The door to the pitch is swinging in the wind, like it's deciding whether or not it should slam shut. She approaches the door, pulling her still wet hat down over her still wet hair. Outside, the pitch is flooded, the water murky and brown with dredged up mud, and through the downpour, Hermione spots a silhouette of a boy in green and silver, standing with his face upturned towards the sky.
In the ten minutes since the games end, Draco Malfoy had not moved.
Hermione watches him, his hair turned a dark blond colour due to the rain, droplets dripping down his jawline and the tip of his nose. His cheeks are tinged bright red against his pale skin, the emerald green of the uniform transformed into a more forest like colour. He's soaked to the bone, shivering, yet smiling. She's amazed by how calm and innocent he looks stood there, with rain hitting his smooth skin. His brow isn't creased in a frown or sneer, and there are dimples on his cheeks. She stands in the doorway for a few more moments, arms wrapped around herself as she watches him.
A crack of forked lightning flashes across the sky and snaps Hermione out of her thoughts. He's shivering quite badly now, and Hermione runs across the pitch, the ground squelching under her feet, kicking up water and soaking her legs. "Malfoy!" She shouts to him, and his head snaps down, as if he suddenly remembers that he's still stood outside. The moment of calm is broken, and a sneer passes across his features as he glares at her making her way towards him.
"What do you want, Granger?" His hands are shaking as he reaches up to rub his nose, his normal crease reappearing between his brows as he frowns down at her. Her hair is clinging to her face in the rain, her skin glistening as she reaches out and grabs him by the arm, pulling him towards the changing rooms. "What do you think you're doing?" He plants his feet firmly into the soaked ground, making her slip as she tries to drag him.
"Malfoy, you're going to catch your death!" Her teeth begin to chatter as the wind picks up and becomes more ferocious. He looks away from her to see the goalposts swaying in the wind, and swallows; the wind must be pretty horrendous if it is able to move those. He yanks his arm out of Hermione's grasp, nearly knocking her off balance, and as much as he would enjoy to see swotty Granger coated in mud, he reaches out and grabs her shoulders to steady her. "Come inside, please!" She's shouting over the wind and he finally decides she's probably right, it isn't good to be stood here in the rain and the cold. She opens her mouth to shout at him again but he silences her by throwing his arms in the air and storming past her.
"Fine, Granger! Whatever you say, just allow me to walk on my bloody own, why don't you?" Another crack of lightning lights up the grey sky as he hurries towards the changing room, Quidditch robes muddy along the bottom. He hears the girl squelching behind him as she sinks into the mud while trying to keep up behind him. When he reaches the room he turns around and sees her caked shoes, and splattered trousers; for a second he contemplates closing the door on her, leaving her out there in the rain – a fleeting smirk crosses his face at the thought – but with a groan he marches back out and grabs her roughly by the wrist, pulling her quickly into the small space before slamming the door. The ghostly wail of the wind can be heard through the thick wood, and Malfoy drops her wrist as though it was a hot coal.
"What do you even want, Granger? Come to accuse me of cheating?" He vigorously rubs his hands through his hair, displacing most of the water, before picking up his wand and casting a hot-air charm. His robes brightened in colour as the hot air dried them; once they were completely dry he turned the wand onto his face and hair, and Hermione saw relief flush over his features as he warmed up slightly. Once his hair was nearly back to its natural white-blond colour, he tosses his wand back onto the bench and turns back to Hermione, running his hands through the soft mop to push his fringe back.
"No, actually I came to say well done today, and I thought you all played brilliantly and-" Before she could continue further, Malfoy turns, pulling his Quidditch robes over his head. Hermione's face turns an incredible shade of tomato red as she stares at his lean pale back, arms muscled from years of Quidditch training, and a bandage wrapped around his left forearm. An odd feeling washes over her, and she longs to reach out and touch his smooth, unblemished skin. He shrugs on the white shirt, long fingers doing up the buttons as he looks over his shoulder at her.
"Yes, Granger?" He quirks his eyebrow at her, and she realises she's stopped speaking, her mouth open and cheeks burning. She shakes her head, snapping her mouth closed, hands fidgeting in front of her.
"Sorry, um… I just thought that I should tell you I thought your catch today was rather impressive, and for that alone, you absolutely deserved the win, so… congratulations on the first win of the season," she pauses, and begins to gnaw on her lip as she debates whether or not to continue or not. She takes in a breath. "Yeah. That's all, I guess."
He nods, grey eyes shadowed as he runs his hand through his hair again. "Well, thanks, Granger." His voice is measured, as if he's waiting for the punchline of a joke. He doesn't know whether he should accept the praise or deny it on the grounds of her wanting to mock him. He unbuttons his trousers and peels them off, his ankles wet as the damp material slips off, revealing his green boxers. As he folds the trousers into his bag, Hermione's eyes trail down his exposed half, noting the fine pale blond hair covering his legs and his knee-high emerald green Quidditch socks. "Well, Granger, if that's all you wanted I think that it's time for you to go back to Potty and Weaselby." He spins around, making Hermione snap her gaze back up to his face as he pulls his black dress trousers on, tucking the shirt in as he zips them up. She doesn't move and he clears his throat. "Granger?"
"Yes, sorry." She blinks, tucking her dripping hair behind her ear as she glanced towards the door; the gale outside batters the small building with a horrific howl. He rolls his eyes at her, picking his wand back up and casting the hot-air charm again. A blast of air hits Hermione and her hair dries almost instantly, bouncing back with more life than normal. She blows a strand out of her face, groaning internally at the thought of having to tame the curls once she gets back to the common room. "Thank you, Malfoy." Her voice comes out smaller than she had intended, and she's not looking at him – she doesn't want to see the crowing in his eyes at the thought of being praised by a lowly Muggle-born such as herself.
He shrugs, dropping the wand and threading his black leather belt through the loops on his trousers before fastening it tight. "It's okay?" He slips his arms into his robes as she starts towards the door; she itches to chew at the skin around her nails to prevent herself from talking more than she should. She has already overstayed her welcome, and she doesn't want to provoke him in anyway. Before she opens the door, she hesitates – her hair is only going to get wet again, so is there any point in going outside? Should she just wait the storm out in the changing rooms? She casts a glance over her shoulder at Malfoy, who is pulling his bag onto his shoulder and tucking his wand into his pocket. If he left it wouldn't be so bad, she could practice her spells, recite her knowledge of Ancient Runes, anything to pass the time while the storm rages until it finally wanes.
A hand appears on the door handle in front of her, long fingers with bitten nails, and her head snaps up to see Malfoy smirking at her. "Well, Granger? Are you going back or not?" She opens her mouth to reply but he cuts her off with a wave of his hand. "I'm leaving, so you're on your own now." He opens the door, gaging the severity of the weather, before sighing and pulling his wand out of his pocket and mumbling a charm, the tip of his wand pointed towards the ceiling. A bluish light emerges from the end of it, forming an umbrella. The cogs in Hermione's mind start twisting as she eyes his wand, a smirk of her own crossing her face. He kicks the door open further with his foot, and exits the small building, with Hermione on his heels.
She squeezes next to him under the 'umbrella' and Malfoy lets out what can only be described as a yelp, stopping in his tracks. The wind whips his hair around his head, as Hermione tucks her loose strands under her hat – or at least she tries to; the hat is blown off her head and she shrieks, reaching for it but it's gone too fast. Malfoy glowers down at her. "What are you doing?" His sneer isn't as intimidating with his fluffy hair blowing in every direction.
"I'm using your umbrella, Malfoy," she smiles sweetly at him, acutely aware of the mud sucking at her shoes. "I just need it until we get back to the castle, then I'll leave you alone." He glares harder, looking between the entrance to the school and where they're stood. He lets out a groan.
"Fine. But that's it, I will not allow you to use me for anything else," he starts off again, setting the pace to a brisk walk, making Hermione have to half-skip to keep up with him. She pulls her cardigan around her, crossing her arms over her chest, before she looks up to his wand – held in his left hand – to see the water sliding off the invisible umbrella. The sleeve of his robe has fallen down slightly, revealing the badly wrapped bandage around his forearm. A thousand questions fly through her head: was he injured during the game? Did he wrap it himself? Should she take him to the hospital wing?
She settles on the most obvious question, clearing her throat. "So, what did you do to your arm?" She watches his face, now, as a look of shock mixed with fear mixed with shame quickly flashes over his features before his normal expression of distaste for Hermione settles over his features.
"What does it matter to you, Granger? Going to tell Potty all about it?"
"No, I'm not, actually. I just thought I would try and be polite – maybe you should try it sometime."
"I…" He hesitates. "I burnt it. That's all. Nothing to interesting to go twittering to your lovers about."
Her face goes cold. "I beg your pardon?"
"You heard me."
"How dare you even… even insinuate such a thing! I have never – would never! – consider Harry or Ron like that!"
"Who knows," Malfoy smirks down at her. "What thoughts run through that brain of yours, Granger?" She's seething beside him, practically vibrating with fury and he lets out a warm laugh that makes Hermione's stomach flutter – she'd never thought Malfoy of all people could have such a nice laugh. "You can't say you've never thought about either of them like that?"
"Of course I haven't!" Her voice hitches up an octave or ten as she flusters to redeem herself – though she doesn't know why exactly she cares what Malfoy thinks about her. "Ronald is… well, Ronald. And Harry is too much like a brother for me to even consider him in that sort of way." She regards him from the side of her eyes. "None of this would ever reach their ears anyway; if Harry so much as thought I'd been anywhere near you he'd -"
"He'd what?" Malfoy stops and turns towards her. "Hex me? Punch me? Report me to his special Professor Dumbledore?" He barks out a cold laugh, nothing at all like the one from before. "Get a grip, Granger. He can't touch me, not now that…" He trails off, aware that he might have said too much, and he hopes she'll ignore it.
But Hermione Jean Granger doesn't miss a thing.
"Now that what, Malfoy?" Her brow creases inquisitively as she watches him, and he sees her eyes flicker to the bandage on his arm.
"None of your business, Granger." He leans down to her height, getting right in her face as he glares at her. "Why can't you keep your bloody nose out of anything?"
"Maybe if you didn't do things that required me to, then I wouldn't," she snaps back at him, hands clenched into fists beside her as she stares defiantly at him. He scoffs, beginning to walk at a leisurely stroll as thunder rolls across the sky.
"Maybe you're too tightly wound, Granger," he smirks as she squishes around beside him, shoes slipping and struggling to grip on the muddy ground. "Maybe it'd do you some good to think about Potty – in that way." He wiggles his eyebrows down at her, and she lets out a disgusted gasp, shoving him by the shoulder. He laughs, that amazing warm laugh, and Hermione feels her stomach glowing again. In the back of her mind she wonders what it would be like to hear that laugh every day, to be the one to make him laugh like that. "Come on, Granger! Live a little!"
"I live a perfectly normal amount, thank you very much."
"Studying and homework and the occasional thwarting of the occasional Dark Lord is not living!"
"I don't just study and do homework! I walk by the lake, I sing, I -" She stops, staring at Malfoy. He keeps walking, unaware she's not beside him, and her hair quickly soaks in the ongoing downpour. "Malfoy, why did you call him that?"
"Call who what?" He casts a glance over his shoulder, moving back towards her when he sees her stood there like a drowned rat.
"Why did you call him," her voice drops to a whisper, "the Dark Lord?"
He smirks at her. "Are you afraid, Granger? Of a name?" She swallows, eyes flickering away from his face. There is something burning behind his grey eyes, and even though Malfoy had been bad in their previous years, he'd never been like this. This was something worse. He leans closer to her. "Are you afraid of me?"
"I'm not scared of you, Malfoy." She takes a step back, contradicting herself. He smiles, teeth bared like a wolf.
"Are you sure?" He steps towards her and she instinctively moves back. Something flashes across his face – could it be hurt? – but it quickly changes to his menacing grin. "Are you absolutely sure?" She nods, though her eyes are wide and her bottom lip looks like its about to start trembling. "What if I did this?" He makes a sudden lurch forward, reaching out to her as she stumbles backwards. He makes a demonic screeching noise, hands curled into claws. His fingers almost snag on her hair before she turns, nearly tripping over herself as she runs up the hill away from him.
Her heart is pounding and there are tears in her eyes by the time she reaches the giant doors of the castle, and she looks back to where he's still stood in the centre of the field. He's doubled over, laughing at her, clutching his side as he flings his head back. A smile stretches from ear to ear and his eyes shimmer with mirth. The warm, hearty laughter reaches her ears and she scowls, not nearly as entranced as she had been before his little stunt. With a growl of annoyance, she shoves her shoulder against the door, entering quickly and finally escaping the weather.
Malfoy smirks at the closing door as he begins a slow saunter to the building. It's always fun to mess with Hermione Granger; to see her seething in anger (and occasionally fear) was one of the things he looked forward to most in a day. He entered the building some minutes later, and spies the wet, muddy footsteps the girl had left in her wake as she'd (presumably) stormed off to the comfort and warmth of the Gryffindor common room. He chuckles to himself, the blue light evaporating from the end of his wand as he places it back into his pocket. He was sure the memory her terrified look was going to give him entertainment to last until Christmas, yet he couldn't seem to conjure it in his mind as he strolls through the corridors to the dungeons.
He reaches the entrance to the common room and frowns. Granger is an annoying snot, and he hates her more than words can express.
So how come the only image coming to his mind is the one of Hermione Granger smiling up at him?